"
They looked together up toward the top of the dead cypress, and Higgins
swore. The buzzards were still waiting.
Roger climbed to the branch which offered a perch high up on the tree
trunk and once more searched the landscape for a sign of fresh water or
a solid path through the mud. The scene below him now resembled
nothing so much as a painter's palette streaked and splashed with all
the bright primary colors and all their possible hues, shades and
variations.
The black mud field was livid with a coating of most somber purple shot
with angry streaks of carmine and orange. On the foliage of the tiny
islands which dotted the expanse the sun was rosy. To the westward the
matted mass of the mangrove swamp seemed to be sheathed with a liquid
coat of gold. The mists of morning were rising above the swamp and
upon it the dawn played its full palette of colors with delicate
rainbow effect. Above the mists the sky was flushed and hectic; and in
the east the garishness of the sunburst was like the clang of a brazen
gong.
Payne moved his glasses inch by inch upward, scanning minutely the
treacherous ground over which they were soon to venture. Had there
been running water within sight the searching sun must have revealed
it. He saw none, nor did he catch any signs that indicated a
watercourse.
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