e moment. But Yuara was the
one whose arrival counted most.

In one last convulsive struggle McKay heaved himself up until he was
once more on his knees. His head came out of the welter, his mouth wide
and gulping for breath. The lone clubman grunted, swung his weapon high,
and with all the power of his muscular body drove it down at that
upturned, unprotected face.

With a mighty plunge Yuara threw himself over the captain. His spear
sank into the stomach of the clubman. But the heavy wooden war hammer
fell with crushing force. As the Red Bone collapsed with the spear head
buried in his middle, his slayer also dropped under that terrible stroke
with head mangled beyond recognition.

Yuara, son of Rana, warrior of Suba, who owed his life to McKay's rough
surgery, had paid his debt.

Under the impact of his body McKay also slumped forward, senseless.

Over them now burst the bloodiest berserk battle of that bloody day. The
soldiers, the bushmen, and the reclaimed Raposa, already smeared from
head to foot with red stains from their own veins and those of foemen,
went stark mad. Before their united ferocity the men of Umanuh dropped
as if rolled under by an inexorable machine of war. Backward they
reeled, striving now to escape the red wall of cold steel surging at
them--only to fall under a fresh attack of ravening Mayorunas who came
pouring in upon them from the sides. The last of the group lurched
headless to the ground under a decapitating side-swing from the awful
club of Monitaya himself.

Then Knowlton, his lifeblood still draining slowly but surely away
through his wounded shoulder, pitched on his face and was still.

"Back!" gasped Tim. "Git looey and cap out o' this! Here, you Raposy!
Lend a hand!"

The Raposa, his green eyes ablaze and his obdurate calmness totally
gone, glared around as if seeking one more Red Bone to kill. Then, as
Tim heaved the lieutenant across his shoulders and went lunging across
contorted bodies toward the _malocas_, he ran back to the heap where
McKay lay and dug him clear. Lourenco aided him in lifting the captain,
and they bore him off after Knowlton.

Pedro and Jose shoved the other bodies aside until they uncovered the
prone figure of Schwandorf--a ghastly form dyed from hair to heels with
the blood of the cannibals whom he had led there. To all appearances he
was dead. Yet the Brazilian and the Peruvian looked keenly at him, then
at each other.

"There is a saying, is