“Chuba” was the one word whispered in reply to his crow call.
The native boy wiped his forehead with his forearm and sighed in relief. It was Biff. It had to be. Biff was all right.
“Biff?” Chuba called in a squeaky voice. The boy scrambled to the edge of the trail again. He looked carefully to his right, down the trail toward the river. Then he looked left, where the Comanche call had been sounded. He saw Biff’s stained face poke out of the bushes about ten feet away. A big grin showed white teeth even whiter against his brown face.
The two boys wasted no time in talk. They made tracks, and fast, away from the river, away from the border guard. After an hour of steady traveling, Chuba darted off the main path, following a little used one deep into the bush.
“We rest here,” Chuba said, gasping for breath.
“Okay by me,” said Biff. It seemed to him that every bone, every muscle in his body ached. The struggle through the jungle growth, the tension of making the river crossing, had worn both boys out. Both were only too happy to stretch out and let their bodies regain strength.
“So this is China,” Biff said wearily.
He sat up, dug into his bundle, and took out a small bottle of antiseptic. This he rubbed over the scratches on his legs and arms. He handed the bottle to Chuba. Then he took out a large tube of insect repellant. Flies and mosquitoes had formed a small cloud around the two.
“What happened?” Chuba asked. “I heard much gun shoots. I worry. I think maybe they shoot Biff.”
“They tried to, Chuba. I fooled ’em, though.”