It had
the same muddy color we had been seeing for weeks past, the
same taste.
I happened to speak of that river to our last guide, a rather
superior fellow with quick, bright eyes.
He told me that there was another river--"over there, short
river, sweet water, red and blue."
I was interested in this and anxious to see if I had understood,
so I showed him a red and blue pencil I carried, and asked again.
Yes, he pointed to the river, and then to the southwestward.
"River--good water--red and blue."
Terry was close by and interested in the fellow's pointing.
"What does he say, Van?"
I told him.
Terry blazed up at once.
"Ask him how far it is."
The man indicated a short journey; I judged about two hours,
maybe three.
"Let's go," urged Terry. "Just us three. Maybe we can really
find something. May be cinnabar in it."
"May be indigo," Jeff suggested, with his lazy smile.
It was early yet; we had just breakfasted; and leaving word
that we'd be back before night, we got away quietly, not wishing
to be thought too gullible if we failed, and secretly hoping to
have some nice little discovery all to ourselves.
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