moonshine remained fixed in the same spot. The only moving things were
the khaki-clad sentinel and the blazing fireflies.

Another hour rolled slowly by. The sentinel stopped and stood at a
corner of the _tambo_. Now was as good a time as any for the Brazilians
to start their perilous reconnaissance. Perhaps they had gone to sleep.
He squinted at their hammocks. Yes, they were occupied. Stepping softly
to the hammock of Pedro, he lifted the net to whisper to the occupant.
Then he stared, dropped the net, and lifted Lourenco's curtain. A soft,
self-derisive chuckle sounded in his throat as he stole out again.

The hammocks were occupied, yes; but only by packs and rifles. Armed
only with machetes, the two bushmen now were--where? He did not even
know when or which way they had gone. Fine sentinel, wasn't he, to let
two full-grown men sneak away right under his nose? And if they could
get out so slick, why couldn't somebody else--a murderous Red Bone, for
instance--get in with equal facility?

Wherefore he became all the more alert. Instead of resuming his slow
pace, he stood quiet at a corner, scrutinizing everything within his
range of vision, listening more intently than ever. Two or three times
he leaned forward and lifted his piece as some splashing noise in the
creek came to him; but each time the cannibal guards on the other bank
also sprang to see what caused the sound, then grunted to one another
and relaxed, so he knew it was made by piscatory or reptilian life. Near
him nothing moved. And the moon sailed on westward, smoothly, steadily
measuring off the silent hours of the night watch.

Then all at once every nerve in him strained toward the back of the
_tambo_. Something was there! He had not heard it--seen it--smelled
it--but he felt it; a nameless thing that did not belong there. With
smooth speed he pivoted, looked, listened. Nothing there.

Motionless, feeling slightly creepy, concealed under the roof corner, he
waited. A sound came--a stealthy sound. Something was creeping in.
Lourenco and Pedro, perhaps? Stooping low, he peered along the ground
under the hammocks.

A man was coming--coming on all-fours like an animal. He was too
stealthy to be either of the Brazilians. Knowlton glimpsed him only
dimly, but he was sure this was no man who belonged here. And now, as on
a previous occasion almost identical in its circumstances, the watchman
acted in accordance with Tim Ryan's General Order Number Thirt