Even when they reached the forest lands on the west side of the Madeira, another long delay ensued. For here they had to encamp on somewhat damp and unwholesome ground until Burly Bill should descend the stream to hire canoes or boats suitable for passing the rapids.
Don Pedro or Peter was now doing his best to make himself agreeable. He was laughing and singing all day long, but this fact in no way deceived Roland, and as a special precaution he told off several white men to act as detectives and to be near him by day and by night.
If Peter were really the blood-guilty wretch that Roland, if not Dick, believed him to be, he made one mistake now. He tried his very utmost to make friends with Brawn, the great Irish wolf-hound, but was, of course, unsuccessful.
"I sha'n't take bite nor sup from that evil man's hand," Brawn seemed to say to himself. "He looks as if he would poison me. But," he added, "he shall have my undivided attention at night."
And so this huge hound guarded Peter, never being ten yards away from the man's sleeping-skin till up leapt the sun in the gold and crimson east and shone on the waters of the beautiful river.
"That dog is getting very fond of you, I think," said Roland one day to Peter, while Brawn was snuffing his hand. "You see how well he protects you by night. He will never lie near to either Dick or me."
Peter replied in words that were hardly audible, but were understood to mean that he was obliged to Brawn for his condescension. But he somewhat marred the beauty of his reply by adding a swear-word or two at the end.
While they waited in camp here for the return of Bill and his crews, they went in for sport of several sorts.
The fish in this river are somewhat remarkable--remarkable alike for their numbers and for their appearance--but all are not edible.
"How are we to know, I wonder, which we should cook and which we shouldn't?" said Roland to his friend, Dick Temple.