The dark man’s face was hidden, but his boots were limned clearly in the firelight. Juan’s motionless figure was in a position where his eyes could remain fixed upon them. But visions were flitting through his brain. Of himself, in the metropolis of San Teodoro De Los Angeles. As he would be, wearing those boots. Haughty. Condescending. And there was that woman who was the acknowledged belle of San Teodoro.
The counting came to an end after a long, long time. There was stillness. Then the voice of the red headed man—
“We’re rich men!”
Slowly, painstakingly, the Yanqui with gray eyes was replacing the dull green pebbles in their malodorous packet.
“Yes, we’re all rich men,” he said quietly.
“I wonder,” said the red headed gringo harshly, “if you’re thinking that if they didn’t have to be divided, one of us would be richer.”
The man with gray eyes looked steadily across the firelight.
“I’ve thought of it,” he said evenly. “Of course. But don’t be an ass. We’ve only got another day’s paddling, and we’ll be out in the main stream. Then we’ll be safe from the jungle and temptation together—if it’s a temptation to you.”
The red headed man swore irritably, as if ashamed.
“It hasn’t been, until just this minute. And it won’t be again.” He stopped, and said suddenly, “I’ll tell you something. Back up in the mountains we were all nearly crazy. You know it. And I got to thinking about Norma. She’s waiting for you. She’s going to marry you when you get back.”