The two batalões turned from the open waters of the lower Tapajos River into the igarapé, the lily-smothered shallows that often mark an Indian settlement in the jungles of Brazil. One of the two half-breed rubber-gatherers suddenly stopped his batalõe by thrusting a paddle against a giant clump of lilies. In a corruption of the Tupi dialect, he called over to the white man occupying the other frail craft.
Fate’s retribution was adequate. There emerged a rat with a man’s head and face.
“We dare go no farther, master. The country of the Ungapuks is bewitched. It is too dangerous.”
Fearfully he stared over his shoulder toward a 296 spot in the slimy water where a dim bulk moved, which was only an alligator hunting for his breakfast.
Hale Oakham, as long and lanky and level-eyed as Charles Lindbergh, ran despairing fingers through his damp hair and groaned.
“But how can I find this jungle village without a guide?”
The caboclo shrugged. “The village will find you. It is bewitched, master. But you will soon see the path through the matto.”
“Can’t you stay by me until time to land? I don’t like the looks of these alligators.”
“It is better for a white man to face an alligator than for a caboclo to face an Ungapuk. Once they used to kill and eat us for our strength. Now—” Again his shrug was eloquent.
“Now?” Hale prompted impatiently.