With an accustomed sweep of the hand he shooed the flies from the bean dish and helped himself to a big portion. Over the legumes he poured farinha in the Brazilian fashion.
"We have. We are seeking a tribe of people who paint their bones red."
Schwandorf's hand, conveying the first mouthful of beans upward, stopped in air. His black eyes fixed the Americans with an astounded stare. He lowered the beans, stabbed absently at a chunk of beef, sawed it apart, popped a piece of it into his mouth, and sat for a time chewing. When the meat was down he spoke bluntly:
"Are there not ways enough to kill yourselves at home instead of traveling to this place to do it?"
McKay smiled. The directness of the man amused him.
"As bad as that?" asked Knowlton.
"As bad as that. Blow your head off if you like. Cut your throat. Take poison. Jump into the river among the alligators. Step on a snake. But keep away from the Red Bones."
"Why?" shot McKay.
"Cannibals—and worse."
"Worse?"