José nodded. The clumsy craft veered a bit. The three put a little more punch into their lagging strokes, noting, as they neared the steep bank, that a couple of men had appeared at its top and were staring at them. Gradually the long dugout worked in to the muddy shore, where the paddlers stabbed their blades into the clay and held it firm.
"Ahoy, up there! This the Nunes seringal?"
From the edge, some thirty feet above, the taller of the two watchers answered:
"Si, senhor. The headquarters of the coronel. Do you come to visit him?"
"Right."
"Then permit me to help you. The path is a little ahead. Pull up and tie to this stake."
The tall fellow came dropping swiftly downward. At the same time the other Brazilian stepped back and was gone.
With a dexterous twist the man of Nunes moored the boat to the designated stake. Then he reached a hand toward Tim to help him out.
"I ain't no old woman, feller," Tim refused, and hopped aground unassisted. McKay and Knowlton followed. But José, after moving languidly forward and contemplating the sharp slope, hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders.
"I am tired, señores," he said. "And perhaps it would be well for one to stay here and watch."