“No, but I’m pretty well shook up and scratched up,” I answered.
“Take care—somebody shoot,” he went on.
I concluded I was pretty well out of sight, and I kept quiet and tried to get back the breath which had been completely knocked out of me. A few minutes later I heard a crashing through the brush, and my guide stood beside me.
“Lucky you no killed,” he observed. “Bad spot dat.”
He searched around and soon found a hollow containing some water, with which I bathed the scratches on my face and hands. In the meantime he gazed around anxiously in the direction from which he imagined the shot had come.
“Maybe no shoot at us,” he said, quarter of an hour later. “Me find out.”
With his ever-ready machete he cut down a young tree and trimmed the top branches off, leaving the stumps sticking out about six inches on every side. On the top of the tree he stuck his hat, and then, having no coat, asked me for mine, which he buttoned about the tree a short distance under the hat, placing a fluttering handkerchief between the two.
With this rude dummy, or scarecrow, he crawled up the side of the gully until almost on a level with the trail. Then he hoisted the figure up cautiously and moved it forward.
No shot was fired, and after waiting a bit Jorge grew bolder and climbed up to the trail himself. Here he spent a long time in viewing the surroundings, and finally called to me.
“Him no shoot at us. Maybe only hunter. Come up.”