“But you don’t know her name?”
“I do not ask as many questions as the American Scouts,” the boatman retorted with an unpleasant smile. “You will pardon me now? I have an errand.”
He passed them and went on up the path to the thatched roof plantation house.
“That was telling us, I guess,” Jack laughed shortly. “We were being rather inquisitive.”
“It’s unfriendly not to give one’s name. Anyway, you can bet little Haredia knows who she is, but he’s keeping it dark.”
“Why would he do that, Ken?”
“I dunno, Jack. Maybe she’s the wife of a big shot.”
“Even so, would that be any reason for keeping her name a secret? She knows Haredia well. What’s more, she supported him when he deliberately chose the wrong route.”
“That may have been a natural mistake. He’s supposed to know his business, while we’re unfamiliar with the waterways.”
“Sure,” Jack acknowledged, “but I didn’t like the way they kept looking at each other, as if they were pulling some trick. Haredia can’t be trusted.”
“If he ever gets us to the Magdalena, we’ll be free of him.”
“I hope so.” Jack frowned thoughtfully. “For the life of me, I can’t see why he’d try to delay us. But that’s what he seems to have done.”
“We may have misjudged him.”
“Don’t forget Ken, Ferd Baronni made the arrangements for our trip.”
“You’re saying Baronni may have messed up our journey on purpose?”
“It hits me that way, Ken. I’ll admit though, I can’t figure out any logical reason he’d have for not wanting us to go on to find Appleby Corning.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Livingston. He reported that repairs on the sled boat should be completed in another hour or two. The delay, however, would put them a day behind in their schedule.
The Scout leader was inclined to brush aside Jack’s theory that Haredia and Ferd Baronni might have conspired together.
“I doubt it,” he replied. “Haredia is an irresponsible fellow with an ugly disposition. He took a dislike to our party and is being most uncooperative. I question though, that he and the company agent have any close connection.”
“Haredia tried to delay us by choosing the wrong passageway,” Jack pointed out.
“His attitude, I think, resulted from inefficiency. He was unwilling to admit a mistake.”
No more was said, for just then the boatman sauntered back from the plantation house. Mr. Livingston joined him and they returned together to the wharf.
Jack and Ken watched the repair work for awhile, but there was nothing they could do to help. The intense heat presently drove them to shade.
As they flicked mosquitoes, Mr. Ferendez, the genial plantation owner, came up with Warwick and Willie. The three struck up a friendly conversation.
“Mr. Ferendez has been telling us about Santa Marta,” Willie asserted, munching a banana. “He says it’s situated on a good harbor, and has weekly steamers to New York and New Orleans.”
“It’s a big banana center, isn’t it?” Ken remarked to make conversation.
“Exports have increased enormously,” Mr. Ferendez told him. “You should have an interesting visit there.”
“Oh, we’re not on a pleasure trip,” War disclosed. “The fact is, we’re on our way to the Last Chance mine, and are going by way of Santa Marta.”
“The Last Chance mine! You’re heading into the mountains?”
Jack and Ken were flashing War warning signals, considering it unwise to reveal their plans, even to a friendly stranger. The younger Scout, however, failed to take the hint.
“To Emerald Valley,” he went on. “Appleby Corning, the engineer at the mine, sent for us. He was supposed to meet us at Cartagena, but didn’t. So we’re going on to the mine.”
“But why go by way of Santa Marta?” the plantation owner asked with a puzzled frown. “Bogota is considered the gateway.”
“We thought we might run into Mr. Corning at Santa Marta. He’s supposed to have friends there.”
The plantation owner made no comment. His very silence, however, troubled the Scouts.
“Do you know Mr. Corning?” Jack finally inquired.
“I’ve heard of him, but he seldom travels this way. I understand he’s been kept very busy at the mine.”
“Trouble there?” questioned Willie.
The planter smiled. “So long as I can remember, there’s been trouble at the Last Chance. Wherever you find emeralds, you’ll find intrigue and grief. If you’re going there, I advise you to be careful.”
“Careful?” echoed Jack.
“The mule trail to the mine is dangerous. That section of country, you know, is overrun with bandits. Carlos in particular, has a reputation for holding up mule trains.”
“We’re hoping Mr. Corning will meet us at Santa Marta,” War said. “Or at least send word.”
“By the way, what became of the former engineer at the Last Chance?” Ken inquired thoughtfully. “Did he return to the States?”
The planter revealed his astonishment. “The engineer’s wife could answer that question better than I,” he replied.
“His wife?” Ken repeated. “Where would we meet her?”
“You already have,” the planter answered in amusement.
“You don’t mean that woman passenger on the sea sled!” Jack exclaimed incredulously. “The one who didn’t tell us her name!”
“She is Mrs. McClellan Rhodes, wife of the engineer. Her first name is Rosie.”
“Ye fishes!” Willie yipped in sudden apprehension. “You don’t suppose she’s going to the mine too!”
“I wouldn’t know,” replied the planter. “Rosie didn’t say. But if she is heading for Emerald Valley and the mountains, her husband must now be at the mine. And in that event, your friend, Mr. Corning, had better be alert!”
Disturbed by the planter’s remarks, Jack and his friends tried to learn more. Mr. Ferendez could tell them very little.
He related that he had met McClellan Rhodes and his wife only once before, at Bogota. At that time they were mingling in society, living high.
“Rhodes didn’t attend to his duties at the mine, I was told,” Mr. Ferendez reported. “According to rumor, he was replaced because of inefficiency. Under Appleby Corning, the mine has improved. But apparently, there’s dissatisfaction among the emerald miners.”
“You think Rhodes may have something to do with it?” inquired Willie.
“Oh, he’d like to get his old job back,” the planter returned. “No question about that. He and his wife made a good thing of it.”
“Where is Rhodes now?” asked Ken.
“You’ll have to ask his wife,” the planter responded, inclining his head toward the path. “She’s coming now.”
The Scouts had no intention of questioning Mrs. Rhodes. It annoyed them though, that they had not learned her identity earlier.
“What stupes we’ve been,” Willie remarked after the woman had passed them on her way to the wharf. “We talked about the mine and our plans in front of her! She just kept her lips buttoned and listened!”
“She didn’t learn much from us,” Jack replied.
“She knows who we are, and where we’re going.”
“There’s no mystery about that, Willie. Now that we’ve learned she’s Mrs. Rhodes, we can be careful.”
Just then, Mr. Livingston called the Scouts, beckoning them to the water’s edge.
“We’re ready to shove off,” he announced. “With luck, we may reach Calamar tonight.”
Once more the Scouts took their places in the boat. The halt seemingly had improved Haredia’s disposition for he appeared almost cheerful as the craft again sped through the waterway.
Mrs. Rhodes paid no attention to the Scouts. Even when War, in an attempt to be friendly, pointed out an unusual bird, she merely nodded.
Night came on. Banana groves and mango trees lost detail, merging into an indistinct shoreline. No longer could the Explorers see the thatched-roof huts as their craft raced along.
Everyone was relieved when at last the boat reached the wide Magdalena river, and ultimately Calamar.
“We’ll stay here tonight,” Mr. Livingston announced. “Tomorrow we’ll proceed by boat.”
As their craft made dock, the Scouts stiffly arose and gathered their luggage. Willie tried to help Mrs. Rhodes, but she ignored his hand as she stepped ashore.
“Goodbye ma’am,” he mumbled politely.
“Goodbye?” she repeated, with the faintest trace of a smile. “Oh, I rather think we shall meet again.”
“At Santa Marta?”
“There or elsewhere.” With a hard, mirthless laugh, Mrs. Rhodes turned and walked away.
For the next few days, the Scouts saw no more of Mrs. Rhodes. Upon their arrival at the banana port of Santa Marta, they were disturbed to learn that Mr. Corning had failed to send any message for them.
“There’s been a mix-up somehow,” Mr. Livingston said, deeply worried. “Appleby couldn’t have received word from me, or he’d have met us.”
“What’ll we do now?” Jack asked. “Go on to the mine?”
“If we don’t hear from Appleby within a day or two, it’s all we can do, Jack. Our money won’t stretch too far.”
That night the Scouts ran into Mrs. Rhodes in the hotel dining room. They saw her again the next day at breakfast, and later at a large banana plantation which they visited.
“Say, is she trailing us, do you think?” Jack speculated, noting the woman’s presence among a throng of tourists at one of the banana sheds.
“What gave you that idea?” Ken scoffed.
“Well, she showed up at our hotel, didn’t she? And she’s more or less been around ever since.”
“Santa Marta’s small, Jack.”
“Sure, I know. I wouldn’t think anything of it if I didn’t know she’s the wife of that deposed engineer. But War told me she was quizzing him this morning after breakfast.”
“What sort of questions did she ask, Jack?”
“Well, it seems she was trying to find out if we were dead set on going on to the mine.”
“What’s so suspicious about that?” Ken asked, turning his head away as the woman under discussion glanced in his direction. “It might be natural curiosity.”
“Maybe,” Jack conceded, “only Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t hit me as the curious type. When she asks a question, she’s after information.”
“What did War tell her?”
“Nothing. He figured she was pumping him, so he gave her double talk.”
The two Explorers forgot Mrs. Rhodes as a guide appeared to conduct them through the banana groves. Somewhat to their relief, the woman did not join the sightseeing party.
Grassy lanes intersected the plantations, stretching as far as the Scouts could see. The giant plants were spaced fifteen feet apart, and rose to a height of nearly forty. Except for the droning, monotonous voice of the guide, a great stillness prevailed.
“Gosh, what a forest of ’em!” War murmured in awe. “A fellow could get lost here!”
“Don’t go wandering around,” Jack warned him. “Stick close to the guide.”
The Scouts kept together on the main cart road and in the lanes which seemed to stretch endlessly. With keen interest, they watched the cutting of green bananas.
Workers went in twos, a cutter and a backer, equipped with a long pointed stick and a sharp machete.
The cutter would stick the banana plant below the bunch, so that it toppled slowly down within reach of the backer, who promptly shouldered it.
With swift strokes of the sharp machete, the cutter then severed the bunch from the plant. Off trotted the backer with his heavy burden, to deposit it along the card road. Bunches were protected from the sun with green banana leaves.
Wearying of the guide’s lengthy description of how bananas were harvested, Jack and War returned to the cart road to await the sightseeing party there.
Seating themselves on a mat of cut banana leaves, they watched as a worker with a cart gathered the deposited bunches and rattled off out of sight.
War became absorbed in watching tiny lizards which darted everywhere. “Say, isn’t it about time our gang got back here?” he demanded impatiently.
He arose and Jack trailed after him. But when they peered down the long row of banana plants where their party had been, no one was to be seen.
“Where’d everyone go?” Jack asked in alarm.
“They must have gone into another row. A good joke on us! We’d better find ’em.”
Walking quickly along the cart road, the two Scouts looked down one long green lane after another. Their friends were nowhere to be seen.
“How’d they get away so fast?” Jack murmured, annoyed at himself for having missed the group.
“We sat by the roadside a lot longer than we realized, I guess.”
“Well, we’re not really lost,” Jack asserted. “We can follow this cart road back to the shed.”
“Sure,” War agreed, “but we may not hit the right shed without a lot of hunting. Hey, listen! I think I hear someone talking!”
Pausing, the two became attentive to the sounds about them. A humming bird whirred by and there came the throaty croak of a frog from a nearby irrigation ditch.
“I don’t hear anyone—” Jack began, only to check himself. “Yes, I do,” he corrected.
The inaudible words reached his ears only as an indistinct, blurred flow of speech.
“That must be our guide!” he exclaimed. “Catch the direction, War?”
“This way,” his companion directed, starting down one of the grassy lanes.
“Hold on,” Jack called, but War, impulsive as always, paid no heed.
Reluctantly, the older Scout hastened to catch up with his friend.
War, finding he had made a mistake in entering a deserted row, cut through to an adjoining lane.
“Hey, wait!” Jack called, thoroughly annoyed.
Even then, War did not pay attention to the command, if indeed he heard it. Now far ahead of his friend, he kept moving from row to row, trying to follow the elusive murmur of voices.
Finally, perspiring heavily, he halted to catch his breath and listen again. Jack then caught up with him.
“Listen, you!” he exclaimed. “What’s the big idea? Where do you think you’re going?”
“To find our gang. I thought they’d be in this row.”
“You’ve chased through a half dozen of ’em. I can’t even hear voices now.”
War listened a moment. “Neither can I,” he acknowledged uneasily. “I guess we’ve missed our party.”
“We’ll have to get back to the cart road and make for the shed.”
“I guess so,” War agreed, crestfallen.
They started back through the lane, trying to retrace the way they had come. Rows of arching banana plants marched endlessly.
“I’m all mixed,” War presently confessed. “Shouldn’t we be coming to the cart road?”
“It seems to me we’ve walked far enough.”
“Maybe this row we’re following doesn’t intersect the road where we came in,” War said, struck by a sudden, unpleasant recollection. “Before we started out this morning, I was looking at a map that hung in the main shed.”
“Yeah?”
“Some of the rows bisect at right angles. But at one point, the road curves around. The rows at that place, just go straight on.”
“How far, War?”
“Why, it looked as if some of them extended the length of the plantation—miles.”
“Gosh! You think we’ve hit one of those rows, War?”
“I’m afraid of it. We’ve walked a long distance now.”
Jack paused, his eyebrows pulling together in a worried frown.
“Are we lost?” War asked, nervously wiping perspiration from his forehead.
Jack grinned reassuringly. “Not lost,” he corrected. “I don’t like that word.”
“Temporarily off course?”
“That’s better, War. Now let’s sit down a minute and think this thing through. There must be an easy way out of this fruit garden, and we’ll find it.”
Jack and War were more annoyed at themselves than alarmed by their situation.
Common sense told them that although the plantation was an extensive one, they eventually would reach a loading shed where directions could be obtained. The worst they would suffer would be inconvenience and delay.
However, they realized that by this time their friends would have missed them. Their failure to be on hand would prevent the others from returning to the hotel for lunch.
“I’m starving too,” War announced with chagrin. “Let’s get out of this steam bath!”
“Now just sit still and think for a change!” Jack scolded him. “I’m not blaming you, because I was equally at fault. But if we’d used our heads, instead of chasing off in pursuit of a voice, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“What’ll we do? Sit and wait for someone to find us?”
“We could, but it would waste a lot of time. The bananas in this particular row are only half developed. So I imagine a cutter won’t be coming this way for days or weeks.”
“Meanwhile, we survive on raw lizards and green bananas—”
“Try to be serious, War. We’re bound to cause Hap and the gang a lot of trouble if we don’t find the group fast.”
“What can we do except start walking?”
“The point is, we’ve got to figure out a sensible route—just moving from row to row at random won’t get us to the cart road unless we’re lucky.”
“Can’t we retrace our way? We can follow our own prints, I reckon. But it will take an age.”
“In the end it probably will save time,” Jack declared, getting up from the mat of banana leaves. “If we miss our own trail, we still have the sun to guide us. It was at our back when we started this way.”
Determinedly, the Scouts returned the route they had come. Memory of small, almost unnoticed things, now aided them. Jack recalled a pile of dried banana plant leaves they had passed just after changing rows. War remembered seeing the rusty, broken blade of a discarded machete.
Nevertheless, a full half hour elapsed before the two Explorers finally emerged at the narrow cart road. No one was in sight.
“We’re still lost—off course, I mean,” War said in discouragement. “What do we do now that we’re back where we started?”
“Try to find a loading shed,” Jack decided. “No use chasing through the banana rows searching for our party. By this time, Hap and the fellows probably have gone back to the entrance gate.”
Uncertain which direction to go, the Scouts stood a moment in the blazing sun. Just then an empty oxen cart rattled down the road.
“Here comes our private limousine!” War chuckled. “Let’s hitch a ride.”
As the cart jogged by, the Scouts hailed the driver. He understood no English, but Jack in halting Spanish succeeded in conveying the idea that they wanted to ride to the loading shed. The workman motioned for them to climb in.
The floor of the cart was padded with the thick fiber of old banana stalks. Jack and War sat in the back, swinging their legs over the edge. The vehicle bounced along, stopping at intervals to pick up bananas.
“You reckon he understood your Spanish, Jack?” War asked as the trip dragged on. “Maybe we’ll spend the afternoon bouncing along over this road.”
“Maybe,” the other agreed philosophically. “Isn’t it better than walking?”
“Sure. Only I’d like to get out of here fast.”
“Take it easy, War,” Jack grinned. “We’ll roll in after our driver picks up a few more bananas. Patience, my lad!”
As they jounced along, the Scouts kept an alert watch for their missing friends. But in the long plant rows, they saw only occasional workmen.
Presently, the little cart, now two-quarters filled with banana bunches, bounced over a log bridge which spanned a ditch. Seeing the big loading shed and a railroad siding beyond, the Scouts leaped off their perch.
“Thanks for the ride,” Jack called to the cart driver. “Gracias, Senor.”
The workman responded with a friendly wave of his hand.
Wilted by the noonday heat, Jack and War walked toward the shed adjoining the railroad tracks. Through the open door they could see rows of green banana bunches stacked ready for shipment to the boat dock.
“I’m thirsty,” War announced, wetting his lips. “Let’s see if we can find some drinking water. I could go for a nice iced cocoanut!”
“You won’t find it here,” Jack rejoined. “Or an ice cream soda either.”
At the doorway of the banana shed, he abruptly halted, his attention fixing upon two persons who were inside.
“See who’s here!” he whispered to War.
Mrs. McClellan Rhodes stood inside, her back to the door. She was talking earnestly to a man whom the Scouts instantly recognized as Ferd Baronni.
“How did he get here?” War muttered.
Jack shook his head, as he tried to catch a few words of the conversation. Baronni was speaking hurriedly and with emphasis.
“After you left, I got nervous,” he told the woman. “This man Livingston and his boys may make trouble if they go on to the mine. It was a mistake to let them come this far.”
“I’m beginning to think so myself,” Mrs. Rhodes replied. “No good can result from their going on. They must be discouraged.”
“I’ll leave it to you,” the mining company agent went on. “I’m pulling out—going back to Cartagena within the hour. Good luck.”
“I’ll handle everything,” Mrs. Rhodes promised. “Leave it to me.”
They shook hands and Baronni started toward the door. Jack and War barely had time to duck back behind the building before he emerged and walked rapidly away.
Making no comment upon the alarming conversation they had overheard, the Scouts waited five minutes. Then, casually they sauntered into the banana shed.
Seeing them, Mrs. Rhodes looked startled. “Have you been here long?” she inquired with a show of friendliness.
“Not long,” Jack answered.
“We lost our party and have been wandering around through the rows,” War added. “Have you seen Mr. Livingston?”
“No, I haven’t. Not since early this morning.”
“Didn’t we see someone leave the shed a few minutes ago?” Jack inquired.
Mrs. Rhodes shot a quick look at him as if to read any hidden meaning behind his words. The Scout’s expression of innocence reassured her.
“Only one of the workmen,” she replied indifferently. “I’m waiting for the banana train.”
The woman’s deliberate lie made Jack and War more than ever suspicious. Wisely, however, they did not show their true feelings.
War picked up a discarded banana and began to strip the peelings.
“Have one?” he invited, offering another to Mrs. Rhodes.
She drew back with a gesture of distaste. “I can’t bear bananas!”
“I suppose one would get tired of them,” commented Jack politely. “Still you find this plantation interesting enough to visit?”
The woman shrugged. “Why not?” she returned. “A friend of my husband’s is a foreman here.”
Jack was quite certain that Mrs. Rhodes again was lying. He believed that she had come to the plantation either to keep the Scout party under surveillance or to meet Ferd Baronni.
It seemed reasonable to believe, however, that the latter had journeyed to Santa Marta on sudden impulse, and had sought the woman after learning that she was absent from her hotel. Their close association deeply worried him. Why were the pair so determined to prevent the Scout party from reaching the Last Chance mine?
As if reading his thoughts, Mrs. Rhodes questioned abruptly: “You’re still planning on your trip to the emerald mine?”
“That’s our intention, unless we hear from Appleby Corning.”
“You’ll find the trip most uncomfortable,” Mrs. Rhodes said, fanning herself with a green banana leaf. “There is no road. Only a trail. The temperature extremes—intense heat in the valleys, and freezing cold in the mountains, is most trying.”
“We don’t mind hardships,” Jack replied, amused by the woman’s attempt to discourage them. “We’re used to them.”
“I’m sure you are,” the woman returned. “Well, if I can’t persuade you to give up the trip, let me advise you to leave your valuables behind.”
“Bandits?” Jack asked.
“One in particular. Carlos has been terrorizing the mountainside, robbing the pack trains and making travel most precarious.”
“You are not afraid to make the journey, Ma’am?”
Mrs. Rhodes returned Jack’s steady gaze. “No, I have no fear,” she responded briefly. “I have lived many years in Colombia.”
“What takes you to the mine?” War asked rather abruptly. “Your husband isn’t there any more, is he?”
The question plainly annoyed Mrs. Rhodes. She dropped the banana leaf and moved quickly to the shed door.
“The train is coming now,” she announced. “After the bananas are loaded, we can ride to the main gate. I should imagine that you will find the rest of your party waiting there.”
Jack and War made no further attempt to question the woman. During the loading of the car, she moved some distance away, coldly ignoring them.
“I thought she’d make more effort to try to convince us we shouldn’t go on to the mine,” War remarked as they watched the last of the loading. “I guess she realizes it’s useless.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Jack said grimly. “Mrs. Rhodes is a clever woman. She’ll try again.”
“Why do you figure she and that company agent are so bent on keeping us away from the mine?”
“I wish I knew,” Jack returned thoughtfully. “Something is stirring there, that’s certain. Appleby Corning said he was in trouble when he wrote Mr. Livingston. It may be he’s mixed up in some mess the Rhodes’ have been cooking. I’ll be relieved when we manage to get in touch with him.”
A toot of the engine informed the Scouts that the banana car was about to move out. They swung aboard and rode to the main gate. There, as Mrs. Rhodes had predicted, Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts anxiously awaited them.
Enroute back to the hotel, Jack and War related the conversation they had overheard in the banana shed. Mr. Livingston was gravely concerned, and unable to understand why Ferd Baronni had trailed the party to Santa Marta.
“I distrusted that company agent at the start,” he admitted. “Now I’m more than ever convinced that he’s no friend of Appleby’s. If only Mr. Corning would get in touch with us, some of this fog might clear.”
The Scouts reached the hotel and headed for the dining room for a late lunch. As they crossed the lobby, the clerk signalled Mr. Livingston.
“A wire for you,” he said, thrusting an envelope into the Scout leader’s hand.
Quickly, Mr. Livingston read the enclosed message. His face became a puzzle.
“Anything wrong?” Ken inquired anxiously.
“Plenty,” Mr. Livingston replied, offering the message for the others to read. “This is from Appleby. He says an unusual situation has developed at the mine. We’re instructed to return to Cartagena.”
“Return to Cartagena!” Ken exclaimed after he had reread the message delivered to Mr. Livingston. “Of all the miserable luck, this is the worst!”
“I thought we were headed for the emerald mine,” Willie added, sunk in gloom. “Why did Corning send for us anyway, if he doesn’t want us here?”
Mr. Livingston was unable to explain the strange communication. The failure of the mining engineer to meet his party had worried him more than he had confessed to the Scouts.
“Hey, before we start packing, let me put in my two cents worth,” spoke up Jack. “How did Corning know we were at this hotel?”
“That’s right!” Ken exclaimed, startled by the implication of the other’s question. “Maybe the message is phony!”
“Sent by Mrs. Rhodes or Ferd Baronni,” suggested Warwick. “Jack and I know they’re up to something! They don’t want us to go on to the mine.”
“What’s more, Mrs. Rhodes promised the company agent she’d take care of the matter,” Jack went on. “Before we act hastily, shouldn’t we try to check on this message?”
“I’ll do it myself,” Mr. Livingston offered. “Wait here for me.”
For nearly two hours the Scout leader was absent from the hotel. When finally he rejoined the Explorers, his face was grave.
“Learn anything?” War eagerly greeted him as he entered the bedroom where the Scouts awaited him.
“I did. The message, supposedly from Appleby, was delivered to the hotel by a boy, but it never came from the telegraph communications office.”
“Then Mr. Corning couldn’t have sent it?” questioned Ken.
“I’m fairly certain he didn’t. The message must be a fake.”
“Any idea who sent it?” asked Jack.
“An idea, yes. But no proof. We couldn’t trace the message.”
“I take it, we’ll not obey the instructions,” Jack remarked, well pleased by the investigation.
“No, I’m more than ever in favor of pushing on to the mine above Emerald Valley. We can’t get there soon enough to please me. I have a feeling Appleby didn’t meet us because he’s in bad trouble.”
“How soon can we get out of here?” asked Ken quietly.
“We can catch a plane to Bogota in an hour. I’ve already booked reservations.”
“Any chance Mr. Corning may show up here after we leave?” speculated Willie, quickly starting to gather his scattered belongings.
Mr. Livingston replied that the possibility seemed a remote one. “Except for the enjoyment we’ve had in seeing the banana plantations, I think it was a mistake to come here,” he admitted.
“You believe Ferd Baronni deliberately threw us off the track?”
“I’m afraid so, Willie. For some reason, he doesn’t want us to go on to the mine—possibly for fear of what we may learn. This trip to Santa Marta, I suspect, was only to keep us occupied.”
“Then if we waited a month, you don’t think Mr. Corning ever would show up here?”
“That’s my slant. I’ve been unable to locate any of those close friends Appleby was supposed to have here. To be on the safe side, I’ll leave a letter for him here at the hotel. Now pack your duds, fellows. We haven’t much time.”
The plane flight to Bogota proved an uneventful but thrilling experience for the Scouts. Accustomed as they were to air travel, they were awed nevertheless, by breath-taking views of the vast Magdalena valley, forests of deep green, and the great ranges of the Andes which divided the land into isolated plateaus and valleys.
At the capital city, the party lingered half a day before taking a bus to a little Colombian village high in the cool hills. During their brief stay in Bogota, Jack and Mr. Livingston twice visited the mining company office. The official in charge, they learned, had absented himself on a week’s holiday.
“We can’t wait for him,” Mr. Livingston decided. “We’re going on to the mine.”
Late the next morning, the bus deposited them in the chilly little village which served as a take-off point for the mine. The trail which the Scouts were to follow wound sharply upward toward a line of rugged mountain peaks and a narrow pass. Somewhere beyond, lay the Last Chance mine.
Their lagging spirits revived by rolls and hot spiced chocolate, the Scouts set about making arrangements for mules to take them up the zigzag trail to their destination.
From their Indian guide, Jose, Mr. Livingston learned that Appleby Corning had not been seen in the village for many weeks. His absence had occasioned no alarm, for the engineer usually remained secluded at the mine for months at a time.
“Senora come here today,” the guide reported.
“Senora?” Mr. Livingston repeated in surprise. “What Senora, Jose?”
“The Senora that go on to mine. Wife of engineer there.”
“Corning has no wife to my knowledge,” Mr. Livingston replied. “You don’t mean the wife of McClellan Rhodes?”
“Si, Senor.” The little guide pulled hisruanamore tightly about his shoulders as protection from the chill wind. “She leave on trail at dawn. Join husband there.”
The information that Mrs. Rhodes had gone ahead of them was most disconcerting to the Scouts. Mr. Livingston was especially troubled to learn that the deposed engineer might be at the mine.
“This may explain though, why Appleby didn’t meet us,” he told the Explorers. “With McClellan Rhodes on the scene, he might hesitate to leave, even for a few days.”
“Mrs. Rhodes sure must have traveled like a house afire to get here ahead of us,” Willie remarked thoughtfully. Turning to Jose, he inquired: “So went on to the mine? Not alone?”
“No,Senor, with a guide. Senora know trail well. Travel light. Shoot straight like a man. Good traveler.”
“I hope you’re mistaken about her going to the mine to join her husband,” Mr. Livingston said, frowning. “Rhodes shouldn’t be there. At least it was my understanding that Corning sent him packing when he took over.”
“Senora go to be with husband,” the guide repeated. “At emerald mine changes come fast. Today one engineer—tomorrow another.”
The Indian’s information increased Mr. Livingston’s eagerness to be away. He urged that the loading of the animals be hastened.
After numerous and vexing delays, the Scout party finally set off single file into the hills. Considerable equipment had to be taken, for the Explorers repeatedly had been warned that they must expect extremes of heat and cold, often within an eight or ten mile stretch of trail.
“Odd that a road never was built to the mine,” Willie remarked as he trudged along.
“Not so odd,” Jack returned. “The government never has been eager to make the mining area accessible. Emeralds are too easily stolen.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Livingston backed him up. “About the only equipment needed for emerald mining is a strong back, a pick axe and a crowbar. Laborers are kept under contract and during the period of their service, not permitted to leave the area. That’s to prevent theft of emeralds.”
“I’d like to find an emerald while we’re at the mine,” War remarked eagerly. “A great big one!”
The others laughed. “Don’t worry,” Jack teased him. “If you do find one, you won’t be allowed to walk off with it.”
“For that matter, the size of an emerald isn’t as important as its shape and color,” Mr. Livingston added.
Before the Scouts had been long on the steep, winding trail, they noted evidence that Mrs. Rhodes, traveling fast, was well ahead of them. At a spring they came upon her heel marks, and Willie picked up a lacy handkerchief with the letter “R” embroidered in one corner.
“It’s Mrs. Rhodes, all right,” he asserted gloomily. “I’d hoped Jose was wrong.”
“She’s making better time than we are,” Jack nodded in chagrin.
Skirting outthrusts of rock, the Scouts continued to follow a fairly well outlined trail. As the sun rose higher, they could see sharp peaks with caps of snow outlined against the blue sky. Climbing above the desolate little farms to a world of chilly isolation, they met no one. Higher and higher they struggled, marveling anew at the remarkable stamina of the woman ahead.
“You got to hand it to her,” Willie admitted grudgingly. “She’s tough.”
“Don’t waste any sympathy or admiration,” Jack advised. “That old gal has a grim purpose that is driving her on.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could toss a stick,” Willie answered quickly. “The mere fact that she’s going to the mine makes me suspicious.”
“If it’s true her husband is at Emerald Valley, that’ll make two of ’em to gang up on us,” interposed War soberly. “I guess Appleby Corning will be glad to see us arrive. He may be in a spot.”