The Bridge in the Jungle by B. Traven Page A

to her and faced us. He looked as though he were guilty of the kid's disappearance. Not until he had gone far enough away from her and had mixed with the men in the crowd and lighted a cigarette did he feel well again.
    Not knowing what else I could do, I went to the bridge, where one Indian was still sounding the bottom. Suddenly he turned to me and said in a low voice: 'Senor, I have him. There, touch the stick yourself and you'll feel him all right.'
    'Be calm, Perez,' I said to him; 'if you make any noise now, we'll have the whole crowd around in a second and then we can do nothing. Let's be sure first before we say a word. Keep the stick fixed where it is now.'
    With utmost care I took the pole from his hands. Inch by inch I sounded the bottom, moving the stick lightly. No doubt there was something at the bottom, but it could have been the body of an animal, a pig, or a dog, or a goat. Again I pushed the stick slowly down against whatever it was that was lying on the ground and again I felt that body very distinctly.
    'Well,' Perez asked, 'what do you make of it?'
    'I am not so sure yet. We'd better not stir up the people, not yet. We would make ourselves only ridiculous if we howled and afterwards found it was a heap of mud.'
    I tried to measure the mass, its length and width. So far we had touched only something which might be a chest or a belly. Sounding to one side I found that the body had no length and nothing I felt could be taken for legs or arms. It was a body with the same extension in every direction. So I was convinced that the thing we had found could be nothing but a thick ball of grass or a pack of accumulated twigs, held together by a few big branches or by lianas. Whatever it was, by no means could it be the body of a boy. Perez admitted his mistake. He dropped the stick and let it lie on the bridge. While I was walking off I looked back and it seemed to me that the pole had taken on an expression of accusation. Perhaps I was only tired. It was near midnight.
    I went to the pump-master's, where I was offered hot coffee, black beans, and tortillas. It was now the men's turn to be served.
    The bridge was entirely abandoned. Women and girls were chatting gaily. The coffee, it seemed, had given all the visitors fresh energy. All that had occupied their minds during the last three hours was apparently forgotten or at least cast aside for the time being. It was obvious that the weariness of these people who had been on their feet since sunrise was growing and their emotions were getting dull. Even the Garcia was seen to laugh a few times. As the kid had not been found in the river, she tried to convince herself that he had not tumbled in, but that in fact he had ridden to Tlalcozautitlan as the two boys had said and that he would be found in that small town asleep in some nook.
    Everyone agreed to wait until Garcia returned from Tlalcozautitlan. If he returned alone, with no news as to the kid's whereabouts, they were all going to stay here the whole night and as soon as morning arrived the river would be searched more thoroughly. Their mood was rapidly returning to normal. If there had been music, they would soon have gone on with the dance.
    A few men, tired of standing around and talking about the same thing over and over again, slowly walked back to the bridge, where they picked up the hook and the long stick and started fishing again, after lighting a fresh torch.
    For five minutes the Garcia watched those men on the bridge. Suddenly she yelled and with her lantern swinging in one hand ran to the bridge.
    Holding the lantern over the water, leaning forward on tiptoe, she cried wildly. 'Chico mio! My little one! Carlos, my darling! Mi nene, mi nene! Come back to your mother, who loves you so dearly! Oh, come back to me, Carlosito! Where are you, chiquito mio? Carlosito, my sweet little boy!'
    The pump-master and another man hurried up to her and grasped her by her arms to prevent her from jumping into the