“We don’t seem to be getting to the Orinoco very fast,” observed Frank, after all of five miles had been covered. “I’ll wager we are at least twenty to thirty miles from camp.”
“Perhaps we are. But what do you advise? We can’t sit down here and suck our thumbs.”
“Hark! What was that? A gunshot?”
“It sounded more like a distant explosion,” cried Mark, leaping to his feet. “There it goes again. An explosion sure enough. What can it mean?”
“I think I know,” answered Frank. “It means that we are near some kind of a mine. That was the blasting of rocks.”
“I hope you are right, Frank. It came from down the river, didn’t it?”
“It did. Let us go on. There may be a regular miners’ camp below here.”
Once more they allowed their improvised craft to drift down the stream. The character of the country was changing, and presently they found themselves hemmed in by high rocky walls. Then came a bend eastward and they came in sight of a small settlement. There were a dozen houses built of timber covered with corrugated iron, and a small engine house with a tall iron smokestack. Back of the settlement were the openings to several gold and silver mines. As they approached another explosion rent the air and they saw a large section of a cliff give way and fall to the rocks below.
There were several boats tied up to a tiny dock running along the river, and the men on these gazed curiously at the boys as they drifted up and leaped aboard one of the craft.
“Where come you from?” demanded one of the men, in Spanish.