They buried her there deep down in the sand; and that same evening the boats were loaded up, and in the hour of darkness, ’twixt sunset and moonrise, they dropped silently down stream, and succeeded in eluding their dangerous foes, who, no doubt, lay in wait near the sand-spit ready to renew their attack whenever opportunity offered.
As soon as the moon began to glimmer over the distant mountains they paddled towards the shore, and hid under the thick foliage till morning. Then after a hurried breakfast, principally of fruit, they once more embarked and went gliding down the river.
It was no part of Tom’s intention, however, to keep to the stream. It would have led him on to the great Marañon, or even into the wilds of Brazil. So the very next morning, being now safe from pursuit, they once more took to the woods, and the long and toilsome march was commenced towards the distant shores of the Pacific, and Guayaquil.
All speed, however, was made on the backward journey. There was no more dallying to collect beautiful butterflies, or to seek for more skins of bird or beast. If Tom could but succeed in saving the splendid collection he had already made he felt he should be more than happy. The party still depended on their guns for their living, however, and killed each day just sufficient food to carry them on.
Their adventures were of the usual sort already described, and many a hair-breadth escape both Tom and his companions had by flood and field.
While nearing Guayaquil, however, the fatigues on this terribly-forced march began to tell on Tom’s excellent constitution, and he fell sick.
A few days’ rest became imperative now.
“Just a few days, Samaro,” Tom said, “and I shall be well, and able to go on again.”
That night he was in a burning fever, and for three long weeks he hovered betwixt life and death.
But his youth claimed victory at last; and Samaro had been a most faithful nurse. It would have been difficult to say which of the two—Samaro or Black Tom—showed the greatest exuberance of delight when the master became quiet and sensible once more. About the first food that Tom ate was a tenderly-cooked cavy that this strange puss had caught and brought in. Indeed, Samaro said that all through Tom’s terrible illness hardly a day passed that the cat did not bring either a cavy or dead bird in, and he invariably jumped into his master’s hammock with the offering, laid it by his cheek, and then sat down to watch his face.