From the bank, Jacome and other natives dragged the mire with stones attached to long liana vines, but received no answering tugs from the pulpy quicksand. When they pushed long sticks down into the mire, they went completely out of sight, to stay.

“There’s no reclaiming anything lost in those depths,” Biff’s father said soberly. “That goes for Luiz, too.”

When they returned to the campsite, Mr. Brewster dismantled the crude dummy that he had placed beside the fire. It was formed from wads of grass, palm stalks, and small logs, which had made it bulky enough to be mistaken for a sleeping figure in the uncertain firelight.

“After what you told me,” Mr. Brewster said to Biff and Kamuka, “I decided to test Luiz. I did everything but mention Joe Nara by name. I made this dummy figure so I could watch Luiz if he tried to steal the map he had been told I carried. At the same time, I was guarding my life against his treachery.”

“But, Dad!” exclaimed Biff. “Serbot never told Luiz to kill you. He simply told him to delay our safari.”

“And to Luiz’s way of thinking,” declared Mr. Brewster, “the simplest way of accomplishing that would be by killing me. Here in the jungle, people think and act in very direct terms, particularly the natives.”

Mr. Brewster and Mr. Whitman began a discussion of the next steps to be taken. They agreed that the sooner the safari moved along, the better. Mr. Brewster put a question to Jacome.

“You have been to Piedra Del Cucuy before, Jacome. Could you find your way there again?”

“I think so, Senhor.”

“Then you will be our guide as far as the big rock. Have the bearers ready to move at dawn.”

Daylight was tinting the vast canopy of jungle leaves when the safari started back toward the main trail. The setting was somber at this early hour, but the silence was soon broken by some scattered jungle cries. Then, clear and sharp, came the metallic note of the bellbird. Mr. Brewster waved the safari to a stop and said:

“Listen.”

The call was repeated. Mr. Brewster turned to Kamuka and asked:

“What kind of bird is that? Campanero or Urubu?”

Biff smiled at the way his father used the term for 

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