“We’ll come out all right,” he said, “although I’ll admit we’re in a tight fix.”
The youths rested for nearly a half-hour. Then their strength—and to some extent their hope—restored, they again took up the task of finding the right trail.
Back and forth they hiked, confident that at last they would happen upon it. But search as they did, their efforts were in vain. The cruel Brazilian jungle was not to be conquered by man.
At last, satisfied that nothing could be gained by continuing such efforts, Joe moved that they take one of the other trails in the hope that it would lead them to the river.
“All right,” said Bob. “No use trying to find the one we followed when running from the jaguar.”
Joe had reloaded his rifle, and Bob had placed his hunting knife ready for instant use. They were taking no chances on meeting some formidable jungle beast.
The path that they now followed was wider than the others and consequently was more likely to lead to some definite spot. But neither of the chums was sure that they were heading for the river. It might lead them fifty miles away, for all they knew. Still they hiked on.
“Do you know,” remarked Bob, when another hour had passed, “that I’m beginning to think that these trails were not cut by wild animals! They’re too closely defined. Now take this one, for example. See how wide it is? And look over there. The vegetation’s been cut by a machete.”
Joe grew suddenly pale. He clutched his rifle tighter.