Two weeks later a group of natives, sitting at a feast of baked alligator tail, at the mouth of the Amacerí, near the dirty, straggling riverine town of Llano, rose in astonishment as they saw issuing from the clayey, wallowing Guamocó trail a staggering band of travelers, among them two foreigners, whose clothes were in shreds and whose beards and unkempt hair were caked with yellow mud. With them came a young girl, lightly clad and wearing torn rope alpargates on her bare feet. The heat was descending in torrents. From the neighboring town floated a brawling bedlam of human voices. It was Sunday, and the villagers were celebrating a religious fiesta.
“Compadres,” said Rosendo, approaching the half-intoxicated group. “The boat––which way?”
One of the group, his mouth too full to speak, pointed in expressive pantomime up-stream. Rosendo murmured a fervent “Loado sea Dios,” and sank upon the ground.
“It will be down to-morrow––to-day, perhaps,” gurgled another of the rapidly recovering feasters, his eyes roving from one member to another of the weird-looking little band.
“Lord Harry!” exclaimed Harris, as he squatted upon the damp ground and mopped his muddy brow. “I’m a salamander for heat, that’s certain!”
“Señor,” said Rosendo, addressing Reed, “it would be well to pay the men at once, for the boat may appear at any time, and it will not wait long.”
While the curious group from the village crowded about and eagerly watched the proceedings, Reed unstrapped his pack and drew out a bundle of Colombian bills, with which he began to pay the cargadores, according to the reckoning which Rosendo had kept. As the last man, with a grunt of satisfaction, received his money, Harris exclaimed: “And to think, one good American dollar is worth a bushel of that paper stuff!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a shrill 376 whistle came echoing down the river. A cloud of smoke above the distant treetops heralded the approach of the steamer. The little party had escaped a wait of a month in the drenching heat of Llano by the narrow margin of an hour.
Rosendo hastened to Reed and drew him aside. He tried to speak, but words failed him. Reed took his hand. “I understand, my friend,” he said gently. “Have no fear. The mine is all I had anticipated. My wife and I will care for the girl until we hear from you. And we will keep in touch with you, although it will take two months for a letter to reach us and our reply to get back again to Simití. The development company will be formed at once. Within six months you may expect to see the work started. It is your fortune––and the girl’s.”
Carmen drew close to Rosendo. “Padre, I am coming back to you––yes?”