"No see signs of Efaw Kotee. Long way."
While the combined aroma of bacon and coffee was for the moment throwing its cloak of materialism about the romance of my forest, I asked again:
"Why are we heading so far inland, when they must be somewhere along the coast?"
"Best go this way. All right; you smoke."
I was smoking, but that seemed to be his way of telling me to put my mind at rest. Yet I persisted with another question:
"How do you know we haven't passed them already?"
"Me know," he grinned. "All right; you smoke."
He was a funny cuss, but I let it go at that.
Biscuits, bacon and coffee might properly be called the Woodsmen's Ambrosia, but it is not a feast over which man is inclined to loiter, and Smilax was soon re-wrapping the pack.
Up to this time I had walked practically empty handed, yet now I conscientiously rebelled, insisting that a share of the load must rest upon my shoulders. But here he showed himself as obdurate as a mule until, arbitrarily, I strapped on our second automatic, took out our second rifle, and filled my pockets with extra cartridges. He raised no objection to this; he even approved it. We were getting down into the Death river country and ready fire-arms made agreeable companions. Furthermore, at his direction I tied the rather goodly supply of buttonwood into a bundle and swung it to my back.