“Ah!” said the red headed man, “this is something like comfort!”
The gray eyed Yanqui smiled a little.
“You forget,” he said dryly. “I’ve heard you swear no decent cigar could be had under half a dollar. What would this sell for?”
“I said it,” said the red head, “and I’ll never smoke another one under a dollar! We’ve earned some luxury now!”
Darkness was settling down. The man with the boots was gazing somberly at the end of his cigar. His features were curiously harsh in the flickering light of the fire Juan had made.
The gray eyed man arose.
“Get in some wood,” he said briefly. “It won’t take long.”
Juan remained squatted, unnoticed in the shadow of his hut, while the two white men brought in wood. It did not take long. The red headed man sang while he tugged his burden back. The gray eyed gringo came into the firelight loaded down and smiling. The dark man’s face was as harsh and as hard as if carved from granite. He stared at his cigar until the wood went down with a crash. He jumped, then, and Juan noted that his eyes were burning.
Darkness fell silently and very suddenly. There was still no breath of wind. The night was hot and humid, as the day had been one of stifling heat. The stream contracted to a little space of smooth and oily water, illuminated by the camp-fire. The jungle vanished save for the wall of the clearing, where leaves and occasionally the mottled trunk of a jungle tree were pricked out by the dull red flames. Small noises began in the jungle. Little, furtive creepings.