“Where’s your cowcha?”
“Lost, captain, lost! A great rubber forest, captain—I had tons of cowcha—it’s lost—all lost!”
“I suppose so,” replied Valdez ironically. “That’s a fine cargo to pay you—two half-grown Indian kids. The nerve of you, Manuel, dropping into La Boca with slaves.”
“Slaves!” echoed from Manuel. His gaze traveled from Valdez’s face to the little bronze Cashibos, once more huddling, frightened, in the bow. “Slaves? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Manuel, you had your choice,” went on the captain, “and now you must abide by it. I’ve caught some of you slave hunters this trip. There’s Bustos in irons. Your choice Manuel—the chain gang, or the river?”
“The river for me!” said Manuel. “Only up instead of down!”
“Up! But, Manuel, there’s a chance down the Amazon. You—”
The rubber hunter faced up the wide Pachitea. His stentorian cry froze the words upon Captain Valdez’s lips. It rolled out, a strange, trenchant call to something beyond the wild, silent river.
“Fever,” whispered one of the fettered slave dealers.
“Bitten crazy,” said another.