“Gone, Corporal. He’s gone.”
So the trio of boats continued on. Nate caught Professor Kouwe’s gaze across the waters from the other boat. Kouwe shook his head sadly. In the jungle, no amount of military training or arsenal could completely protect you. If the jungle wanted you, it was going to take you. It was called the Amazon Factor. All who traveled the mighty green bower were at the jungle’s mercy and whim.
Nate felt a touch on his knee. He turned and saw Kelly seated beside him. She sighed, staring forward, then spoke. “That was a stupid thing to do. It really was, but”—she glanced at him—“I’m glad you tried.”
After the sudden tragedy, Nate didn’t have the strength to muster more than a simple nod, but her words helped warm the cold hollowness inside him. She took her hand from his knee.
The rest of the day’s journey was made in silence. There was no more whistling by Corporal Okamoto as he manned the craft’s outboard motor. They traveled until the sun was near the horizon, as if trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the death of Rodney Graves.
As the camp was prepared, the news was passed back to the base at Wauwai. The somber mood stretched through a dinner of fish, rice, and a platter of jungle yams Professor Kouwe had found near the campsite.
The only topic of discussion was the sugary yams. Nathan had asked from where such an abundance had come. “It’s unusual to find so many plants.” The professor had returned with an efficiently constructed backpack of palm leaves filled to the brim with wild yams.
Kouwe nodded toward the deeper forest. “I suspect the site where I found these was an old Indian garden. I saw a few avocado trees and stumpy pineapple plants in the same area.”
Kelly straightened with a fork half-raised. “An Indian garden?”
For the past four days, they had not encountered a single soul. If Gerald Clark had obtained his canoe from a Yanomamo village, they had no clue where he got it.
“It was long abandoned,” Kouwe said, dashing the hope that had briefly shone in Kelly’s eyes. “Such sites dot the riverways throughout the Amazon. Tribes, especially the Yanomamo, are nomadic. They plant gardens, stay a year or two, then move on. I’m afraid a garden’s presence here does not mean anything significant.”
“Still, it’s at least something,” Kelly said, refusing to dismiss this bit of hopeful news. “Some sign that others are out there.”
“And besides, these yams are damn good,” Frank added, munching a mouthful. “I was already getting sick of the rice.”
Manny grinned, running his fingers through his jaguar’s ruff. Tor-tor had feasted on a large catfish and lay stretched by the fire.
The Rangers had set up a second campfire a short distance away. At sunset, they held a short service for their fallen comrade. Now they were sullen. Only a few muttered words were shared among them. It was unlike the previous nights when the soldiers were full of ribald jokes and loud guffaws before settling to their own hammocks and posts. Not this night.
“We should all get to sleep,” Kelly finally said, pushing to her feet. “We have another long day tomorrow.”
With murmured assents and a few groans, the party dispersed to their separate hammocks. When returning from the latrine, Nate found Professor Kouwe smoking near his hammock.
“Professor,” Nate said, sensing Kouwe wanted to speak to him in private.
“Walk with me a moment. Before the Rangers activate the motion sensors.” The shaman led the way a short distance into the forest.
Nate followed. “What is it?”
Kouwe simply continued until they were deep within the jungle’s gloom. The camp’s two fires were only greenish glows through the bushes. He finally stopped, puffing deeply on his pipe.
“Why did you bring me out here?”
Kouwe flicked on a small flashlight.
Nate stared around. The jungle ahead was clear of all but a few trees: short breadfruit palms, oranges, figs. Bushes and low plants covered the forest floor, unnaturally dense. Nate realized what he was seeing. It was the abandoned Indian garden. He even spotted a pair of bamboo poles, staked among the plantings and burned at the top. Normally these torches were filled with tok-tok powder and lit during harvest times as a smoky repellent against hungry insects. Without a doubt, Indians had once labored here.
Nate had seen other such cultivations during his journeys in the Amazon, but now, here at night, with the patch overgrown and gone wild, it had a haunted feeling to it. He could almost sense the eyes of the Indian dead watching him.
“We’re being tracked,” Kouwe said.
The words startled Nate. “What are you talking about?”
Kouwe led Nate into the garden. He pointed his flashlight toward a passion fruit tree and pulled down one of the lower branches. “It’s been picked bare.” Kouwe turned to him. “I’d say about the same time as when we were hauling and securing the boats. Several of the plucked stems were still moist with sap.”
“And you noticed this?”
“I was watching for it,” Kouwe said. “The past two mornings, when I’ve gone off to gather fruit for the day’s journey, I noticed some places that I’d walked the night before had been disturbed. Broken branches, a hogplum tree half empty of its fruit.”
“It could be jungle animals, foraging during the night.”
Kouwe nodded. “I thought so at first, too. So I kept silent. I could find no footprints or definite proof. But now the regularity of these occurrences has convinced me otherwise. Someone is tracking us.”
“Who?”
“Most likely Indians. These are their forests. They would know how to follow without being seen.”
“The Yanomamo.”
“Most likely,” Kouwe said.
Nate heard the doubt in the professor’s voice. “Who else could it be?”
Kouwe’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. But it strikes me as odd that they would not be more careful. A true tracker would not let his presence be known. It’s almost too sloppy for an Indian.”
“But you’re an Indian. No white man would’ve noticed these clues, not even the Army Rangers.”
“Maybe.” Kouwe sounded unconvinced.
“We should alert Captain Waxman.”
“That’s why I pulled you aside first. Should we?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they are Indians, I don’t think we should force the issue by having an Army Ranger team beating the bushes in search of them. The Indians, or whoever is out there, would simply vanish. If we wish to contact them, maybe we should let them come to us. Let them grow accustomed to our strangeness. Let them make the first move rather than the other way around.”