Bill West turned toward Gordon Z. Marcus and winked a slow wink.
Presently the column moved forward again. Orman was with the advance guard, the most dangerous post; and White remained with him.
Like a great snake the safari wound its way into the forest, the creaking of springs, the sound of the tires, the muffled exhausts its only accompaniment. There was no conversation—only tense, fearful expectancy.
There were many stops while a crew of blacks with knives and axes hewed a passage for the great trucks. Then on again into the shadows of the primitive wilderness. Their progress was slow, monotonous, heartbreaking.
At last they came to a river. "We'll camp here," said Orman.
White nodded. To him had been delegated the duty of making and breaking camp. In a quiet voice he directed the parking of the cars and trucks as they moved slowly into the little clearing along the river bank.
As he was thus engaged, those who had been passengers climbed to the ground and stretched their legs. Orman sat on the running board of a car and took a drink of Scotch. Naomi Madison sat down beside him and lighted a cigarette. She darted fearful glances into the forest around them and across the river into the still more mysterious wood beyond.
"I wish we were out of here, Tom," she said. "Let's go back before we're all killed."
"That ain't what I was sent out here for. I was sent to make a picture, and I'm goin' to make it in spite of hell and high water."
She moved closer and leaned her lithe body against him. "Aw, Tom, if you loved me you'd take me out of here. I'm scared. I know I'm going to die. If it isn't fever it'll be those poisoned arrows."