Those Who Help 189 



years. We were a couple of tired and gaunt-looking shad- 

 ows, but supremely happy. 



Years later I went back to Darien with a party of 

 friends. We chartered a terrible old hooker called the 

 Augusta Victoria. After we appraised the rat bites and 

 insect bites incurred during the voyage, we changed her 

 name to the Ajigustia. Things had changed when we got 

 to Garachine. One of the big oil companies was drilling 

 on a considerable scale and a lot of rather rough diamonds 

 from Texas and Oklahoma dwelt in well-screened houses 

 near where once we had camped. A muddy track ran in- 

 land from the "port," and a Ford truck drove us through 

 the forest to one of the camps for luncheon. 



I was sitting on the back of the truck with Ned Ham- 

 mond and Frank Hunnewell, when whom should I spy 

 but Juicio. I stopped the truck. Juicio stepped forward 

 with that entirely self-possessed manner which is the in- 

 imitable attribute of the American Indian everywhere, 

 came up to me, put his arms around my neck, patted me 

 on the back, and said, '''Que hay, vie jo?'''' (How are you, 

 old man?) Then he went on to tell me how times had 

 changed and how he and his people loathed the Americans 

 who had settled on their lands. 



Some of the drillers, however, had seen the little drama 

 of our meeting and were unbelievably surprised. One of 

 them said, "We can't buy fresh meat for love or money 

 from those Indians." I said, "What do you want?" "Veni- 

 son," he replied. "I will see what I can do." Juicio and a 

 number of his friends had gathered, squatting at the foot 

 of a gigantic quipo tree, and I walked over and joined the 

 group. I asked them if they would sell me some deer meat. 



