As yet there had been no indication that any one was following us. Indeed, we seemed to be untold miles from civilization and I was commenting to young Anderson on the likelihood of our escape from the pursuit of de Silva when I caught a look in Hardy’s eyes.
“Oh, pshaw!” I exclaimed later, slightly nettled. “You are pessimistic, Hardy. Had de Silva been after us we should surely have heard from him before this.”
“No. That isn’t so,” retorted Hardy. “Our leaving the river has deceived him. I am satisfied that he planned an ambush farther along the stream. In a short time he’ll discover we have given him the slip. Then he’ll be after us.”
“And just why, Hardy,” I demanded, “is this insane Spaniard following us?”
Hardy’s expression was quizzical.
“I have a sort of hunch—that’s all,” he returned, non-committally.
The next day one of our Indians was missing. He had been sent back over the trail a mile or so to recover a small rifle that had been lost. Hardy himself and young Anderson made the tiresome hike to the rear to learn if possible the whereabouts of the Indian. Later, when the two rejoined us without the Indian, Hardy did not have anything to say.
Anderson told me afterwards that they had found the Indian curled up at the foot of a tree. He was dead without a mark on him.
Depressing as was this development, our little party found scant time to discuss it. The way had grown much more difficult, for our road persistently ascended. Huge trees now gave place to palms, with thick underbrush growing between. We traveled entirely by compass, but missed Ericson, who had been a navigator and had from time to time “shot the sun” to verify our position.
On the fifth day we encountered a tremendous wilderness of bamboo, which grew so thickly that we could only penetrate it by cutting a pathway with the machetes and bill-hooks of the Indians. It took us a long day, with only two pauses of a half hour each to get clear of this yellow-walled obstacle.