“Biff, come this way! Quick!”

A BIFF BREWSTER
MYSTERY ADVENTURE

BRAZILIAN
GOLD MINE
MYSTERY

By ANDY ADAMS

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

© GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC., 1960

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I [Up the Amazon] 1 II [The Clutching Hand] 8 III [The Hidden Boathouse] 16 IV [The Safari Starts] 25 V [The Spotted Terror] 40 VI [Into the Quicksand] 50 VII [The Deadly Coils] 58 VIII [A Traitor Strikes] 67 IX [The Shrunken Heads] 76 X [Trapped by the Head-Hunters] 85 XI [A Sudden Surprise] 95 XII [Between Two Fires] 103 XIII [The River of Death] 110 XIV [The Devil’s Gateway] 119 XV [Fabulous El Dorado] 128 XVI [Surrounded!] 137 XVII [The Man of Gold] 147 XVIII [Urubu Again] 156 XIX [Partners in Crime] 164 XX [The Tables Turn] 173

BRAZILIAN GOLD MINE MYSTERY

CHAPTER I
Up the Amazon

“Guard this letter as you would your life!”

Mr. Stannart spoke in a low, tense tone as he glanced around the waiting room at Idlewild Airport. Biff Brewster felt a sudden surge of excitement when he took the envelope that the gray-haired man handed him.

The envelope was tightly sealed, and it was addressed to Biff’s father, Thomas Brewster, at the Hotel Jacares in Manaus, Brazil. In the upper corner was the return address of the Ajax Mining Corporation in New York City. Gregg Stannart was the president of the company, and Mr. Brewster was its chief field engineer.

“Since you are flying to Brazil to join your father,” Mr. Stannart continued, “I decided to have you deliver this letter personally, rather than take the risk of its falling into the wrong hands.”

He paused, gave Biff a keen, steady glance, and asked, “Did your father tell you why he was going to the headwaters of the Amazon River?”

“He wrote that he was going on a jungle safari,” replied Biff, “and he invited me to fly to Brazil and join him, as a birthday present.”

Biff was thinking back to his birthday party at the Brewster home in Indianapolis less than a week ago. His mother had brought in a cake with sixteen lighted candles that Biff had blown out with a single puff, to the delight of the twins, Ted and Monica, who were five years younger than Biff. But the big surprise was when Biff’s mother had given him the birthday letter from his dad.

Next had come the excitement of packing, when it dawned on Biff that nearly all his birthday presents were clothes and equipment he could use on a tropical trip. Then Biff had flown to New York where Mr. Stannart had met him to put him on the plane for Brazil.

“Your father is bound on a highly important and secret mission for our company,” Mr. Stannart confided now. “He is going far up the Rio Negro, which joins the Amazon just below the city of Manaus. The party supposedly will be looking for sites for rubber plantations.”

Mr. Stannart paused, then said solemnly, “Your father will be looking for gold—a fabulous gold mine about which we have secret information. But here in New York,” he went on, “we have just discovered that there has been a leak in that information. We have learned that certain people would do anything to stop your father and get to the mine first. Even now, he may be in danger.”

“But Dad didn’t say anything about it—”

“Because he doesn’t know about it. He may change his mind about letting you accompany him after you give him this letter. It will tell him all he needs to know.”

Biff put the letter deep down into his coat pocket. Mr. Stannart nodded approvingly.

“Be careful what you say to strangers,” he warned Biff, “and above all, guard that letter!”

It was nearly time for the departure of Biff’s plane. Mr. Stannart explained that it would take him to Belem, the capital city of the Brazilian state of Para, not far from the mouth of the Amazon. There, Biff would change to a plane for Manaus, a thousand miles up the great river.

Mr. Stannart studied the other passengers who were waiting to board the plane. He said to Biff in parting, in a low but confident tone:

“You won’t have any trouble on this flight. But be careful after you leave Belem!”

The long trip south did prove uneventful. During daylight, the plane was over the Atlantic Ocean, and darkness had settled when it reached the coast of Brazil. Biff landed in Belem at dawn, so it wasn’t until he had changed to the plane for Manaus that he gained his first view of the Brazilian jungle.

He saw it from a seat beside the window as the plane climbed above Belem; a vast, solid mass of billowing green that looked ready to swallow the city that spread below. Then the jungle ended, and the plane was flying over a huge expanse of brownish water streaked with waves of white. This was the Amazon River, stretching as far as the eye could see.

A smooth voice purred from beside Biff’s shoulder:

“It looks more like an ocean than a river, doesn’t it?”

Biff turned to meet the gaze of the smiling man sitting beside him whose eyes looked sharp even through his dark-green glasses. The large lenses gave an olive hue to the sleek, oval face that narrowed to a pointed chin.

“O Rio Mar,” the smiling man continued. “That is what Brazilians call the Amazon. It means ‘The River Sea’ in Portuguese. Do you understand the language?”

“A little,” replied Biff, “but I know Spanish better.” He was about to add that he had learned both from his father. Then, remembering Mr. Stannart’s warning to be careful when he talked to strangers, Biff stated simply but truthfully:

“I have been studying Spanish in school.”

“You will need to speak Portuguese,” the man declared, “if you are stopping off anywhere between Belem and Manaus.” He paused inquiringly. Then, getting no response, he added, “If you go farther up the Amazon or any of its tributaries, you will need to know the dialects of Indian tribes as well.”

The stranger’s easy, persuasive tone almost caused Biff to remark that he was going on beyond Manaus. But he caught himself in time and said nothing.

“You may have to talk fast, too,” Biff’s fellow passenger continued. “Those tribes are often dangerous. You are sure to find head-hunters among them.”

This time, Biff asked a question.

“Have you been among the head-hunters, sir?”

The stranger’s smile widened. “My name is Serbot, Nicholas Serbot. And yours?”

“Bruce Brewster. My friends call me Biff.”

Nicholas Serbot inclined his head politely. “No, I have never been among the head-hunters, Biff. I come to Manaus occasionally to do business for some European concerns that I represent. Mostly in rubber.”

“My dad is in Manaus,” Biff volunteered. “I’m meeting him there.”

“Perhaps he will take you on a jungle safari. They organize such trips in Manaus.”

“That sounds great!” exclaimed Biff. “I’ll mention it to Dad!”

“Tell him to inquire at the Hotel Amazonas,” suggested Serbot. “Meanwhile”—he leaned toward Biff as he spoke—“you may find the scene below quite interesting.”

They had reached the head of the Para River, the principal mouth of the Amazon, sixty miles above Belem. The plane was thrumming over a gigantic carpet of thickly tufted green, furrowed by a maze of irregular streams.

“The region of the Thousand Islands,” Serbot explained. “Those channels that twist through the solid jungle are called the Narrows. They come from the main course of the Amazon, and most of them are deep enough to be navigable.”

Below, Biff saw an ocean-going freighter working up through a watery passage. It looked like a toy boat from this altitude, and occasionally it was swallowed by the thick foliage that jutted over the channel, only to emerge from the green arcade.

Soon the boat was far behind, and Biff watched the narrow channels widen and merge into a limitless, white-capped sea—the great Amazon itself. Serbot’s purring voice, and the steady drone of the plane’s motors had a lulling effect. Biff’s eyes closed to avoid the glare of the tropical sun; soon he was asleep. He dreamed that he was back at Idlewild, with Mr. Stannart’s voice repeating:

“Guard this letter as you would your life! Guard this letter....”

In the dream, invisible fingers seemed to be plucking the precious envelope, drawing it up and out of Biff’s pocket. With a sudden start, Biff awoke and shot his own hand to his pocket, where it met the crinkle of paper.

The dream had been realistic in one respect. As he dozed, Biff must have kept slumping down into his seat, causing the envelope to work upward every time he hunched his shoulders. A few inches more and it would have fallen from his pocket.

Or was that the answer? What if those phantom fingers had been real instead of mere figments of a dream!

As he thrust the envelope far down into his inside pocket and buttoned his coat for safer keeping, Biff Brewster shot a suspicious glance toward his companion of the plane trip, the smooth-spoken man who called himself Nicholas Serbot.

CHAPTER II
The Clutching Hand

Biff was wide awake now, the drone of the plane growing louder in his ears. With it, his suspicions of Serbot faded. The smiling man was leaning back in his seat, his own eyes closed as if in sleep. His hands were folded loosely across his stomach.

For the first time, Biff saw why Serbot wore that constant smile. The left side of his mouth was curled to match the right, which was drawn upward by a scar that began at the corner of his lips and became increasingly jagged until it ended beside his right eyebrow.

Before, the large rims and green tint of the sun glasses had helped to hide the scar; but Serbot had removed them before he went to sleep. Now, as Biff studied him, Serbot opened his eyes slowly and gave Biff a sleepy glance. Realizing that Biff had observed the scar, Serbot raised his right hand and traced it lightly with his forefinger.

“A decoration I received during World War Two,” he commented, “while I was working with the French Underground. A Nazi spy tried to give me this—” Graphically, Serbot swept his hand across his throat—“but I managed to save my neck. I received this instead.”

Serbot clenched his left fist as though it contained a weapon. He grabbed his left wrist with his right hand and shook his head.

“If anyone attacks you with a knife or gun, don’t try to stop him that way,” he said. “It won’t work fast enough, as I found out. Hit his wrist like this”—Serbot opened his right hand, bent it backward, and drove it against his left wrist—“with the heel of your hand, upward and outward. Try it.”

Biff practiced the action a few times and apparently won Serbot’s approval, for the smiling man added:

“That not only will stop him, it will jar the weapon from his grasp, enabling you to snatch it all in the same move.”

Serbot demonstrated that, too. Then, noting that some of the other passengers were beginning to look their way, Serbot changed the subject abruptly. Leaning toward Biff, he began pointing out more sights from the window, as the plane followed the north bank of the river.

There, the jungle had opened into widespread grazing lands, studded by a range of low, flat-topped mountains. Perched on one summit was a little town that Serbot said was called Monte Alegre. Then they were far out over the river again, and the Amazon once more resembled a choppy, yellow sea, until the order came to “Fasten safety belts!” The plane was coming to a landing at Santarém on the south bank.

Serbot pointed out to Biff the wide Tapajóz River which disgorged a huge flood into the turbulent Amazon, splotching the yellow tide with long streaks of green that looked like wash from the jungle and shone with emerald brilliance in the noonday sun.

The plane roared off again, and at Obidos, eighty miles farther upstream, the Amazon narrowed to a single deep channel only a mile and a quarter wide with the walls of solid forests fringing both bluffs. Later, the river widened again, and Serbot indicated small settlements built on high stilts in clearings back from the bank.

“Those show you how high the river rises,” Serbot told Biff. “Often it overflows its banks for many miles on both sides. Some of the native villages are so far off in the jungle that they can only be reached when the Amazon is in flood.”

Between pointing out these interesting scenes, Serbot talked occasionally of his war experiences, and Biff, wide awake and alert ever since his morning nap, was enjoying the trip more and more. He realized that he was gaining a slight preview of the Brazilian jungle that might prove helpful when he and his father set out on the safari that was actually to be a gold hunt. But he was careful to avoid answering any direct questions that Serbot put to him.

It was late afternoon when Serbot indicated a great, dark swirl of water that merged with the muddy Amazon, marking the mouth of another huge tributary.

“The black water of the Rio Negro,” defined Serbot. “From here it is only ten miles up to Manaus.”

Soon, the plane landed at the Manaus airport, and a few minutes later, Biff was being welcomed by his father, a tall, rugged man with dark hair and tanned, square-jawed face, an older counterpart of Biff himself, except for the boy’s blond hair. But when Biff looked around for Mr. Serbot, hoping to introduce him to Mr. Brewster, he found to his surprise that his companion of the plane trip had already gone.

Biff and his dad talked about the family and everything at home while they were picking up Biff’s luggage. Mr. Brewster then led the way to a jeep that he had parked outside the airport. Before they started their drive into the city, Biff drew the sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to his father with the comment:

“Dad, this is from Mr. Stannart. He told me to guard it carefully, that it is very important.”

Mr. Brewster tore open the envelope, and Biff watched his expression change as he read the letter. His lips set tightly above his firm jaw, Mr. Brewster thrust the letter into his own pocket; then he started the jeep. Keeping a sharp eye along the rough road, he asked:

“Did Mr. Stannart mention what was in the letter?”

“In a way, he did,” rejoined Biff. “He said we were supposed to be going with a rubber-hunting expedition, but that actually we would be looking for gold—”

“You didn’t mention that to anyone, did you?” interrupted Mr. Brewster anxiously. “I mean, while you were on the plane?”

“I only talked to a man named Mr. Serbot,” returned Biff, “and I even played dumb when he suggested that you take me on a safari. He said we could make arrangements at the Hotel Amazonas.”

Biff saw his father’s taut expression change to one of relief. Mr. Brewster spurted the jeep over a watery stretch of road with the comment:

“These jeeps have to be real puddle jumpers. You never know how deep some of the mud holes are.”

The road improved as they swung into the city. It was then that Mr. Brewster asked:

“Did Mr. Stannart tell you that there might be serious danger, now that other persons are after the mine?”

“Yes, he said you must be warned.”

“I suppose that is why he let you come,” mused Mr. Brewster. “Frankly, I feel he made a mistake, and I should send you straight home. However, if we keep far enough ahead of trouble, it may not catch up with us.”

Mr. Brewster ended with a reassuring smile.

“I’ll tell you the story from the start,” he said. “During World War Two, two prospectors, Lew Kirby and Joe Nara, gave up hunting gold and diamonds down in the state of Minas Geraes and came up the Amazon to help gather rubber. They put their profits into food and supplies and kept going north to look for a fabled land of gold—a land called El Dorado.”

“El Dorado! We learned about him in American History!” Biff exclaimed. “It sounded crazier than science fiction. Wasn’t El Dorado supposed to be a king who came out of a lake with his body all covered with gold?”

“Originally, yes,” returned Mr. Brewster. “Then the story became a legend of a golden city and finally a golden land. The Spaniards looked for it, and so did Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“But nobody ever found it!”

“Nobody except Lew Kirby and Joe Nara.”

Sure that his father was joking, Biff expected a chuckle to follow. But Mr. Brewster was very serious.

“They uncovered a fabulous Inca mine,” resumed Mr. Brewster. “It was too far and too difficult to bring the gold down the Amazon. So they worked their way to the Orinoco River, which brought them out through Venezuela.

“Kirby sent Nara back to the mine and then returned to Minas Geraes, hoping to find someone to help finance the claim. But people either didn’t believe his story, or they were the sort he wouldn’t trust. But he trusted me and I believed him—when he gave me these.”

Mr. Brewster brought out of his pocket some small samples of ore that fairly glistened with gold. Biff had learned enough regarding mining and minerals from his dad to recognize the value of these specimens. In an awed tone Biff asked:

“Is there much of this in the mine, Dad?”

“A whole mountain full,” replied Mr. Brewster, “from what Lew Kirby told me—before he died.”

The jeep was rolling smoothly now along a boulevard lined with fig trees, all neatly trimmed to a mushroom shape. But the story of the fabled gold mine interested Biff more than the sights of Manaus.

“Lew gave me a map,” continued Mr. Brewster, “showing the route that he followed to reach the headwaters of the Orinoco, though it does not give the exact location of the mine. To learn that, we must find Joe Nara. I hope that no one else finds him first.”

“Like the persons mentioned in Mr. Stannart’s letter?”

“That’s right, Biff. Despite Mr. Stannart’s constant urging, the directors of the Ajax Corporation have been painfully slow in providing funds for our trip. Meanwhile, Mr. Stannart says in his letter, certain foreign interests have learned of the mine and have moved into the picture. They may be the sort who will stop at nothing to get that mine!”

Before Biff could ask more questions, the jeep pulled up beside a modest, low-built structure that bore the sign: HOTEL JACARES. Looking about, Biff was surprised to see that it was growing dark and that the street lamps were already aglow.

“Night falls swiftly here in the tropics,” explained Mr. Brewster, as they went through the hotel lobby and up the stairs to the second floor. “That is why I lost no time coming from the airport. The driving is difficult after dark.”

Mr. Brewster unlocked the door of his room, turned on the light, then halted in amazement. The place was strewn with clothes from his suitcases. Sheets had been ripped from beds and mattresses cut open. Papers were scattered everywhere.

In a corner was a framed mirror hanging above a washstand. Mr. Brewster hurried over, took down the mirror, and laid it on a table beside a closet door. He pried away the backing of the mirror and brought out a sheet of paper that had been hidden there.

“This is what they were after!” he exclaimed. “The one thing they couldn’t find! Kirby’s map!”

As Mr. Brewster spoke, the closet door was opening slowly, but it was behind his shoulder and he didn’t see it. From the crack slid a long, bare human arm, and a hand reached for the prize that Mr. Brewster flourished. Frantically, Biff shouted:

“Dad! Look out!”

CHAPTER III
The Hidden Boathouse

Mr. Brewster swung about at Biff’s warning, an instant too late. The hand had already clutched the map and was snatching it from his grasp. The map tore apart, leaving only a corner in Mr. Brewster’s hand.

Quickly, Biff’s father dove for the closet door, intending to slam it and trap the occupant, map and all. But the man in the closet moved swiftly, too. He flung the door wide, and its edge swept past Mr. Brewster’s fingers as the man dived under his arm. Biff, crouched low, was about to stop the intruder with a football tackle when Mr. Brewster overtook the fugitive, applied a powerful arm-hold, and brought him full about.

Biff saw that the struggling man’s face was masked behind a large, knotted bandanna handkerchief, and that his rough, baggy clothes disguised his height and weight. As he twisted in Mr. Brewster’s grasp, the man managed to thrust his hand into the folds of his jacket and whip out a revolver. Coming about, he aimed point-blank at Mr. Brewster.

Biff’s father dropped away a split second before the revolver barked, its muzzle tonguing flame inches above his head. Then, before the masked man could fire again, Mr. Brewster wheeled about, grabbed a small table with both hands, and flung it bodily at his masked foe.

The man darted out of the way, only to find Biff blocking his escape. Biff heard a snarl from behind the bandanna, and saw the glint of the gun barrel as the man swung the weapon with a savage, downward stroke. Instinctively, Biff shot his own hand upward, using the trick that Serbot had shown him on the plane that very day.

The heel of Biff’s hand caught the man’s wrist, driving it outward. The impact jolted the gun from his hand, but the weapon scaled toward the side of the room and clattered near the bottom of the wall, where Mr. Brewster sprang across and scooped it from the floor, practically on the rebound.

The masked man hadn’t tried to retrieve the gun. Instead, he dashed through the doorway to the hall, still clutching the stolen map. Biff raced after him, with Mr. Brewster close behind. They might have overtaken the fugitive if he had gone down the stairway to the lobby, but instead he chose a shorter route to a large open window at the other end of the hall. There, he leaped a low railing, carrying a loose screen with him. When Biff reached the window and looked down into the dark, the man had vanished in the thick mesh of tropical foliage that had broken his fall.

“No use trying to go after him,” decided Mr. Brewster ruefully. “We don’t even know the direction he has taken. The hotel clerk will have heard the shot. We’ll let him report the incident to the police. They’ll figure it was just a sneak thief.”

“But what about the map?” Biff inquired anxiously. “How will you find the route to the Orinoco without it?”

“I still have the corner that shows the mine itself,” declared Mr. Brewster, holding it for Biff to see. “And Joe Nara would have to guide us there anyway.”

Biff’s father frowned. “We may have trouble getting through to the Orinoco, if someone tries to block our way. But from there on, it should be smooth sailing. Mr. Stannart says in his letter that he will bring his yacht to meet us on our way back, and will sign the agreement with Nara, then and there.”

Returning to their room, Biff and his father met the manager of the hotel hastening up the stairs. Mr. Brewster told him briefly that they had surprised a sneak thief in their room, and handed over the intruder’s revolver. With profuse apologies, the manager departed after Mr. Brewster refused his offer to have the room put in order.

When they were alone, Biff’s father said, “It was neat, the way you disarmed that fellow. Where did you learn that trick?”

“From Mr. Serbot,” replied Biff, “the man I met on the plane coming from Belem.”

While they were repacking Mr. Brewster’s bags and clearing up the room, Biff told his father about the things they had discussed on the plane. Mr. Brewster listened intently, then asked:

“Did you tell Serbot that I was stopping at this hotel?”

“Positively not,” returned Biff. “He couldn’t possibly have learned it—unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he saw the envelope,” exclaimed Biff in a hollow tone. “It nearly worked out of my pocket while I was asleep. Mr. Serbot might have drawn it out that far. When I looked at him, though, he was asleep, with his hands folded.”

“Playing innocent, perhaps. Did he seem to make a habit of folding his hands?”

“No, that was the only time I saw them folded. Dad”—Biff’s tone became worried—“do you think Mr. Serbot read the address on the envelope and phoned someone from the airport, and told them to come up here?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” his father asserted grimly. “The envelope has the return address of the Ajax Mining Corporation, and that would identify us to anyone who is trying to beat us to the El Dorado mine. But let’s not jump to conclusions just yet.”

Mr. Brewster had finished packing his bags. He picked them up and nodded for Biff to bring his, too.

“We’ll send these out to the airport,” Mr. Brewster declared. “There’s a plane going up the Rio Negro at dawn, and our luggage can go on it. We may take that plane, or perhaps a later one. We’ll see.”

They made arrangements with the hotel porter to handle the baggage. After that, Mr. Brewster decided that they should go out for dinner so Biff could see the city. Once on the lighted streets of Manaus, Biff realized how futile it would be to look for the baggily clad man who had stolen the map. Dozens of workmen who passed them were dressed in similar attire, even to a bandanna worn as a neckerchief.

The gay life of the tropical city impressed Biff. There were brilliantly lighted downtown cafés, and Mr. Brewster chose one where they were served half a dozen courses of tasty, highly seasoned food, finishing with ice cream that Biff thought was the best he had ever eaten. He had just swallowed the last spoonful when he suddenly exclaimed:

“Look, Dad! Those two men sitting at that table in the corner! One of them is Mr. Serbot!”

Mr. Brewster had no difficulty in picking out Serbot from Biff’s earlier description, though the scar on the smiling man’s cheek was scarcely visible in the soft light of the café. Serbot’s companion was shorter and chunkier, with a broad face, quick, narrow eyes, and straight lips.

“Introduce me on the way out,” Mr. Brewster told Biff. “I would like to size up that pair.”

A few minutes later, Biff’s father was shaking hands with Serbot, who immediately introduced his stocky companion.

“This is Senhor Armandeo,” stated Serbot. “Pepito Armandeo, known as Grande Pepito, or Big Pepito, as you would call him in English. He is a famous wrestler.” Smoothly, Serbot changed the subject. “You have a very intelligent son, Senhor Brewster. I enjoyed my trip with him. You are interested in rubber, Senhor?”

“What else,” asked Mr. Brewster, “would bring me to Manaus?”

Serbot’s response was a noticeable increase of his perpetual smile. He bowed as he made the parting comment:

“Perhaps we have mutual interests, Senhor.”

Outside the café, Mr. Brewster spoke reflectively.

“Perhaps Serbot and I do have mutual interests,” he said. “In something bigger than rubber. Something like gold.”

They climbed into the jeep, and Mr. Brewster drove past the Amazonas Theater, the magnificent opera house that had been built when Manaus was a boom town in the jungle. Mr. Brewster mentioned that to Biff as they went by; but Biff realized that his father was thinking of something else. Finally, he said:

“I am not surprised that you suspected Serbot. He strikes me as being very shrewd. I am doubtful of his friend, Big Pepito, too.”

“Then maybe Serbot sent Pepito to steal the map!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, Biff.” Mr. Brewster smiled as he spoke. “I still can’t understand how Serbot could have learned so much. Nobody knew my plans except Mr. Stannart.”

“What about the directors of the Ajax Company, Dad?”

“Once they agreed, they gave Stannart full say. Our dealings were confidential. Stannart sent me funds to buy safari equipment which I shipped here to Manaus ahead of me.”

“Mr. Serbot talked about safaris on the plane trip.”

“So you told me, Biff.” Mr. Brewster frowned. “I’m beginning to think that somebody found out about our plans here in Manaus. Pepito, for instance, could have learned of the safari shipments and sent word to Serbot. But Hal Whitman should have suspected something and informed me.”

“Hal Whitman? Who is he, Dad?”

“The man who received the shipments here. He assembled them secretly in a boathouse a few miles up the river. Later, he loaded all the supplies and took them far up the river to an old landing above Santa Isabel. He is waiting there for us to join him.”

Mr. Brewster halted the car at an intersection and pondered for a few moments. Then he said:

“Somebody could have snooped around that boathouse after Whitman left. They might have learned where the shipments came from and perhaps gained some link between Whitman and myself. If we go out there, we might pick up some clue ourselves. It’s worth a try.”

Mr. Brewster headed for the outskirts of the city. The road became rougher, and he was handling the jeep in its best puddle-jumping style as he added:

“Maybe some spies are still around the boathouse, trying to learn what else they can. In that case, we can surprise them. If the boathouse is empty, we can wait inside it and see if anyone shows up later.”

As the jeep swung beneath an arch of trees, Biff was startled by what looked like human figures jumping from bough to bough in the glow of the moonlight. Mr. Brewster laughed.

“Just monkeys. Don’t let them worry you. There is the boathouse. You can see our headlights reflected in its windows.”

Mr. Brewster cut off the headlights as he spoke, but oddly, the reflection persisted for a few moments more. Biff thought it was his imagination, but his father decided otherwise.

“Someone is moving around inside with a flashlight,” he whispered. “The boathouse is on pontoons to allow for the rise and fall of the river. If we reach the gangplank first, we can trap them before they come ashore.”

Silently Biff and his father slipped out of the jeep and crept forward beneath overhanging boughs that Biff could hear creak above him.

This time, he was thinking about people in the boathouse, not monkeys in the trees. He was watching for a flashlight instead of looking up into the moonlight. That proved to be a bad mistake.

Two living human figures dropped from the branches like massive rubber balls, one taking Biff as a target, the other landing squarely on Mr. Brewster. In their hands, these silent, shadowy attackers carried thin ropes that they looped around the necks of their victims as they flattened them.

Biff heard his father give a short, gurgling cry. Then Biff was gasping as the cord tightened around his own neck. Next, his captor clapped a cloth to his face, and Biff was stifled by a strong, pungent odor that completely overpowered him. His head seemed to burst with stabs of flashing light that turned to utter blackness as his senses left him.

CHAPTER IV
The Safari Starts

Thrumm—thrumm—thrumm—thrumm—

As Biff awakened, the steady sound made him think that he was back on the plane above the Amazon. He opened his eyes expecting to see the yellow sea far below.

Instead, he saw black water streaming past the side of a boat, churning white as it scudded back into the distance. When he turned his head, he saw his father beside him.

They were propped against some boxes near the front of a long cabin cruiser, which had a permanent top stretched like a canopy over its large, open cockpit, making it ideal for tropical travel. But there was nothing ideal about Biff’s present plight.

Biff’s hands were bound in back of him by a rough cord that chafed his wrists. His ankles, too, were tightly tied. At a glance, Biff saw that his father was in a similar situation. The thin, tough rope around Mr. Brewster’s ankles looked like a tropical vine.

Biff tried to speak, but he found his lips too dry, his throat too parched. He caught a warning headshake from his father, and following the direction of Mr. Brewster’s gaze, Biff saw two chunky men, clad in baggy, sleeveless shirts and old khaki trousers cut off at the knees.

The pair were standing guard like patient watchdogs, looking for any move from the captives. They had black, straight hair and coppery skin; those features, plus their stony, immobile expressions marked them as Indians from the headwaters of the river, which, from its blackish color, could only be the Rio Negro.

One Indian spoke in a guttural dialect, and a shrill voice responded from up ahead:

“So they’re awake now? Good! Igo, you take the wheel.”

One Indian moved forward. Moments later, a scrawny man with a crafty, wizened face beneath a shock of whitish hair, stepped into sight. To the other Indian, he piped:

“Ubi, you stay here. You help me watch.”

Then, tilting his head in birdlike fashion, the white-haired man studied the prisoners and demanded:

“What were you two doing around that boathouse?”

Mr. Brewster kept his lips tightly closed, his eyes staring straight back toward the frothy wake from the cruiser’s propeller. Biff, too, ignored the question.

“Maybe you’d talk if I gave you a drink of water,” the scrawny man suggested, “and maybe I ought to toss you in that big drink out there”—he gestured toward the river—“and let you try to swim ashore. You wouldn’t get far, tied like that.”

The stolid silence of the Brewsters annoyed the white-haired man. His voice rose to a still higher pitch:

“I mean it, every word of it! I’ll find a way to make you talk, as sure as my name is Joe Nara!”

Biff almost gulped the name, “Joe Nara!” before he caught himself. Then he heard his father speak calmly in reply.

“If you are really Joe Nara,” stated Mr. Brewster, “I’ll tell you all you want to know. Only I don’t believe that you are Joe Nara.”

Oddly, the wizened man’s anger faded. His own tone became even as he asked, “And why wouldn’t I be Joe Nara?”

“Joe Nara is a husky chap,” returned Mr. Brewster, “with dark hair, a bit gray, but not white. He’s tough, but he doesn’t get angry and excited. He has too good a sense of humor.”

Biff saw a twinkle in the wizened man’s eyes. The scrawny face relaxed in a genuine smile. In a soft, faraway tone, he asked, “And who told you all that?”

“Joe Nara’s partner, Lew Kirby, before he died.”

“So Lew is dead. I was afraid of that.”

As he spoke, the wizened man’s expression became very sorrowful. He gestured to Ubi, and the Indian cut the crude ropes that bound the prisoners.

“I am Joe Nara,” the white-haired man said. “I’ve grown a lot older in the years since I saw Lew Kirby last. Kind of lost my sense of humor, too, living upriver with nobody but Indians to talk to. What’s your name?”

“Tom Brewster. And this is my son Biff.”

Mr. Brewster extended his own hand, palm up. Old Joe Nara slapped his own hand palm downward, meeting Mr. Brewster’s with a solid whack, followed by a tight grip to which Mr. Brewster responded firmly.

“That’s how Lew and I always shook hands,” declared Nara. “I guess you and Lew were friends all right, or he wouldn’t have shown you that grip.”

Ubi was bringing gourds of water. Nara waited until Biff and his father had slaked their thirst. Then, with a chuckle, the white-haired man remarked:

“I guess Lew must have told you about the time he and I went to Lake Titicaca down in Peru to look for Inca gold?”

“No, Kirby never told me that,” returned Mr. Brewster, “because you never went there. He said you planned the trip but gave it up. You came up this way instead.”

“And where would we have found gold near the headwaters of the Rio Negro?”

“I can tell you in two words: El Dorado.”

That convinced Joe Nara. He opened a door beneath the short forward deck and revealed a compact kitchen galley. He heated up a pot of feijoada, a Brazilian dish of black beans cooked with dried meat. With it he served bowls of mandioca, a mush made from the pulp of the cassava.

Simple though the fare was, it tasted so good that Biff eagerly accepted the second helping that Nara offered him.

“I was really hungry,” said Biff. “I feel as though I had been asleep for hours.”

“You were,” returned Nara. “That stuff you inhaled is a secret Indian brew that acts like chloroform. Gives you an appetite, though, when you do wake up.”

“And just why,” asked Mr. Brewster dryly, “did you happen to try the stuff out on us?”

“I’ll tell you why,” asserted Nara. “Every now and then, I come down from the mine with Igo and Ubi to buy supplies. Whatever I buy, I pay for with these.”

From his pocket, Nara brought some small nuggets of pure gold which clinked heavily when he trickled them from one hand to the other.

“People have been trying to trail me back up to the mine,” continued Nara, “so I bought this boat, the Xanadu, from a rubber outfit that had gone broke. I decided to come downriver to see who was spying on me. Before I even got to Santa Isabel, I saw a crew unloading supplies at an old abandoned camp.”

“Whitman’s crew!” exclaimed Mr. Brewster. “I sent them up the Rio Negro to wait for me, so I could start on a safari to find your mine.”

Nara gave an understanding chuckle.

“I had Igo and Ubi talk to the natives,” Nara said. “They learned that the expedition had started from a boathouse outside of Manaus. So I came all the way down the river to look into it. We were watching the boathouse when you came along.”

“So you thought we were enemies—”

“Not exactly enemies,” corrected Nara. “Just suspicious characters. After Igo and Ubi grabbed you, I decided to bring you along. Now that you’ve explained yourselves, I’ll turn around and take you back down to Manaus if you want.”

“Now that we’ve started upriver,” decided Mr. Brewster, “there is no need to go back. We sent our luggage on to Santa Isabel by air, and we intended to take a plane ourselves. But now we may as well keep on with you.”

All that day, the Xanadu sped swiftly up the Rio Negro. Biff took his turn at the wheel and was pleased by the way the cruiser handled. At intervals, the river became so thick with islands that it reminded Biff of the famous Narrows that he had seen from the air above the lower Amazon. But here on the Rio Negro, the channels were shallow as well as twisty. Still, Biff found no difficulty in guiding the sleek craft through the maze.

“The Xanadu was built to order for this river,” Nara told Biff. “That’s why I bought her. Be careful, though, when we reach that island dead ahead. The channel appears to split there—”

The Xanadu thrummed upriver

As Nara spoke, the palm-fringed island vanished. The whole sky had opened in one tremendous downpour. Biff couldn’t believe that it was only rain. He thought for the moment that the Xanadu had come beneath a tremendous waterfall. Adding to the illusion was the sudden rise of steam from the heated jungle that flanked the channel. Instantly, the speeding cruiser was shrouded in a mist that swelled above it.

“Swing her about!” shrilled Nara. “Our only chance is to turn downstream before the flood hits us!”

Mr. Brewster stepped up and took the wheel. Instead of taking Nara’s advice, he sped the boat straight upstream, picking his course in an amazing fashion. Somehow, he must have gauged the exact position of the threatening island, for he veered past it. New channels seemed to open with each swerve of the cruiser’s bow.

Biff’s father had seen Navy service in the South Pacific and was familiar with jungle waterways as well as tropical storms. As a Lieutenant, Junior Grade, he had been trained specially for jungle fighting and had won medals for bravery, finally leaving the service as a Lieutenant Commander.

“It’s better to buck the current,” Mr. Brewster declared, “than to let it carry us into something we can’t avoid.”

Igo and Ubi were releasing curtains from beneath the permanent top, giving the cruiser’s interior the effect of a long, narrow tent, completely sheltered from the terrific downpour, which like many tropical rains, was coming straight downward.

Some of the narrow channels were flooding rapidly, and there, big logs and branches occasionally met the cruiser’s rounded prow, only to glance aside as Mr. Brewster deftly turned the wheel. They reached a wider channel where a headland bulked suddenly in midstream; but it proved to be a small floating island, composed of small palm trees sprouting from a mass of soil and undergrowth that had come loose from an overhanging bank.

Biff could hear the chatter of monkeys and the screech of birds as the passing branches scraped the hanging canvas on the cruiser’s side. Then the tiny islet and its excited living freight had drifted far downstream. Still Mr. Brewster kept steadily to his course, staring upstream through the cruiser’s rainswept windshield.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ended, revealing a new maze of channels that could be found only by looking for gaps among the tree branches, so high had the water risen in this sunken area. Cutting the speed, Mr. Brewster navigated the openings gingerly. That brought a chuckle from Joe Nara.

“Kind of lucky, weren’t you?” he remarked.

“Yes, I was rather lucky,” acknowledged Mr. Brewster. “Like you and Lew Kirby, when you stumbled onto that mine of yours.”

“We were more than lucky,” retorted Nara. “We were smart. Didn’t Lew tell you how we doped it out?”

“He said you ran into a tribe of Indians who were guarding a mountain that they claimed was sacred.”

“That’s right. Wai Wai Indians. Igo and Ubi are members of the tribe.” Nara gestured toward the stolid pair who now were rolling up the canvas curtains. “What else did Lew say?”

“He said you convinced the Indians that you were a powerful witch doctor, so they led you to the lost mine.”

“From the tricks I showed them,” chuckled Nara, “they thought I was El Dorado the Original, and that the mine belonged to me and Lew. You know the story of the man who turned all golden? Well, I proved it could be done.”

Biff was hoping that Nara would give more details on that subject, when suddenly, the white-haired man demanded:

“Did Lew give you a map to locate the mine?”

“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Brewster. “He gave me one showing a route from the mine to some waterways which he said led to the Orinoco River. That was all.”

“That was enough. It proved there was a short way out.”

“Yes, but I still have to go over the actual route to make sure that gold ore could be transported by it, down the Orinoco.”

“Do you have the map with you now?”

“Only part of it.”

From deep in his pocket, Mr. Brewster produced the torn corner from Kirby’s map.

“A prowler stole the rest from my hotel room,” he explained. “I managed to hold on to the part that shows the mine.”

Joe Nara stroked his chin in worried fashion.

“If somebody showed me the rest of the map,” he commented, “I might have to believe them if they said they knew Lew Kirby, too.”

“I thought of that,” returned Mr. Brewster calmly, “and I would be glad if such a person should appear. It would be a case of a thief trapping himself.”

Joe Nara nodded as though he agreed; but he immediately dropped the subject of the map and the mine as well.

During the next few days, the Xanadu thrummed upriver, keeping to broad channels instead of short-cuts between islands. This simplified the handling of the cruiser during brief but heavy rainstorms. Biff noted that after each rain the air soon became as humid as before. It was hot at night as well as in the daytime, and while one member of the group piloted the cruiser under the bright tropical moon, the others slept in the ample cockpit; never in the tiny forward cabin.

One evening when Nara was at the wheel, Biff and his father were seated near the stern, far enough away for Biff to ask:

“Do you think Joe Nara doubts your story, Dad?”

“About the map being stolen?” returned Mr. Brewster. “He might be wondering about it. After all, I could have torn the corner from a map that belonged to someone else.”

“But you gave him Kirby’s hand grip and when you mentioned ‘El Dorado’ it was like a password.”

“I could have learned those from some other person. Nara has to be cautious, with a gold mine at stake. I think he trusts me but wants to sound me out. Watch him, and you’ll see he is suspicious of everything.”

Biff noted that as the trip continued, Nara insisted upon giving other river craft a wide berth. When occasional airplanes flew high above, Nara always leaned out from beneath the canopy to study them suspiciously, but the planes apparently took no notice of the boat below.

After the cruiser had passed Santa Isabel, Biff was taking his turn at the wheel when Nara approached and remarked:

“Pretty soon we’ll drop you and your dad at the old rubber camp where your friend Whitman is waiting for you.”

“Aren’t you going to join us on the safari?”

“Not there,” returned Nara. “I’m taking the Xanadu on to Sao Gabriel, to see if we can buck the rapids and reach the upper river.”

Mr. Brewster had been close enough to hear Nara’s comment. Now, he put the query:

“Then where will we meet you, Joe?”

“At Piedra Del Cucuy,” Nara replied. “You can see it for miles, a big rock rising from the forest, where Brazil, Venezuela, and Colombia all meet up. By the time you arrive there, we will know if it is safe to go on.”

“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” asked Biff.

“Because of the Macus, the head-hunters who raid the river settlements.” Nara turned to his two Indians and said: “Tell them about the Macus.”

“Macu very bad,” stated Igo.

“Macu kill for head,” added Ubi.

At last the Xanadu reached an old, dilapidated landing, where half a dozen men stood beside some huts on the high bank. Mr. Brewster indicated one man who was wearing khaki shorts, white shirt, and pith helmet.

“That’s Whitman,” said Mr. Brewster. “He’s too far away to hail him.” He brought out a leather case containing a flat metal mirror and handed it to Biff.

“Whitman understands Morse,” Mr. Brewster said. “Signal him to send out a boat for us, Biff.”

Biff turned the mirror toward the sun, then slanted it in Whitman’s direction. Covering the mirror with his hand, he flashed the message in dots and dashes: S-E-N-D B-O-A-T.

Whitman pointed to a canoe on the shore. Biff watched two figures hurry down and clamber into the craft, a small figure at the bow, a big one in the stern. They paddled out to the waiting cruiser and swung alongside. The man in the stern, a husky, barrel-chested native, furnished a broad, friendly smile.

“Me Jacome,” he announced.

The bow paddler was an Indian boy about Biff’s age and size. He was wearing faded blue denim trousers, ragged at the knees, and a shirt that matched it in color and tattered sleeves. He reached up to grab the cruiser’s side, adding, “I’m Kamuka.”

Biff extended his own hand and responded, “I’m Biff.” In that unexpected handshake, the two boys established an immediate friendship. They grinned at each other as Biff helped Kamuka swing the canoe about so that Jacome could hold the stern alongside.

As soon as Biff and his father stepped into the canoe the Xanadu sped off like a startled creature. Joe Nara at the wheel, waved good-by, while Igo and Ubi simply stared back like a pair of reversed figureheads. Jacome and Kamuka did fast work with their paddles to prevent the canoe from tipping in the cruiser’s swell. Then they headed toward the dock.

Kamuka looked over his shoulder and said to Biff, “I like the way you send message. You show me how?”

Biff nodded. “I’ll show you how.”

During the short paddle, Mr. Brewster talked to Jacome in Portuguese and Biff, listening closely, understood most of what was said. Mr. Brewster asked about the luggage and was told that it had arrived by air. Also, he wanted to know if the safari was ready to start. Jacome told him yes, that they had been waiting for him to arrive.

When they reached the shore, Hal Whitman was still up by the huts engaged with the natives in an excited conversation. Mr. Brewster started in that direction, and Biff was about to follow when a hand plucked his sleeve. It was Kamuka, with the request:

“You spell message now?”

“All right,” agreed Biff. He produced the mirror, caught the sun’s glint, and focused it on the wall of a hut perhaps a hundred feet away. “Now, watch—”

Biff halted abruptly. A burly native, wearing baggy white shirt and trousers, with a red bandanna tied about his head, had joined the argument and was pushing Mr. Whitman back into the hut.

“Urubu!” exclaimed Kamuka. “He make trouble!”

Whitman came from the hut with a shotgun and gestured for the native, Urubu, to be on his way. Instead, Urubu grabbed for the gun and snatched it from Whitman’s grasp, tripping him at the same time. Mr. Brewster was starting forward on the run, but he was too far away to help Whitman.

Urubu raised the gun butt to drive it down on Whitman’s head. Biff could see the savage look on Urubu’s face. Kamuka gripped Biff’s arm. The native boy’s voice was breathless:

“Somebody must help Mr. Whitman! Quick!”

CHAPTER V
The Spotted Terror

That jog from Kamuka’s hand gave Biff a sudden idea. Biff was holding the mirror so it threw a big spot of sunlight on the hut wall. The spot wavered when Kamuka jogged Biff’s arm, and Urubu was only a dozen feet from the corner of the hut.

Biff changed the mirror’s angle just a slight degree, spotting the light square in Urubu’s eyes. That reflected glint of the sun was enough. Urubu dropped back, flinging his arm upward to shield his vision. Mr. Whitman came to his feet and grappled for the shotgun. A few seconds later, Mr. Brewster had pitched into the struggle.

They disarmed Urubu, who stood by glaring sullenly. Biff and Kamuka approached the group, and Jacome, who had pulled the canoe on shore, came up behind them.

“You know what the name Urubu means, Biff?” Kamuka asked.

Biff shook his head.

“It means vulture,” the Indian boy said.

A chuckle came from Jacome. “A good name for Urubu. He is like one vulture!”