They passed through the squadron of canoes and up the river. Long before they reached the small, sandy beach, they discerned the rowboat, drawn up on shore. The Indian women had left it untouched, after a curious examination of its scanty contents.
“They’re nowhere around,” Bill exclaimed when they came closer: with tight lips he ran the canoe into shallow water and vaulted into the shallows.
“Tom—Nicky—Cliff!” he shouted, and waited.
The echoes were silent. Jack added his high pitched call, and they shouted together; but the jungle held its secret. The boys, at that time, were two miles beyond hearing, on a trail that ran almost parallel to the course of the river.
“If they’re in the jungle, how will we locate them?” asked Jack. “I know something about these places—once you get in, you wander and get further away all the time.”
“We’ll fire our pistols,” cried Bill. “Push in, here, as far as we dare go without getting lost ourselves!”
There they shouted and, at intervals, fired their pistols. But only the silent glades and the sentinels towering high above heard the hails and quivered a little to the strange sound of exploding powder.
“There’s nothing we can do by waiting here,” Bill said, finally. “My idea is to go to the chief and offer him all we’ve got to put out parties who know the trails, give them torches, and try to get some trace of what has happened. The boys are lost. We would be lost in no time, looking; but the Indians might not. We’ll try it. It’s the only thing to do.”
Tired as they were, their paddles fairly flew as they made their way back toward the cruiser.
“If the sun is setting in the open, it must be night back in the jungle,” began Jack.