Then came the fifteenth day. It dawned red, the sun fighting an ensanguined battle with the heavy morning mists and throwing on the faces of the early-rising travelers a sinister crimson hue. Before that sun should rise again some of those faces were to be stained a deeper red. CHAPTER VII. COLD STEEL Some two hours after the start, while Knowlton and Tim loafed at the fore end of the cabin, enjoying the comparative coolness of the early day, another boat hove in sight up ahead--a longish craft manned by eight paddlers and without a cabin. As it came into view its bowman tossed his paddle in greeting. The Peruvians ignored the salutation. The bowman, after shading his eyes and peering at the flamboyant figure of José, resumed paddling without further ceremony, evidently intending to pass in silence. But then McKay arose, waved a hand, and told José to steer for the newcomers. José, with a slightly sour look, gave the signal to Francisco, and the course changed. The other canoe slowed and waited. Its men watched the tall figure of McKay. Tim and Knowlton scanned the bronzed faces of those men and liked them at once. The paddlers 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.