e had been gone five minutes before the first shot sounded, and quite ten before the last rang out dully, and was echoed and re-echoed hollowly by the jungle trees. And Paula lay waiting by the edge of the clearing, Ribiera's pearl-handled automatic in her hand—Bell had carried the rifle from the plane. Small insects moved all about her, and she heard soft rustlings as the life of the jungle went on over her head and under her feet, and terror welled up in her throat.
She was trembling almost uncontrollably when Bell came back. He walked openly toward her hiding-place.
"Paula."
She came out, trying to steady her quivering lips.
"We're all right," said Bell grimly. "This is the fazenda of a sub-deputy. I suspect, also, it's an emergency landing field for Ribiera on the way to that place he talked to last night. There's a two-place plane here with both wheels and floats, in a filthy little shed. It seems to be all right. We're going to take off in it and try to make Moradores, where your people are. What's the matter?"
Her face was deathly pale.
"I thought," she said with some difficulty, "when I heard the shots—I thought you were killed."
Bell shook his head.
"I wasn't," he said grimly. "It was four other men who were killed."