“That was Pedro’s error, Jack.”
“Yes, but we should have watched him. Then I misjudged the swiftness of the current.”
“We both did,” Ken corrected. “No use blaming yourself, Jack. What’s done is done.”
“This means the end of the expedition, even if we weren’t beaten before,” Jack went on. “It will be nip and tuck getting back to Cuya with only the supplies Hap, Willie and War have on their backs. And there’s Pedro—”
“Let’s meet one problem at a time,” Ken advised. “Our first is to make contact with Hap before the Indians do. Try to catch some sleep now while I watch.”
Jack settled himself as comfortably as possible, but he was too tense to doze. Some time later, Ken touched his arm. Instantly, he was alert.
“What gives?”
Without speaking, Ken pointed along the shore.
“Alive with savages!” Jack gasped, pulling himself to his feet. “They’re going to attack!”
Beyond the rim of firelight, he dimly could see the banks lined with Indians, who had landed in canoes and balsas. They wore no feather headdress, but their faces had been made grotesque with red paint from the juice of forest berries.