The Devil’s Gateway
“Paddle hard on the right, boys—with all your might!”
Mr. Brewster shouted the order above the river’s tumult, and all three
bent to the task. They brought their boat broadside to the approaching
brink and drove it toward the left bank of the stream, which here was
scarcely a hundred feet wide.
It was a gruelling race against death. There was no escaping the
powerful current that seemed to draw them with a suction pull. Yet the
jungle bank was coming closer with every stroke.
They were almost there now, but Biff, in the bow, had no chance to catch
the first projecting tree, as the boat was swept past it. He worked
madly with the paddle instead, for here the bank was eaten away by the
current, and there was nothing to grab.
It seemed certain now that the boat would be carried over the falls,
when suddenly it began to swirl about, and another few strokes brought
them into the last big clump of overhanging brush.
Biff and Kamuka managed to grab hold and cling there, while Mr. Brewster
worked the boat into the bank itself. Then new disaster loomed in the
shape of the pack boat which had been following them on its towline. As
the other boat spun past, its line went taut before Mr. Brewster could
cut it.
Biff’s shoulders seemed to wrench half from their sockets, and he felt
the bush pull loose from the soil. Then the tug ended as the other boat
came full about, giving them a soft thump. Churned into this new
position, it bulked in between the bank and their own craft, almost
wedging them loose and out into the stream.
Mr. Brewster made a quick leap across the baggage and up on to the high
bank, carrying the slack line which he hitched over a tree bough. That
secured both boats, while the boys clambered ashore.
In cutting away the bank, the current had created an eddy which
accounted for the final swirl that had carried both boats to safety. Yet
only a dozen feet away, the tangled jungle growth actually quivered on
the fringe of the falls that dropped in one huge deluge into the dizzy
depths below.
It was from there that they first looked for Whitman’s boat, expecting
to see it bobbing somewhere in the rocky gorge a hundred feet below. The
rising mist obscured the bottom of the falls where the terrific torrent
would by now have battered the bodies of Mr. Whitman and Jacome into a
pulp.
Or so they thought, until Mr. Brewster stepped closer to the overhanging
bushes and gained a full view of the crescent-shaped brink. He beckoned
to the boys and exclaimed:
“Look there!”
Caught between two low rocks, Whitman’s boat was jammed on the brink,
its two occupants still alive, temporarily at least. Heavily loaded,
wide of beam and flexible because of its inflated sides, the rubber boat
had snagged where almost any other craft would have cracked up and gone
over the crest.
Other low rocks jutted at close intervals along the foamy brim. Biff
noticed them when he saw Mr. Whitman rise in the boat to point them out
to Jacome.
“Those rocks are like steppingstones, Dad!” exclaimed Biff. “If we throw
a line to them, maybe we can haul them ashore—”
An interruption came as the boat wabbled on its precarious perch, due to
Mr. Whitman’s shift of weight. It settled back again, as Whitman plopped
down into the stem. From the shore, Biff’s father gestured for Whitman
to stay down and received a nod in reply. Turning to Biff, Mr. Brewster
declared:
“Throwing them a line won’t help. If they missed their footing, they
would be swept away in spite of it. We’ll have to carry it across to the
other bank and moor it there.”
From the pack boat, Mr. Brewster produced a coil of thin, strong rope
which he estimated as more than long enough to bridge the stream and
return. He looped the center around a tree trunk and gave the ends to
Kamuka, motioning him into the empty boat. Then, with Biff helping, Mr.
Brewster kept working his way up along the bank, pulling the boat from
the shore, while Kamuka nimbly grabbed at passing branches.
After they were a safe distance upstream, Mr. Brewster brought Biff into
the boat with him and told the boys:
“Paddle hard on the left, this time. Try to swing the boat upstream—and
don’t stop, not for one instant!”
Again, they were in the swirl of the swift-flowing current where Biff,
paddling bow, found it impossible to bring the boat about, even with
Kamuka working valiantly to help him. But Mr. Brewster had allowed for
that. Their efforts, plus his own, brought them to the far bank, still
well above the falls.
There, the boys warped the boat downstream while Biff’s father hauled in
the floating rope. Picking a landing spot, they carried one end of the
rope about a tree, where they drew it taut and tied it to the other end.
The rope now followed the slight curve of the cataract’s brim from the
opposite bank as far as Whitman’s stranded boat.
Mr. Brewster then took a loop of rope around a paddle and began to twist
it, winch fashion. He let the boys take over, one at each end of the
paddle, while he waved to the boat and pointed to the water. Whitman and
Jacome understood the plan at once and caught on to the rope as it
emerged.
Rapidly, the boys turned the paddle, tightening the rope until it looked
like a suspension cable, except for its outward curve. Mr. Whitman and
Jacome, rising gradually from the boat, gripped the center of the double
line.
Jacome took to the steppingstones first, moving in limber, catlike
fashion as he left the boat. Mr. Whitman, who had settled low to offset
the loss in weight, watched every move, still clutching the center of
the rope, which also helped to steady the boat.
Hand over hand, Jacome followed the rope, swinging from one projecting
rock to the next, or actually leaping a space where the water gushed
through. It became easier as Jacome neared the bank where the pack boat
was moored. There, Jacome swung on the shore and waved for Whitman to
follow.
As before, Whitman rose too rapidly. This time, the boat skidded out
from under him; as it did, he hopped to the nearest rock and balanced
there by clinging to the rope. Biff saw the boat slide over the falls,
tumbling from sight with the light luggage it contained.
Breathlessly, Biff watched Hal Whitman swing to the next broad stone,
where he swayed dangerously while Mr. Brewster and Jacome, tightening
their ends of the rope, helped to steady him. What had been child’s play
for Jacome would have meant disaster for Whitman, without that timely
aid.
The last leap, that looked the easiest, was the most dangerous of all.
Where Jacome had swung himself clear up on the bank, Whitman dropped
short, but not into the sweeping current that fringed the shore. Jacome
had wisely edged the pack boat into the gap. Whitman landed on the
luggage, and Jacome pulled him up to the bank above.
During the next few hours, the party worked its way down the steep walls
that flanked the waterfall. This might have been impossible, except for
the holds afforded by the heavy jungle growth. The boats were deflated
and lowered by ropes. Then, when Biff and Kamuka reached the gorge, they
found a shallow stretch where they waded and swam the river, to receive
the luggage from the pack boat that Mr. Whitman and Jacome lowered from
their side.
Farther downstream, the boys found Whitman’s boat, still intact, along
with its baggage, which Jacome had tied inside the rubber craft before
abandoning it. Biff and Kamuka hauled it ashore and spread the contents
of the bags so they could dry.
That night, they camped within sound of the big waterfall, and the
muffled roar seemed almost musical, now that its hazard had been passed.
But Hal Whitman, seated by the campfire, spoke bitterly about his
harrowing experience.
“I blame Joe Nara for all this,” he declared. “I believe he is our real
enemy, not Nicholas Serbot.”
“How do you figure that, Hal?” inquired Mr. Brewster.
“First, Nara must have snooped a lot more than he let on,” argued
Whitman, “in order to learn about that boathouse down in Manaus. Am I
right?”
“You may be right,” conceded Mr. Brewster. “Go on.”
“And by checking on me,” continued Whitman, “he found out about you. He
learned that you were staying at the Hotel Jacares. So he sent one of
his Indians to steal your map—”
“Wait, Hal,” interposed Mr. Brewster with a smile. “How could he have
known that I even had the map?”
“He knew Lew Kirby made a deal with somebody. You were the logical man,
or you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble and expense of sending me
up to Santa Isabel to organize a safari.”
“But if Nara knew I had the map, why would he want to steal it? Lew
Kirby was his partner. Remember?”
“I remember.” Mr. Whitman smiled grimly. “What’s more, so does Joe Nara,
and that’s probably the one thing he’d like most to forget.”
“So he wouldn’t be bound by any deal that Kirby made?”
“Exactly. Without the map, you haven’t any claim. If Kirby signed over
his share of the mine to you, you would need the map to prove it.”
“I still have part of it, Hal.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Whitman, “but I’ll bet that Joe Nara only let you
keep it because he decided it wouldn’t do you any good. Think it over,
and you’ll see I’m right.”
Whether or not Mr. Brewster thought it over during the night, Biff
certainly did. When they were loading the boats at dawn to resume their
trip downriver, Biff asked his father:
“Do you think that Mr. Whitman is right about Joe Nara?”
“There may be something in what he says,” admitted Mr. Brewster. “Nara
may have been keeping something from us.”
During the day, they made speedy progress down the river, hugging the
bank at every bend to avoid new waterfalls. But the trip proved smooth,
which only brought more grumbles from Whitman.
“Nara sent us down this river to get rid of us,” he declared, as they
paddled along. “It wasn’t his fault that the Rio Del Muerte failed to
live up to its name. As for that gateway where we’re supposed to meet
him—El Porto Del Diablo—I don’t think there is such a place.”
One hour later, those doubts were dispelled. As the boats passed a bend,
they came to an opening in the jungle that looked like the dry bed of a
stream that had once joined the Rio Del Muerte. Then, amid the thick
green foliage, loomed the very rock that Nara had mentioned, split like
a huge gateway, a short distance up the ravine.
They pulled the boats up on the low, sandy shore, where Mr. Brewster
decided to leave the packs and other equipment, though not for long.
“Nara said to come through the gateway,” he said, “and meet him
somewhere up the ravine. If we don’t see him soon, we can come back and
bring the luggage in relays.”
The trail narrowed at the end of half a mile and veered sharply beneath
a high, bulging cliff that slanted back like a gigantic brow, cutting
off the sunlight. Mr. Brewster, well in advance, had reached the turn in
the ravine, when Jacome, bringing up the rear of the procession, gave a
loud, warning shout.
The rest looked up in time to see the tiny, squatty figures of six men
drop suddenly behind a row of rocks that resembled the top edge of a
castle tower. But that impression was a brief one. As the group stared
from below, they saw the rocky summit topple forward.
Those watchers on the cliff top had launched a mass of bounding boulders
that encountered bigger chunks of granite and carried them along, with
the earth in which they were imbedded. An avalanche of stone and dirt
was gaining size as it roared down the slope, threatening to block the
narrow ravine and bury every member of the party that had come into its
path!