  Rushing to the edge of the drop-off, Jack and Ken saw that Pedro had fallen into the stream below. The impact, they were certain, must have broken his back. But, to their great relief, they saw him begin to move. With feeble, dog-like strokes, he swam toward the sheer walls of the chasm. “Keep swimming!” Jack shouted encouragement. “We’ll get you out!” Already Ken had uncoiled a long length of nylon rope which had served the party well in several previous emergencies. The weighted line fell with a splash into the water close to the struggling Pedro. He managed to grasp it, and the Scouts pulled him to the rocks below. There, he gained more substantial support, dragging himself out on a shelf, where he lay exhausted. “Jeepers! We’re in a pickle now,” Ken muttered, studying the terrain below. “Without help, it’s going to be hard to get Pedro out of that chasm.” “And the burro is gone—with most of our stuff! We’re lucky though that Pedro wasn’t killed.” “He’s badly hurt, Jack. If we can’t pull him out, we’ve got to get down there and give him first aid.” “We can get down all right, but to get out is a different proposition.” “Pedro should have tested that bridge before he started across,” Ken said with a worried frown. “Wonder why it collapsed? Age probably.” “It seemed to give way everywhere at once.” Ken examined the withes, and the muscles of his lean, brown jaw tightened. “Jack, this bridge was deliberately weakened!” “You’re sure?” “See for yourself, Jack. The underpinning’s been cut with a sharp knife. Quite recently too! Maybe today or within the last few hours!” The discovery rather unnerved the two Scouts. With Pedro helpless on the rocks below, and Mr. Livingston somewhere behind them, suffering from fever, their situation seemed to be growing more precarious by the moment. “Hostile Indians probably,” Jack muttered. “Something like this is to be expected after those warning arrows. They’re trying to prevent us from going on. We’re at the fringe of the forbidden country.” “If the Indians get it into their heads we’re here to despoil treasure temples, I hate to think of the revenge they might wreak on us! We’re in a spot, Jack.” “I sure wish Hap would get here,” Jack declared, casting an uneasy glance back toward the darkening crags. “No chance for a few hours.” “Pedro’s safe enough on the ledge, but we’ve got to get down to him. You’ll have to lower me on the rope.” “Getting back won’t be so easy.” “We’ll worry about that later. It’s no good trying to make camp on this side of the stream. Too exposed. If an attack should come, we’d have no protection whatsoever.” “We’ve lost most of our supplies,” Jack said grimly. “This finishes us, even if Pedro isn’t in a bad way.” The fading sunlight, splashing on the great rocks, transformed them into glowing fire. But the two Scouts had no thought for the splendor of the scenery. Working feverishly against darkness, Jack managed to lower Ken to the rock shelf above the stream. He provided first aid, and made a crude splint for Pedro’s leg which had a cracked bone. Then Ken called excitedly that he could see a balsa raft made of logs, hidden in a clump of bushes close by. “If I can get Pedro onto the balsa, we can ferry downstream where we can make camp,” he called up to Jack. “It’s our best bet.” “Okay,” Jack agreed after considering the proposal. “I’ll lower the duffle bags, and then try to get down there without breaking my neck.” He left another note for Mr. Livingston, after making certain that the following party was nowhere in view of the mountainside. Anchoring the rope to a stone support of the wrecked bridge, he slid down onto the narrow shelf. Pedro lay moaning with pain, unable to take a step by himself. Leaving him for a few moments, Ken and Jack investigated the balsa, which proved to be in sea-worthy condition. Ken took the stern paddle and Jack the bow. Steering in close to the rock shelf, they managed to lower Pedro onto the raft. What few supplies that remained, were piled in the center of the craft. “This river evil,” whispered Pedro, stirring beneath the blanket Jack spread over him. “Dangerous to cross.” Only too well, Jack and Ken were aware of the risks involved. The surface of the fast-moving stream was broken by a series of rapids, a warning that a waterfall might await them beyond the first bend. “We may as well shove off,” Ken urged. The balsa slid easily through the foaming water, close to shore. Rocks were everywhere and the current was deceptively swift. Jack dipped his paddle cautiously, studying the opposite shore. Where could they land? He knew the stream was treacherous, and that once the awkward raft was out into the main draw, they might not be able to stay its progress down river. “Think we can make it?” he asked doubtfully. “We’ve got to, or we’re licked,” Ken answered. “We could just wait here for Hap.” “He’s expecting us to have a camp ready, Jack. Besides, I don’t like to wait here. I’ve got one of those feelings.” A rather terrifying silence had fallen upon the river. The Scouts had seen no one. Yet they sensed as certainly as if they had stared directly into a hostile coppery face, that their every movement was being watched. “With Pedro laid up, Hap coming down with fever, and most of our supplies gone, we’re at the end,” Ken asserted. “The best we can do is make some sort of camp tonight, and start back in the morning.” “I reckon so,” Jack agreed gloomily. “It’s tough to be licked, but I guess we are. That weakened bridge shows you what the natives will do, if they get good and sore at us.” The balsa crept on down stream, until finally Ken shoved it out into the swift current. “Dig in!” he shouted as the craft moved faster and faster. The water seethed and eddied about the balsa, but Ken and Jack kept it under control. They were nearing the opposite shore and already had selected their landing spot, when suddenly arrows began to splash in the water ahead of them. “Jeepers!” Jack exclaimed, nearly dropping his paddle. “Now what?” He could see no one in the gathering darkness. Not a single face. But the warning arrows kept coming from the shore. “They’ll kill us if we try to land,” Ken cried. “We’ll have to turn back.” “We can’t against this current. We have to keep on.” Passing the point where they had expected to land, the Scouts continued down river. The balsa bounded wildly through the rapids, barely missing projecting rocks and boulders. The current was running stronger by the moment. “Listen!” Jack suddenly cried. His keen ears had detected the unmistakable roar of a waterfall ahead! The rapid might not be a very formidable one, but its thunder struck terror to the three on the bouncing balsa. Pedro began to whimper piteously and to whisper a prayer. “Paddle!” Jack shouted to Ken. “Try for shore! It’s our only chance!” |
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