Under the skilful handling of Hen and Pinto, the montaria, although it seemed unwieldly, turned out to be a much better craft than it looked; and when the Northerners became used to the narrow paddles, the expedition made great headway, the boys finding the wide boat far more comfortable for a long trip than the smaller, swifter canoe.
After a day, a night, and another day of paddling, they circled a wide bend, and there, showing like ink in the moonlight, was the mouth of another river.
"White men call it Rio Negros, Black River," the Indian explained to the boys; "but my people call it the River of Death."
As the professor, who was steering with a paddle, swung the prow of the boat into the dark water, the Indian protested earnestly.
"It very bad luck, Master to enter Death River by night," he said.
"Murucututu, murucututu," muttered the witch-owl, from an overhanging branch.
Hen joined in Pinto's protest.
"That owl be layin' a spell on us, Boss," he said. "Better wait till mornin'."
The professor was inflexible.
"I have no patience with any such superstitions," he said. "We can cover fully twenty-five miles before morning."