"Truly. Most of the Brazilian savages do not torture. The Red Bones do." "Pleasant prospect." "Very. Nothing to be gained among them, either. If you're hunting gold, try the hills over west of the Huallaga. None here." Knowlton filled and lit a pipe. McKay slowly drank the last of his syrupy coffee and rolled a cigarette. Schwandorf continued shoveling food into his capacious mouth. "Know anything about the Raposa?" Knowlton asked. The Teuton's eyelashes flickered. He ground another chunk of meat between his jaws before answering. "Of course," he said then. "Wild dog. Sharp snout, gray hair, bushy tail. I've shot a couple of them." "This one is a man. Green eyes, streak of white hair over the left ear. Paints himself like the Red Bones, as you call them, but is a white man." "Oh! That one? Heard of him, yes. Wild man of the jungle. Want to catch him and put him in a circus?" "Maybe. We'd like to see him, anyhow. Heard about him awhile ago. Any way to get him that you know of?" "Might try a steel trap," the German suggested, callously. "But I don't know where you'd set it. Best way to get a wild dog is to shoot him, and he isn't much good dead. Or would this one be worth something--dead?" A swift sidelong glance accompanied the question. "Not a cent!" snapped McKay. "And perhaps he'd be worth nothing alive," added Knowlton. "But we have a healthy curiosity to look him over. Guess the Red Bone country would be the likeliest place. How far is it from here?" "Keep out of it," was the stubborn reply. The Americans rose. "We are not going to keep out of it," Knowlton declared, coldly. "We are going straight into it. Thank you for your assistance." "Not so fast," Schwandorf protested. "If you are determined to go I will help you if I can. Shall we sit on the piazza with a small bottle to aid digestion? So! Thomaz! Bring from my stock the kümmel. Or would you prefer whisky, gentlemen?" "Ginger-ale highballs are my favorite fruit," admitted Knowlton. "Can ginger ale be bought here?" "Indeed yes. At one milrei a bottle." "Cheap enough. Thomaz, three bottles of ginger ale and one of North American whisky--the best. Cigars also. Out on the piazza." "Si, senhores." Schwandorf got up. "If you will pardon me, I will drink my kümmel. Frankly, I do not like whisky." "And frankly, we do not like kümmel. All a matter of taste." "Truly. So let each of us drink his own preference. I will join you in a moment." The Americans sauntered to the door, while the German strode into his room. "Blunt sort of cuss," Knowlton commented. "Ay, blunt. But not candid. Knows more than he's telling."