But this was dispelled toward five o’clock by Señor Cisneros, who pointed to above the rock behind which they were hiding, and called attention to a thin line of blue smoke in the distance.
“They are making a fire,” he said, “and have undoubtedly chosen that place for a camp.”
Neither Hope-Jones, Ferguson, nor Harvey said a word. The Peruvian waited a minute, then whispered:—
“Do you want to retreat? We can crawl for a short distance and then take to our feet.”
“And the white rock in view! No, I don’t want to retreat,” said the Englishman.
“Nor I,” said Ferguson.
“What do you say, Harvey?”
“I’d rather die first,” and he clenched his fists in a manner that showed he meant all that he said.
“That’s right,” whispered the señor. “You have courage; that’s the main thing. It would indeed be a pity to leave the spot now, for I am convinced that old Huayno told the truth in everything. If they are Majeronas, it is only a wandering band. The main tribe is far away, and we shall have only these to settle with, should the worst come to pass. But the probabilities are that they will go away in the morning. Should they stay in this neighborhood for a time, we might be able to remain in hiding. I think we have three or four days’ supply of dried meat, and it will be easy to crawl down to the river for water. If it comes to a fight, we have these,” and he tapped his rifle.
“What are they armed with?” asked Ferguson.