“Nevertheless, we’ll be coming to villages before long. Even though we see no one, take my word that news of our expedition precedes us.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “You may be sure it won’t happen again.”
The Scouts finished breakfast and quickly broke camp. All morning they struggled over the trails, at times looking down into chasms that brought their hearts into their throats.
On either side of sharp, razor-back ridges, the path descended into a deep, terrifying abyss. Occasionally, the Scouts saw the bleaching bones of dead animals, and vultures hovered overhead.
Shortly before dusk they came to a village where they had hoped to recruit extra bearers to replace two who had deserted. None could be hired.
However, they were made welcome at the home of a missionary doctor, who told them that Burton Monahan’s party had passed that way many months before, never to return. It was the doctor’s opinion that the explorer had been killed by hostile Indians.
“Beyond this village you will have rough, unfrequented trail,” he advised the Scout leader. “Your map will be useless to you. Better roll it up and return.”
Mr. Livingston’s smile gave reply.
For two comparatively pleasant days, the Scouts rested and relaxed in the doctor’s home. A blister on War’s foot healed, and good food and plenty of sleep revived the spirits of everyone.
On the trail once more, the Explorers found the doctor’s prediction all too true. Hours were required to travel even a short distance. The path they pursued became no more than a narrow ledge high above a valley floor. A single mis-step would mean certain death.