addlers evidently were Brazilians, but of a different
type from the sluggish townsmen of Remate de Males--alert,
active-looking fellows, steady of eye, honest of face, muscular of
arm--in all, a more clean-cut set of men than the Peruvians. All three
of the Americans noticed that no word was exchanged between the two
crews.

"_Boa dia, amigos!_" spoke McKay. "Who are you and whence do you come?"

"We are rubber workers of Coronel Nunes, senhor," the bowman answered,
civilly. "We go to make a new camp. This land is a part of the
_seringel_ of the coronel, and we left his headquarters yesterday."

"Ah! Then the headquarters is above here?"

"One more day's journey," the man nodded.

"I thank you. Good fortune go with you."

"And with you, senhor. May God protect you."

With the words the Brazilian glanced along the line of Peruvian faces
and his eyes narrowed. Though his words were only a respectful farewell,
his expressive face indicated that McKay might be badly in need of
divine protection at no distant date. As his paddle dipped and his men
nodded their leave-taking, Francisco, the _popero_; sneered raucously:

"Hah! Mere _caucheros_! Workers! Slaves!"

And he spat at the Brazilian boat.

Fire shot into the eyes of the bowman and his comrades. Their muscles
tensed.

"Better be slaves--better be dogs--than Peruvian cutthroats!" one
retorted. "Go your way, and keep to your own side of the river."

"We go where we will, and no misborn Brazilians can stop us," snarled
Francisco. To which he added obscene epithets directed against
Brazilians in general and the men of Coronel Nunes in particular.

The unprovoked insults angered the Americans as well as the Brazilians.
Knowlton leaped through the _toldo_ and confronted Francisco.

"Shut your dirty mouth!" he blazed.

For reply, the evil-eyed steersman spat at him the vilest name known to
man.

An instant later, his lips split, he sprawled dazedly on his platform,
perilously close to the edge. Knowlton, the knuckles of his left fist
bleeding from impact with the other's teeth, stood over him in white
fury. Francisco's right hand fumbled for his knife. Knowlton promptly
stamped on that hand with a heavy boot heel.

"Good eye, Looey!" rumbled Tim's voice at his back. "Boot him some more
for luck. Hey, you! Back up or I'll drill ye for keeps!" This to a pair
of the Peruvian paddlers who had come scrambling through the cabin.

After one searching stare into