with baggage and a six-month’s supply of stores for themselves, for the Bacuri Indians, and for the anticipated first journey in search of the wild Xavantes. In the journey from Cuiaba to Paranatinga there were some thirty rickety bridges over winding rivers and tributaries. Through dusty plains, over dirt roads, and past primitive dwellings they jolted. The final bridge was still some distance from their destination, and all gave a sigh of relief to know that this would be the last. As the first truck and passengers started across the bridge, the beams and boards cracked and groaned in protest. The young mothers held their children tightly. Then something seemed to be cracking beneath them as the vehicle inched its way to the other side, where the passengers signaled to the second truck not to proceed; but the second vehicle was following so closely the signal was in vain. As it inched forward, the underneath scaffolding began to crumble. The hind wheels of the truck just pulled onto the bank when there was the crashing and splintering of wood, and the bridge collapsed into the river. The missionaries stood at the side of the trucks thanking God for His deliverance. The driver of the second truck was ashen from the scare. When he could finally speak, he said, “Senhores, there is only one reason why we were saved. Your God travels along with you.”
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