long, poisoned arrows and fitted it to the bow cord, which he had
laid on the ground. With two toes of each foot he held the cord firmly
on the soil. His right hand lightly grasped the arrow and aimed it up at
the insolent primate. His left drew the bow up, up, into an arc.

_Twang!_ the cord thrummed as his lifted toes released it. The arrow
whirred aloft. Then a snarl of chagrin from the marksman blended with
the grunts of his mates. The arrow had failed to reach the quarry.

It had missed, however, by a mere hand's breadth--missed only because it
struck the limb directly under the monkey, where it hung by the tip from
the bark. Muttering something which may have been a Mayoruna
malediction, the savage moved aside a step or two, drew another arrow,
and set it to the cord with more care than before. But while he did this
the monkey was not idle.

Chattering in rage, the animal leaned down, worked the arrow loose from
the bark, and threw it aside. The deadly shaft turned in air, then
plunged aimlessly earthward. At that instant all below were watching the
guide, who in turn was looking at his toes and placing the new arrow in
position. Unseen, the other missile hurtled down--and ripped across the
back of the marksman's left hand.

For an instant the tall cannibal stood as if petrified, staring at his
cut hand and the shaft now sticking upright in the ground beside him.
Then, in simple symbolism, he reversed the new arrow and stabbed it also
into the dirt. Dropping his bow, he lay down on his back.

"Yuara will draw bow no more. Yuara goes to join the spirits of the
dead," he said, calmly.

Mechanically Lourenco translated the words. McKay sprang forward.

"No!" he disputed. "Not without a try for life, anyhow! Merry, sling a
tourniquet! Quick!"

Knowlton jumped to the side of Yuara, tied a handkerchief above the
elbow, twisted it tight. McKay whipped from a pocket a keen-bladed
knife. In one swift ruthless slash he laid open the arm from elbow to
knuckles.

"Keep that tourniquet tight!" he snapped. "If the blood once gets past
it he's gone. Tim, get out the salt bag! Lourenco, tell this fellow to
breathe deep and keep it up!"

While Tim burrowed into his pack for the salt, Lourenco spoke, as much
for the benefit of the other tribesmen as for that of Yuara; for the
three Mayorunas stood in ominous silence, watching the outrush of blood
caused by the knife of the white man.

"The white man of the black beard