The Chief immediately directed certain strategic movements which,
in ingenuity and foresight, would have been worthy of a Napoleon.

We were between two low hills, covered with the usual dense vegetation,
which made it impossible to see an advancing enemy at a distance of
more than five yards. The three blow-gun men were now ordered to ascend
the hills on each side of the valley and conceal themselves about
half-way up the slopes, and towards the enemy. They were to insert the
poisoned arrows in their guns and draw a bead on the Peruvians as they
came on cutting their way through the underbrush. The bow-and-arrow
men posted themselves farther on about five yards behind the blow-gun
men, with big-game arrows fitted to the bowstrings, ready to shoot
when the first volley of the deadly and silent poisoned arrows had
been fired. Farther back were the spear-men with spears unsheathed,
and finally came the three brave and ferocious club-men. Of these last
warriors, a tall athlete was visibly nervous, not from fear but from
anticipation. The veins of his forehead stood out, pulsating with every
throb of his heart. He clutched the heavy club and continually gritted
his white, sharp-filed teeth in concentrated rage. It was wisely
calculated that the Peruvians would unconsciously wedge themselves
into this trap, and by the time they could realise their danger their
return would be cut off by our bow-and-arrow men in their rear.

After a pause that seemed an eternity to most of us no doubt, for the
savage heart beats as the white man's in time of danger and action,
we heard the talking and shouting of the enemy as they advanced,
following the natural and easiest route between the hills and cutting
their way through the brush. I stood near the Chief and the young
club-man Arara, who, on account of his bravery and great ability in
handling his club, had been detailed to remain near us.