"You're with friends. Understand? Friends. You're going home. These Indians are friends, too. Get that? Friends!"
The green eyes hung on McKay's face again; but, as before, no answer came in word, movement, or expression.
"No good, Rod," said Knowlton, who could not see the rescued man's face, but watched McKay's. "'Fraid I knocked his last brains down his throat. Dead from the neck up."
"I don't know about that. He doesn't look vacant. See here, Rand. We're going to land and eat! You hungry? Uh-huh. Thought you'd understand that. He's alive, Merry. Maybe not all here, but enough to get us."
"Good!"
The blond man turned his attention downstream again. Soon he suggested, "How about landing at that little open space down there at the left, Lourenço?"
"Very good, senhor. It looks dry."
The canoe swerved and floated down to a spot on the left shore where bright light poured down from an opening in the overhead wall of foliage.
"Now look here, Rand," warned the captain. "We'll untie you. But if you try to duck into the bush, now or later, you get shot. Shot! Understand?"
He tapped his pistol, and the gray eyes boring into the green ones were hard as chilled steel. For the first time Rand responded—a slow, short nod.