Silently they shoved off and rowed with muffled oars up the river, and under the bridge, built substantially in the days of the Spaniards. “A few charges of dynamite would settle it,” Phil thought.
Already O’Neil had uncoiled his lead line and was sounding in the channel of the river.
“It’ll be a cinch, sir,” the boatswain’s mate exclaimed after several soundings had given him no less than four fathoms of water. “Seven feet is all we need and we can carry that for miles until the mountains commence to go up steep; then there’ll be rocks to look out for.”
Mile after mile was pulled in silence except for the light dip of the oars and the dull, almost soundless splash of the lead as it was heaved a short distance forward of the boat.
The midshipmen gazed with apprehension at the forbidding banks of the river. The rank tropical foliage would conceal an army. Riflemen might lie concealed and fire without the slightest fear of discovery.
Gradually the river narrowed, but the depth of water did not grow less.
It was just before dawn when the boat arrived at the bend behind which, by the description given them, would be the landing pier of the Rodriguez ranch.
In a half hour the boat was being cared for by one of the many willing attendants and the sailors were escorted to the palatial residence of Señor Rodriguez.
It was the señorita who came first to meet her old friends.
“Now we are fighting together,” she exclaimed gladly, “and I would like to go out as a man and help.”