“We’ve got to, or we’re licked,” Ken answered.
“We could just wait here for Hap.”
“He’s expecting us to have a camp ready, Jack. Besides, I don’t like to wait here. I’ve got one of those feelings.”
A rather terrifying silence had fallen upon the river. The Scouts had seen no one. Yet they sensed as certainly as if they had stared directly into a hostile coppery face, that their every movement was being watched.
“With Pedro laid up, Hap coming down with fever, and most of our supplies gone, we’re at the end,” Ken asserted. “The best we can do is make some sort of camp tonight, and start back in the morning.”
“I reckon so,” Jack agreed gloomily. “It’s tough to be licked, but I guess we are. That weakened bridge shows you what the natives will do, if they get good and sore at us.”
The balsa crept on down stream, until finally Ken shoved it out into the swift current.
“Dig in!” he shouted as the craft moved faster and faster.
The water seethed and eddied about the balsa, but Ken and Jack kept it under control. They were nearing the opposite shore and already had selected their landing spot, when suddenly arrows began to splash in the water ahead of them.
“Jeepers!” Jack exclaimed, nearly dropping his paddle. “Now what?”