“For our warfare is against spiritual wickedness in high places.” Tom, Harry, and Harold, with young Tommy, tried to guide one of the canoes along the river edge past the bad rapids, while the Brazilian men worked on the other two, all the while keeping rifles and ammunition within reach. The Indians continued to snarl their rude demands for certain objects. Beneath the jet black bangs, their eyes glared. Finally, one by one they began to swim back to the right-hand side of the river. They watched for a moment, then the red bodies disappeared into the forest. For brief minutes the atmosphere was charged with an ominous unseen dark force. It was as though a battle of unseen spiritual forces were in full fray. Suddenly two arrows flashed across the canoes and embedded themselves deeply in the sand. Other lightning arrows in swift succession snapped around the canoes like streaks of lightning. The Brazilian’s taut faces turned ashen white beneath the brown of their sunbaked skin. They seized their guns and blasted their desperate retaliation. The shots went thick and fast, motivated by a fear awful to see. The men’s eyes held terror. Their hands trembled. One man, in an effort to shy away from the arrow, lost his balance and fell into the river. In their bad location, they were a perfect target for the Indians, who far outnumbered them and whose position they could not even ascertain. Night fell, enveloping them in a hiding cloak, yet no blackness
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