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Around him grew castanha trees with nuts in shells like cannon-balls that hung high over his head; palms with leaves so enormous that one could shelter an entire encampment; and birds of species he had never seen before fluttered among the branches. The air was saturated with the heavy though not unpleasant odor of vanilla beans.
The gun is loaded. His death came from above." The bushman ran his eye up the towering tree, then pointed to a large dark object on the ground near by. "Castanha Brazil-nut tree," he explained. "That heavy nut fell and smashed the Indian's skull like an egg. Indian, yes. His gun, his shelter, and his hair show that. And" stooping and pointing at one of the bones "that bone shows who he was.
His first thought was of fire. Dry wood was not hard to find in the crackling forest and a few deft twirls of the fire-sticks produced the spark needed to set a handful of dry leaves aflame. Food there was none so, with his back to the thick butt of a castanha tree and the blaze in front Oomah silently and gravely awaited the coming of night. Hours passed.
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