That day passed, and another like it. Every hour the canoe drifted speedy as the current. The Cashibos children lost their fear of Manuel. The boy jabbered and played; the girl smiled at Manuel, which persuaded him not to give them to a Campas tribe, but to take them home and care for them himself.
Three more days and nights the canoe drifted. Manuel’s strength had returned, but it troubled him to think. Something had happened up the river. He had for his pillow a ragged coat that fascinated him, and which he treasured.
Early the next morning he turned the green bend at La Boca to come abruptly upon the Amazonas, lying at the dock. Men shouted from her decks; there was a thudding of bare feet.
“Look! Look!”
“Is it the outlaw?”
“No—no!”
“Yes—yes. Those shoulders and arms—it’s he!”
Manuel’s blotched face, swollen out of all proportions, was unrecognizable.
Captain Valdez leaned hard over the rail. “Manuel, is it you?”
“Yes, captain.”