Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs.
What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainsford just then.
All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him.
He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.
When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.
"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in so forbidding a place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore.
He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainsford floundered along by the water. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.
Some wounded thing-by the evidence, a large animal-had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson.
A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainsford's eye and he picked it up.
It was an empty cartridge.