“This is not the creek,” the boy said. There was impatience in his tone, and something that suggested fear. “Let’s turn back.”
“It might be, Rod. We’ll go on a little farther.” Brushing aside a low-hanging palm leaf, the girl seized her paddle to send the light craft forward.
For a space of ten minutes nothing might be heard save the dip-dip of their paddles and the scream of parrots over their heads.
Suddenly the boat swerved to the right shore.
“Abandoned, I guess,” said the girl, sweeping the clearing with her eyes. “Might tell us something, though.”
“Some sort of old cabin over there.”
“Look!” exclaimed the girl. “Someone’s here—or has been in the last few days.” She pointed to a well-defined hand print in the half-dried mud of the bank.
“Who—who do you suppose?”
“Rubber hunters, perhaps, or a chiclero. Let’s go up.”
The boy hung back.