For another hour the camp was silent. Each in his covert, finger on trigger, the trio watched with ceaseless vigilance, expecting each instant to detect dusky forms crawling up from tree to tree. Yet nothing of the sort came. Nor did any hostile sound reach them. Somewhere parrots squawked, somewhere else the puppylike yapping of toucans disturbed the solitude; nothing else. The wan light faded. The sun crawled up the trees, leaving all the ground in shadow. Then, not far off, sounded the soft whistle of the mutum. Suspicious, the watchers held their places until, with another whistle, Pedro came into view, followed by Lourenço. McKay arose, met them, and briefly explained the situation. They nodded, but seemed undisturbed. "We can start a fire now, Capitao," Lourenço said. "Night comes and we are hungry. There will be no danger before another dawn." With which he leaned his rifle against a tree and started immediate preparations for a meal. Pedro continued on to the canoes, made sure they were drawn up high enough to remain in place in case of any sudden rain, and returned with Tim. Around them now resounded the swiftly rising roar of the nightly outbreak of animal life. The sun vanished. At once blackness whelmed all except the little fire. "See anything while you were out?" asked McKay. "We found no trace of the Raposa," Lourenço evaded. "What do you plan to do now?" "Eat--smoke--talk--sleep." McKay eyed the bushman keenly, feeling that he was holding something back. But, feeling also that this pair knew what they were about, he bided his time. When all had eaten and tobacco smoke was blending with that of the burning wood, Lourenço drew the arrow from the ground and studied it. Then he passed it to Pedro, who, after a critical examination, held it in the blaze until the deadly head was burned away. "A big-game arrow of the cannibal Mayorunas," said Lourenço. "The point, with its sawtooth barbs, is made from the tail bone of the araya, the flat devilfish of the swamp lakes. That fish, as you perhaps know, has a whiplike tail armed with that bone; and if he strikes the bone into your flesh it breaks off and stays in the wound, and you are likely to die." "But in that case death comes from gangrene," McKay remarked. "This point has been dipped in wurali poison." "You have seen such arrows before, Capitao?" "Seen the poison before, yes. Over in British Guiana. The Macusi Indians make it from the wurali vine, some bitter root or other, a couple of bulbous plants, two kinds of ants--one big and black with a venomous bite, the other small and red--a lot of pepper, and the pounded fangs of labarri and couanacouchi snakes. They boil all this stuff down to a thick syrup, and that's the poison. The man who makes it is sick for days afterward."