Moaning with fright, Pedro collapsed on the beach.
Once more Jack paid out the vine. Ken was able to grasp it on the second try, and also was hauled to shallow water.
Resting briefly, he and Jack then carried Pedro back among the trees. Darkness now covered their movements, but they knew the forest was alive with unfriendly Indians.
The two Scouts were too shocked and discouraged to discuss their desperate predicament. The loss of the balsa and their stores was a serious matter. Their only hope, it seemed, lay with Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts. Yet if the following party should arrive at the broken bridge, it might find itself ambushed.
“We ought to warn ’em what they’re running into,” Jack muttered. “But how?”
He fished in his packets. His Scout knife was gone, but there remained a metal, water-proof container of matches.
“I’ll get a fire started,” he announced.
“Won’t it draw the Indians?”
“It may,” Jack conceded, “but you can be sure they’re watching our every move anyway. So there’s nothing to be gained by freezing to death. Besides, if Hap reaches the bridge, he’ll be able to see the fire.”
“But he won’t know it’s ours, Jack. He may think it’s a native camp.”