“Those were Jivaro heads,” declared Whitman, “from somewhere up the Amazon itself. Macus don’t shrink heads. All Nara wanted was to scare our bearers back to Santa Isabel and chase us off into the jungle. Right now, he’s probably still down on the Rio Negro, making a deal with Serbot, somewhere near Piedra Del Cucuy, learning what the competition has to offer—”
Whitman cut off, his mouth wide open as he looked downstream. The others turned and saw a dugout canoe approaching, with Joe Nara reclining comfortably against the pack bags in its center, while Igo and Ubi were paddling him up the Rio Del Muerte. Old Joe was smiling as he stepped ashore, but he became solemn when he saw the accusing eyes that were fixed upon him.
“I don’t wonder you’re annoyed,” apologized Nara. “I should have gotten here first—”
“You didn’t expect us to get here at all,” Hal Whitman broke in. “Those directions of yours were a one-way ticket over the falls on the Rio Del Muerte!”
“You tried to come down the river by boat?” Nara paused and stared at the rubber boats. “I didn’t know you had these with you. I said to follow the river, that was all. Remember?”
“I remember,” returned Mr. Brewster. “You also told us to go up through the gateway to the ravine—”
“No, I didn’t!” interrupted Nara. “I said for you to come up through—”
“What would be the difference?”
“Why, if you came up through,” explained Nara, “I would have been there to meet you. But if you had gone up through ahead of me”—he shook his head—“well, thank heavens, you didn’t try it!”
“Why not?”