One more rapid step back, a keen glance at his opponent, and José stood at ease. From Francisco burst a bubbling groan. He staggered. His knife dropped. His hands rose fumblingly toward his neck. Suddenly his knees gave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlight disclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular. With the utmost coolness José ran two fingers down his wet blade, snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew: "As I said, we shall have a new _popero_. To-morrow, Julio, you will take the platform." A rumble ran among the men. Their eyes lifted from Francisco to the Americans, and in them shone a wolfish gleam. The bowman turned sharply and faced them. "Who growls?" he rasped. "You, Julio?" "_Si, yo soy_," Julio answered, harshly, fingering his knife. "I will be steersman, but I steer downstream, not up. Francisco spoke the truth. Now or later--what is the difference? Let it be now!" A louder growl from the others followed his words. One stepped back into the shadow of the hut. "_Perros amarillos!_ Yellow dogs! You go upstream, fools! The Americans must be taken--" A raucous sneer from Julio interrupted him. Simultaneously the paddler's hand leaped upward, poising a knife. "The gringos stay here--and you, too, you Yanqui cur!" The poised knife hissed through the air at José. Out from the crew house shot a streak of fire and a smashing rifle report. José dodged, staggered, screeched in feline fury, the knife buried in his left arm. McKay grunted suddenly, fell, lay still. "God!" yelled Tim. "Cap's gone! Clean 'em, Looey!" With the words he leaped aside and pulled his pistol, just as another rifle flare stabbed out from the other hut and a bullet whisked through the space where he had stood. An instant later he was pouring a stream of lead at the spot whence the burning powder had leaped. Knives flashing, teeth gleaming, the other paddlers charged across the ten-foot space between the huts. José, his left arm helpless, but his deadly right hand still gripping his knife, hurled himself on Julio, who had seized a machete from somewhere. Knowlton slammed a bullet between the eyes of the foremost _boga_, who pitched headlong. He swung the muzzle to the other man's chest--yanked at the trigger--got no response. The gun was jammed. With a triumphant snarl the blood-crazed Peruvian closed in, slashing for the throat. Knowlton slipped aside, evaded the thrust, swung the pistol down hard on his assailant's head. The man reeled, thrust again blindly, missed. Knowlton crashed his dumb gun down again. It struck fair on the temple. The man collapsed. Tim was charging across the open at the crew house. José and Julio were locked in a death grapple. No other living man, except Knowlton, still stood upright. Stooping, he peered into the red-dyed face of McKay. Then he laid a hand on the captain's chest. Faint but regular, he felt the heart beating.