“If this is a ‘path,’” I said to Lewis, “I’m glad I’m not in the wilderness.”
“No go outside path,” grinned the Boviander.
We assured him that we would not, but we could find no trace of a path at all. When we were not in muddy bogs, feeling our way to make sure we would not step into some hole over our heads, or clambering around fallen trees and brush, we were going up short but steep little hills covered with tangled vines. After two hours of this, and being almost exhausted, we came to a clearing.
“Here it is,” shouted Lewis.
And as if to prove it we heard a rooster crow. Eagerly we stumbled out into the clearing and saw the few huts, but the place was deserted.
“More further,” said the Boviander; “someone he die.”
By this he meant that some member of the village had died. The Indians always desert their village when anyone dies in it, and move on to establish another. They will never live in a village where anyone has died.
The lonely rooster crowed defiantly at us as we skirted the village to find the “path.” Having found it we moved on about a mile.
“Ah, here we are,” I declared as I came into an opening.