“Yes,” acknowledged Whitman, “but I’ll bet that Joe Nara only let you keep it because he decided it wouldn’t do you any good. Think it over, and you’ll see I’m right.”
Whether or not Mr. Brewster thought it over during the night, Biff certainly did. When they were loading the boats at dawn to resume their trip downriver, Biff asked his father:
“Do you think that Mr. Whitman is right about Joe Nara?”
“There may be something in what he says,” admitted Mr. Brewster. “Nara may have been keeping something from us.”
During the day, they made speedy progress down the river, hugging the bank at every bend to avoid new waterfalls. But the trip proved smooth, which only brought more grumbles from Whitman.
“Nara sent us down this river to get rid of us,” he declared, as they paddled along. “It wasn’t his fault that the Rio Del Muerte failed to live up to its name. As for that gateway where we’re supposed to meet him—El Porto Del Diablo—I don’t think there is such a place.”
One hour later, those doubts were dispelled. As the boats passed a bend, they came to an opening in the jungle that looked like the dry bed of a stream that had once joined the Rio Del Muerte. Then, amid the thick green foliage, loomed the very rock that Nara had mentioned, split like a huge gateway, a short distance up the ravine.
They pulled the boats up on the low, sandy shore, where Mr. Brewster decided to leave the packs and other equipment, though not for long.
“Nara said to come through the gateway,” he said, “and meet him somewhere up the ravine. If we don’t see him soon, we can come back and bring the luggage in relays.”
The trail narrowed at the end of half a mile and veered sharply beneath a high, bulging cliff that slanted back like a gigantic brow, cutting off the sunlight. Mr. Brewster, well in advance, had reached the turn in the ravine, when Jacome, bringing up the rear of the procession, gave a loud, warning shout.