Jorge went ahead, limping rather painfully at times, but never uttering a word of complaint. Next to him came Alano, while I brought up in the rear. It is needless to state that all of us had our eyes and ears wide open for a sight or sound of friend or enemy.
The road was a hard one for the most part, although here and there would be found a hollow in which the mud was from a few inches to several feet deep. Jorge always warned us of these spots, but on several occasions I stepped into the innocent-looking mud only to find that it was all I could do to get clear of the dark, glue-like paste.
It was but eleven o’clock when we came in sight of the river, which at this point was from thirty to forty feet wide. Looking up and down the water-course, we saw that it wound its way in and out among the hills in serpentine fashion. The bottom was mostly of rough stones, and the stream was barely three to four feet deep.
“How will we get over?—by swimming?” I questioned, as we came to a halt on a bank that was twenty feet above the current.
“Find good place by de rocks,” said Jorge. “Must be careful. Water werry swift.”
I could see that he was right by the way the water dashed against the rocks. Our guide led the way along the bank for a distance of several hundred feet and began to climb down by the aid of the brush and roots.
“That doesn’t look pleasant,” remarked Alano, as he hesitated. “Just look at that stream!”
Picking up a dry bit of wood he threw it into the water. In a few seconds it was hurried along out of our sight.
Nevertheless, we followed Jorge down to the water’s edge. Before us was a series of rocks, which, had the stream been a bit lower, would have afforded an excellent fording-place.
“De river higher dan I think,” said our guide. “You take off boots, hey?”