They were underway again when Rodriguez’s voice sounded sharply, “Put down that gun, Ze. Don’t you dare!” Ze had his rifle poised to shoot. Twenty-five beautiful ducks were riding the waves just ahead of them. “One shot from you and everything could start all over again. Hunger or no hunger, you’re not risking our skins that way.” Ze put down the gun. The ducks flapped and cleaned themselves; their utter complacency was aggravating. “When we’re out of danger of the Xavantes, no ducks will appear. Mark my words,” warned Ze. The men, groaning with hunger, paddled on. All along the riverbank were the Xavantes’ canoes made of five or six Buriti palm stalks tied together. Shooting at anything would be like tempting them to another assault. Piranha, the man-eating
fish of the Amazon, were jumping in the water, and they longed to stop to fish. “What’s that rumbling?” “I didn’t hear anything.” “Listen a minute. Sounds
like thunder.”
“Yippee! Wild boars!” The thought of meat brought them to their feet in
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