“They are said to be cannibals, are they not?”
“Yes.”
Harvey shivered and drew his gun closer.
“What are we going to do?” Hope-Jones asked. He was thinking, and so were the others, how lucky it was that they had induced the experienced miner and woodsman to accompany them.
“For a time we will wait here,” was the reply. “They may go away. Again, I am not certain they are the Majeronas. I didn’t spend any great amount of time examining them, I can assure you. They may be friendly Ayulis, but just at present we do not care to meet even friendly Ayulis.”
“What is the difference between the tribes, señor?” Harvey asked, gaining control of himself and preventing his teeth chattering.
“The Majeronas are much lighter and their beards are thinner. The Indians yonder certainly answer the description, but the light may have deceived me.”
“I think the light of a setting sun would darken a face, don’t you?” suggested Ferguson. “It certainly gave a red tinge to that white rock.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
They were lying very close together, and words spoken in a whisper were heard by all. Each had drawn his weapon to his side, and those with modern guns threw open the breech-locks and made certain that loaded shells were in the chambers, while the Peruvian examined the cap on his rifle and swung loose his powder-horn and shot pouch. They remained in this position for nearly an hour, and not hearing a sound from the direction where the Indians had been seen, hope came that the redmen had gone.