Between the circling natives, Biff saw the fire and the pot that Jacome mentioned. It was a big, crude kettle, steaming over the log flames.
“I’m glad they’re just cooking curare,” Biff whispered to Kamuka. “I thought maybe they were boiling some special stuff to shrink our heads.”
“Maybe they do just that,” returned Kamuka solemnly. “I do not like this. Not one bit, Biff.”
A tall chief with a drooping feathered headdress and a plumed belt had taken charge, and was ordering Nara and the Wai Wais from their boats. Nara’s Indians brought their machetes, but old Joe came entirely unarmed. He jabbered dialect at the feathered chief. Then, finding that he didn’t understand, Nara let Igo and Ubi take over as interpreters.
After a brief talk, Nara turned to Mr. Brewster.
“They are Maco Indians,” stated Nara. “They were told that we intend to attack their village.”
“Macus,” Biff’s father groaned. “I knew they would catch up with us.”
“Not Macus,” corrected Nara. “Macos, who live on the upper Orinoco. But they can be just as dangerous, now that they’re sure we are their enemies.”
“Where did they get that idea?” asked Mr. Brewster.
“From three men who stopped at their village near the Casiquiare,” explained Nara, “and told them that we would come sneaking through the backwaters to the spot where we are now.”