“That, at the moment, is doubtful. But do not be disturbed. We will retire to the library, and presently they will go away.”
“They’re making a worse clatter every minute,” Jack remarked with a shake of his head. “They may try to break down the door.”
Unmindful of the noise from outside, Father Francisco guided his visitors to the library. There, he produced a half dozen sheets of beautifully written manuscript.
“This is the translation I promised to make for you,” he said, placing the script in Jack’s hand. “Some of the passages are missing because my memory grows faulty with advancing years. I must confess too, that all portions of the manuscript are not strictly accurate. You may have this copy, and I sincerely hope it will be of use to you.”
“You never recovered the original parchment?” Jack inquired after he had thanked the missionary for the laborious work.
Father Francisco shook his head. “Lolita may have stolen it,” he remarked. “On a number of occasions I have scolded her for her behavior.”
Jack skimmed through the closely written pages.
“Say, this is rich stuff!” he asserted. “Listen, fellows! ‘Around the camp fire which we lit that night, we held council and decided that next morning all of us would set off cautiously down the trail to the city of the dead....’”
“There is a break at that point,” Father Francisco apologized. “My memory failed me completely.”
Jack read on:
“‘We came into the open from the trail, approached towering walls and passed under a gigantic entrance of three lofty arches. These were built of colossal stones, the center arch dominating the others.’”
“That’s an account of the Portuguese explorers’ first view of the ancient city?” War asked in awe.
The missionary nodded. “The original offers a most graphic description of ‘an ethereal region that served as a throne for the wind and stars.’ My translation is not the best, and my recollection of it, even poorer. It should, nevertheless, serve your purpose.”
“Is the city’s location given?” Ken asked hopefully.
“Yes, but the directions are too general to be of much help. Briefly told, the manuscript relates how the explorers, after many hardships came to the mountains, whose sides seemed aflame. This they took to be an omen of good fortune.
“Finding the mountains almost impossible to scale, the explorers made camp. Next day, in a search for fire wood, an opening was found between the cliffs. Upon investigating the cleft, they discovered they could climb to the summit.
“When finally they emerged, they beheld the hidden city stretched before them. Now, the tale might have been discredited, save for one thing.”
“What was that?” War prompted.
“Bear in mind that the manuscript was written in the sixteenth century. The description given by the explorers of the ancient Inca city might fit any number of ruins which since have been discovered. Yet at the time the manuscript was written, they were utterly unknown. Uneducated adventurers scarcely could have invented such vivid detail as the manuscript contained.”
“So Burton Monahan and other explorers who went before him believe that the city actually existed?” Ken remarked. “That it was never discovered after the Portuguese left it?”
“True. Remember that the way is difficult and that cargo animals cannot be taken far on the trail. The climate ranges from cold to extreme heat, so that a considerable amount of equipment must be carried. Few are willing to undertake such a venture.”
“What happened after the Portuguese reached the hidden city?” inquired War, eager to hear more of the story.
“Here’s a hint,” declared Jack, reading at random from the manuscript.
“‘The grandeur of these mighty remains awed every man’s tongue into silence. We tiptoed in the shadow of the ruins. The stones were black with age. No one spoke above a whisper and orders were given in a low voice. High above the crown of the middle arch, strange and unknown characters were engraved.’”
The reading at this point was interrupted by loud shouting and pounding on the outer mission door.
“They’re going to break in here!” Willie asserted, getting to his feet.
“Do not be disturbed,” said Father Francisco. “There is a secret way out. I will show you.”
He beckoned for the Scouts to follow him. Crossing the library, he pressed a hidden spring. To the amazement of the Scouts, one of the wide bookshelves swung inward.
Behind it was revealed a low, arched-over tunnel.
“This escape was very useful in the early days of the mission,” Father Francisco observed cheerfully. “Today it has little practical value, save on a rare occasion such as this.”
“Where does it lead?” War asked, peering into the tunnel’s dark interior. He could not see its end.
“It twists through the hillside to emerge in a small cave overlooking the sea. Once there, you will be near your hotel. I suggest that you go directly there and remain until your departure from Cuertos.”
“We will,” Ken promised gratefully.
“Wait,” Father Francisco bade the Scouts as they would have started into the tunnel. “You will need a light to guide you. A candle—”
“No need,” Jack said. “I have my pocket flashlight. Thanks for everything.”
Switching on the light, he started ahead of the others into the low, narrow passageway. A half dozen wide, well-worn stone steps led downward to a lower level.
Moving fast, the Scouts followed an uneven dirt floor in a crazy pattern of turns and zigzags. Soon they had lost all sense of direction.
“Shouldn’t this thing be coming to an end?” Willie presently demanded. “We’ve gone a mile.”
“Not even half that far,” Jack corrected, pausing to look back.
“Anyone behind us?” Willie asked.
“Nope. Father Francisco will look after that detail for us. You know, he’s a mighty good egg!”
“He pulled us out of a tight spot,” Ken agreed. “When we find the hidden city, we can send him some Inca gold as a token of our gratitude!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Willie urged impatiently. “This place makes me feel like a trapped rat.”
Jack went on again, closely followed by the other three Scouts. The tunnel widened for a short distance, then became so narrow that they scarcely had space to squeeze through.
“We’re coming to steps,” Jack advised those behind him. “I can see daylight too.”
A few yards farther on, and the beam of his flashlight focused upon large slabs of rock imbedded in the hillside. The Scouts climbed at a sharp angle. Then, just as the missionary had promised, they found themselves in a cave with ceiling so low that they could not stand upright.
The exit to the cave was blocked by stones which at first seemed firmly fixed. But after Willie and Ken had worked a while, they were able to roll them aside and crawl out onto a narrow rock shelf overlooking the sea.
“Come on out!” Willie called jubilantly to the others. “The view’s great!”
“Any sign of the villagers?” Jack asked, switching off his flashlight.
“Nary a sign,” chuckled Willie. “I guess we outwitted ’em.”
Before crawling down from the ledge, the Explorers carefully replaced the pile of stones at the exit to the cave.
The task accomplished, they cautiously descended the steep slope, took their bearings, and returned to the hotel without encountering anyone.
There they learned that Mr. Livingston anxiously had awaited them for nearly an hour.
“I’m glad you came,” he told the four. “How soon can you be ready to leave here?”
“We can’t pull out too fast to suit us,” Jack replied for the group. “Not after what just happened.”
He then related the unfortunate incident of the beach and mission, and their close call with the unruly mob.
“That settles it,” Mr. Livingston said tersely. “Captain Carter is behind this, I’m convinced! Once we shake him, I’ll breathe easier. Pack your duds, fellows, and we’ll be off.”
“You mean we’re leaving right now?” Ken asked.
“Just as soon as we can get off. I’ve already arranged for two cars to take us to Cuya where the road ends. All our equipment, medicines and trading goods have been loaded. So throw your personal stuff together, and we’ll be on our way.”
Thrilled that the long period of inactivity at last was to come to an end, the Scouts soon had their gear ready. Within an hour, the hotel bill had been settled and two wretched-looking touring cars were at the door.
“Not too modern, boys,” Mr. Livingston said with a smile as the Scouts piled in. “But the tires are sound. With luck, we’ll reach Cuya by late tonight.”
Without incident, the two cars chugged through the crooked village streets and out into open country. Mr. Livingston, Willie and War rode in the lead automobile, while Ken and Jack ate dust in the vehicle behind.
Speed was impossible. Sections of the highway had been paved, but the many rough patches made driving hazardous.
After awhile, the pavement, such as it was, gave way to a road of hard surface clay. Vegetation was scanty, scarcely more than a few tufts of grass and an occasional twisted algarroba tree.
The two cars were about an hour out of Cuertos when Jack noticed that a gray car was following some distance behind.
At first, he gave it only casual attention. However, when his own driver slowed to a standstill before attempting to cross a narrow log bridge, he was surprised to see the other automobile pull up some distance back.
“That’s funny,” he remarked aloud.
“What is?” Ken demanded. Half asleep, he pulled himself upright to look back down the road.
“No matter how slow we travel, that car behind never tries to pass us.”
“The road’s narrow.”
“Even so, Ken, not many drivers would eat dust for fifty miles. He’s had several chances to pass.”
Now that his attention had been drawn to the vehicle behind the two Scout cars, Ken kept watch. Not until their own automobile had crossed the log bridge, did the following car start up.
As the road presently widened, Jack directed the driver to slow down and give the car behind every chance to pass. Instead of doing so, it too, slackened speed.
“You were right, Jack!” Ken asserted, completely convinced. “We’re being trailed!”
Dusk came on, and still the mysterious automobile kept behind the two Scout touring cars. At times the vehicle was lost to view, but when the Explorers thought they had seen the last of it, they glimpsed it once more far down the highway.
“Maybe Captain Carter is trailing us,” speculated Jack. “That driver stays just far enough back so we can’t see who is in the car.”
“I can’t figure out why Carter’s so keen on going along on our expedition,” Ken responded, slapping a mosquito which had made a three-point landing on his arm. “Not because of any tender feeling for Burton Monahan!”
“Maybe he’s learned the location of the old Inca city, Ken.”
“I’ve thought that for quite a while. Gold would lure him from his ship, all right. If he tags along, we’re in for real trouble!”
“No use borrowing it ahead of time,” Jack shrugged, peering once more at the darkening road behind them. “I can’t even see the car now. No headlights either.”
Five minutes later, the lead automobile in which Mr. Livingston rode, pulled up to change a tire. Taking advantage of the delay, the Scouts opened up some of their rations and prepared a quick but tasty supper along the highway. Nearly an hour elapsed before the two cars again were ready to proceed.
During this time, no other automobile passed.
“Either we were wrong about that car trailing us, or the driver pulled up somewhere,” Ken declared as he climbed into the back seat beside Jack.
“Quit worrying about it,” the other advised with a laugh. “If Captain Carter is following us, we’ll find out all too soon!”
By nine o’clock the Scout party had reached Cuya, nestled pleasantly in a valley below a range of snow-capped peaks. On Mr. Livingston’s map, the village had been marked as the first stop.
Here the Scouts were to pick up a guide with whom arrangements had been made. The next stage of the journey would be undertaken by burro.
At the Peru Hotel, a dingy structure, the boys were shown to their rooms. While the others rested, Mr. Livingston and Jack went downstairs to talk to the hotel clerk and check on details for the next morning’s departure.
“Where will I find a guide named Miquel?” the Scout leader inquired.
The clerk spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Senor, I deeply regret, you not find him. Miquel leave Cuya three hours ago.”
“He left?” Mr. Livingston repeated in dismay. “But he had orders from Father Francisco to meet us here! He was paid in advance to have everything ready for our departure.”
“Miquel say he go to visit grandmother in another village.”
“When will he return?”
“Two weeks—two months.Quien sabe?”
“The rascal disappeared on purpose with our money!” Mr. Livingston exclaimed. “Are other guides to be had?”
“Si, Senor, for a price. But they do not know the mountain country as does Miquel. He is very good guide, butmuy perezoso—very lazy.”
“There may be more to it than that,” Mr. Livingston replied. “He may be afraid of the trip, or possibly he was bought off.”
The Scout leader obtained the names of other guides and, with Jack, started making the rounds. After hours of dickering, they finally were able to engage a stubby little man named Pedro, who for twice the amount that Miquel had been paid agreed to accompany the party.
“We’ve made a poor start,” Mr. Livingston admitted as he and Jack returned to the hotel after midnight. “I hope we can depend on Pedro, but I have my doubts.”
On one point only, the Scout leader was encouraged. Conversation with the hotel man confirmed that months before, Burton Monahan’s party had passed through Cuya. Natives later had returned with reports of great hardship encountered on the trail. Many had deserted after only a few days travel. Miquel had kept on to the second base camp, there refusing to go further.
Jack and Mr. Livingston were abroad most of the night, checking equipment and arranging for burros.
By dawn however, all was in readiness for the departure into the mountains. Fortified by a hearty breakfast, the Scouts set off single-file on the start of a tortuous trail.
Pedro, his olive skin glistening in the bright sunlight, led the expedition. Behind followed Ken and Mr. Livingston. War, Willie and Jack brought up the rear, the latter astride a sturdy but temperamental burro he had nicknamed “High Hat.”
On the first day, the route took them into a great valley, fed by streams which during the wet season gushed down the ravines with great force. Well-seasoned, the Scouts found the going no test of their endurance.
The trail became increasingly difficult on the second day. Before the Scouts had attained much altitude, Ken, who was leading, let out a yelp: “Rock slide ahead!”
There was no way around the barrier. Rocks had to be laboriously lifted and moved.
“This little jaunt may not be quite the breeze we pictured it,” Willie puffed, looking ruefully at his blistered hands. “It’s worth while though, if we learn what became of Burton Monahan.”
After hours of hard, tedious work, a path was cleared. Once more the expedition started on. Jack, however, could not get High Hat to budge. He coaxed the stubborn animal, prodded him with a stick and finally, in desperation, whacked him hard. The animal still refused to move.
“High Hat have bad habit—very bad,” Pedro informed him cheerfully. “When you make stop on trail, High Hat think time come to make camp.”
“Yeah! So I gathered!” Jack muttered in disgust. “How do I convince him otherwise?”
“Have to unload him,Senor. No other way.”
“For crying out loud!” Jack exploded. “I spent a long while this morning getting everything packed on his stupid back just the way I wanted it!”
“Spend much longer time here, unlessSenorunpack.”
Submitting to the inevitable, Jack removed the duffle bags, one by one. High Hat then permitted himself to be led. Jack laboriously repacked him, and the burro went on again without complaint.
“Keep going, you fellows ahead!” he advised good naturedly. “I don’t want to have another brush-to with High Hat.”
Three times though, when the party was halted by minor rock slides, Jack was compelled to go through the same tedious procedure of unpacking and repacking the burro. His patience sorely tried, he was glad when Mr. Livingston called an early halt for the day.
Camp was made by a stream, a rugged cliff wall serving as windbreak. Nearby, the party saw considerable evidence of earlier Inca life. Mr. Livingston pointed out the ruins of an ancient bath where clear water still flowed. The Scouts themselves came upon niches in the wall where idols once had been placed.
According to pre-arranged plan, Jack and Ken put up the tents, while Mr. Livingston and Willie started a fire and prepared the evening meal. War set off to search for additional firewood.
Twenty minutes later he hastened back, his arms laden. He was breathing hard and laboring under great excitement.
“What’s the matter, War?” Jack teased, driving in the last tent stake. “Did you see an Inca priest lurking behind a rock? Or maybe you’ve already found the secret entrance to the hidden city!”
War dropped his firewood. “You needn’t be funny!” he retorted. “I saw something else that gave me the jim-jams.”
“A llama?” Ken asked with a grin. “Maybe a caravan of ’em?”
“Aw, cut it out, fellows! I’m serious. I was standing at the edge of the cliff, looking down, when I saw a flash of light.”
“The setting sun?” Jack chuckled. “Reflected on a rock?”
“It was a flash of sunlight all right. But I’m sure it was a signal.”
The grins had faded from the faces of the other two Scouts. By this time, Mr. Livingston, and Willie also had joined the group.
“What’s that about a signal, War?” the Scout leader asked soberly.
“I’ve been trying to tell these two know-it-alls! It was as if someone were flashing a mirror. The signals came like dots and dashes. Only I don’t think it was in Morse code.”
“Sure you didn’t imagine it, War? We’ve had a pretty exhausting day—”
“I saw those signals, Mr. Livingston,” War insisted. “They came from the trail below us. Come and I’ll show you.”
He led them along the trail to an open space through which they could obtain a view of the valley and the deep gorges below.
“I was standing right here when a flash of light hit me squarely in the face. It was as if someone had done it deliberately!”
Ken carefully adjusted his powerful field glass to study the terrain below.
“See anything?” Mr. Livingston asked him.
For a moment, Ken did not answer. Then he nodded.
“Someone has made camp down there. I can see two or three men—one of them doesn’t look like a native either. He looks a lot like—”
Breaking off, Ken offered the glass to Jack, who quickly raised it to his eyes.
“You tell me who it is,” he directed.
“It’s Captain Carter!” Jack exclaimed, stunned by his observation. “We all know what that means!”
“That bird must be trailing us deliberately!” burst out War. “He’s put out because we wouldn’t include him in the expedition. Now he’s following us just to be ornery!”
It was bitterly cold when Jack, still drugged by sleep, forced himself to roll out of his eiderdown sleeping bag.
The fire, kept up during the night, had dwindled to glowing embers.
He quickly fed the coals fresh wood, noticing that the pile of fuel was low.
Once the fire was going well, he stretched his stiff legs by taking a brisk hike down trail to where the burros had been left for the night.
Mabel, Jude, Babe and the others were there, looking fresh and willing. But High Hat was nowhere to be seen.
The reason was readily apparent. During the night, the animal had slipped her ropes and wandered off.
A second look convinced Jack that High Hat had not accomplished her escape without help. Someone deliberately had stolen or set the animal free.
“It must have been done for sheer meanness!” he told himself. “Who would pull such a trick?”
His gaze swept the circle of humans near the fire. Pedro was sleeping peaceful as a baby in his blankets and the other bearers were stretched out around him. It was highly improbable that any of them had released the animal, Jack decided.
Below the Scout camp, a thin column of smoke was rising lazily through the early morning mists.
“Captain Carter or one of his men may have been sneaking around here last night,” Jack thought. “I’d like to catch him at it!”
Loss of High Hat would be a serious matter, though not necessarily fatal. But he didn’t look with enthusiasm upon the prospect of toting High Hat’s load over the steep, narrow trails.
Jack estimated the distance to the camp below as not more than three-quarters of a mile. He knew he could make it easily going down, but the climb back would consume time and energy. Still, he might be lucky enough to recover High Hat, and at the same time pick up important information.
War, Willie, Ken and Mr. Livingston were sleeping snugly in their warm bags. No need to awaken them, he decided. They’d need their energy later for the day’s journey. Better to go quickly, and get back before breakfast was ready.
His mind made up, Jack scribbled a note and swung off down the mountainside. A mist hung over the valley, blocking his view of the snow-capped peaks above.
Boulders and stones littered the path, such as it was, delaying him more than he had expected. When finally he approached the camp below, there was no one about. The fire had been put out and the campers had departed.
Disgusted that his trip had been a waste of time, Jack nevertheless looked carefully about. He noted evidence that four or five men had slept there during the night. Footprints clearly showed the direction in which the party had gone.
“This must have been Captain Carter’s camp,” Jack reflected. “Furthermore, he’s taking our same route. Only he probably figures on getting out ahead of us.”
Unable to find any trace of High Hat, the Scout retraced his way. It was hard going, and when he finally reached camp, his heart was pounding from too fast a climb.
The other Scouts had delayed breakfast because of his absence.
“Hey! What was the idea of wandering off?” Willie greeted him. “You gave us a bad scare.”
“Didn’t you get my note?”
“Sure,” Willie answered, pouring hot chocolate. “But you’ve been gone a long while. Look at the sun.”
“Did you find the burro?” Ken questioned.
Jack disgustedly admitted his failure.
“I guess I didn’t use my head,” he confessed ruefully. “I thought I could find High Hat and at the same time learn if Captain Carter has been following us.”
“We’ll have to worry along without the burro,” Mr. Livingston said. “I know you went after the animal with the best of intentions, Jack, but it was a risky thing to do.”
“I realize that now.”
“Henceforth, the rule must be that no one is to leave camp alone or without permission.”
“I’ll remember,” Jack promised. “Since we’re not in hostile Indian country yet, I didn’t think there would be any danger.”
“On these trails anything can happen. You might take a bad fall and have no one to help you. Or you might have run into trouble with those campers below. Also, we can’t tell how the natives will treat us, even in this area.”
“We’ve scarcely seen a native since we left Cuya,” remarked War.
“Nevertheless, we’ll be coming to villages before long. Even though we see no one, take my word that news of our expedition precedes us.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “You may be sure it won’t happen again.”
The Scouts finished breakfast and quickly broke camp. All morning they struggled over the trails, at times looking down into chasms that brought their hearts into their throats.
On either side of sharp, razor-back ridges, the path descended into a deep, terrifying abyss. Occasionally, the Scouts saw the bleaching bones of dead animals, and vultures hovered overhead.
Shortly before dusk they came to a village where they had hoped to recruit extra bearers to replace two who had deserted. None could be hired.
However, they were made welcome at the home of a missionary doctor, who told them that Burton Monahan’s party had passed that way many months before, never to return. It was the doctor’s opinion that the explorer had been killed by hostile Indians.
“Beyond this village you will have rough, unfrequented trail,” he advised the Scout leader. “Your map will be useless to you. Better roll it up and return.”
Mr. Livingston’s smile gave reply.
For two comparatively pleasant days, the Scouts rested and relaxed in the doctor’s home. A blister on War’s foot healed, and good food and plenty of sleep revived the spirits of everyone.
On the trail once more, the Explorers found the doctor’s prediction all too true. Hours were required to travel even a short distance. The path they pursued became no more than a narrow ledge high above a valley floor. A single mis-step would mean certain death.
As for Captain Carter, the Scouts caught no glimpse of him, or of the party of campers which had drawn Jack’s investigation.
One evening as they camped by a fast-flowing stream, Ken fancied he saw a light flashing on a distant cliff. But by the time he had called Mr. Livingston, it had disappeared.
“An Indian torch perhaps,” the Scout leader decided. “We’ve seen no Indians in days, yet I have a feeling they are everywhere around us.”
An uneasiness pervaded the entire camp, which the Scouts tried to dispel by being especially cheerful. But the hardships of the trail had left their toll. Muscles ached, and the food, though plentiful, had become monotonous.
Though Mr. Livingston had not said so, the Scouts sensed that even he had begun to doubt they ever could find the fabled lost Inca city.
“If you ask me, that old Portuguese manuscript was a phony,” asserted War one night as the Scouts lounged around the camp fire. “We’ve followed directions precisely, but what have we found? Nothing!”
“I keep wondering what became of Captain Carter,” Jack said, ignoring the remark. “I have a hunch he knows the location of that hidden city.”
“In that case,” Ken grinned, “it might be smart to trail the captain—save us a lot of trouble.”
“It might at that, if we could catch up with him. Seems as if he or someone else is out ahead of us, and heading for the same general locality. Sooner or later—”
Jack broke off, startled by a sudden commotion. Those gathered at the fire could hear native bearers chattering excitedly.
“Something’s wrong!” Mr. Livingston exclaimed, pulling himself painfully to his feet.
He and the Scouts went quickly to investigate. The bearers had clustered about Pedro, who was examining some object he held in his hand.
“What is it, Pedro?” Mr. Livingston questioned.
“Poison arrow.”
“Where did you get it, Pedro?”
“Found on trail near camp.”
“Apparently shot with anatlatlor throwing stick,” Mr. Livingston said. “The ancient Incas used them.”
Pedro nodded solemnly.
“Very bad omen,” he asserted. “Arrow poisoned.”
“But it wasn’t shot at any member of our party,” Mr. Livingston pointed out. “Tell your boys that finding the arrow means nothing.”
The guide shook his head. “Arrow a warning,” he insisted. “My boys say they go no farther. Party must turn back or harm befall!”
Mr. Livingston carefully inspected the long dart. After showing it to the four Rovers, he broke and threw it aside.
“You no heed the warning,Senor?” Pedro asked.
“No, Pedro. We have come too far to turn back now. I was told in Cuya that the natives in this section of the country are not friendly, but neither are they considered dangerously hostile.”
“Someone maybe stir them up,Senor,” Pedro declared with a troubled shake of his head. “No good come to go on.”
“Captain Carter may have had something to do with this,” Willie suggested. “If he could turn the Indians against us, he would.”
“Senor change his mind? Turn back?”
“No, Pedro,” Mr. Livingston refused again.
Breakfast over, the Scouts broke camp, pushing doggedly on. Their way mounted by steps, each more severe and difficult. At noon, the party lunched by a thundering cataract.
The trail by this time had played out. Mr. Livingston had long abandoned the map as useless and trusted to his compass. He and Pedro hacked a path ahead, finding the going harder by the hour.
That night the Scouts spent bitterly cold hours on the mountainside, unprotected from the icy wind. All about were jagged peaks, hemming them in.
Even the shadows seemed oppressive, and the Explorers shivered despite their warm clothing. There was little conversation as they gathered about the fire to eat the hot food Ken and Willie had prepared.
“The mountains give you a closed in feeling,” Jack presently remarked. “A sort of consciousness that the Gods are watching. Or does it hit anyone else that way?”
“I’ve had the same sensation all day,” Ken returned. “For that matter, I have a hunch we have been watched.”
“By Indians?”
Ken shrugged as be stirred the fire. “Probably.”
“Hap doesn’t seem to think they’ll cause trouble.”
“I’m not so sure he believes that,” Ken answered soberly. “He’s kept his revolver handy all day. But he knows we can’t turn tail without abandoning the mission.”
“You know, I got a feeling we may be close to our goal,” Jack went on after a long moment of silence. “These mountains are a lot like those described in the manuscript.”
“All mountains are quite a bit alike, Jack.”
“Oh, sure, but these peaks are more formidable. Somewhere in this maze we may stumble on a hidden plateau or valley. We may never find the hidden city or Burton Monahan, but I think there’s a good chance we may learn what became of him.”
“Maybe we’ll come across that ancient Inca city too,” Willie contributed. “Captain Carter must think it exists, or he wouldn’t have been so keen on an expedition. Wonder what became of him?”
“We haven’t seen his party in days—or any other white man,” War remarked, nursing a large welt on his cheek. “I suspect—”
Suddenly he broke off, springing up from a crouched position by the fire.
“What was that?” he demanded in a half whisper. “Something swished past my ear just now!”
Alerted, the other Scouts moved out of the circle of firelight.
The object had sped past War to lodge in a tent pole some distance beyond. Jack pulled an arrow from the wood.
“Another warning,” he muttered. “Only this time it’s more serious.”
“Indians must be all around this camp,” War said nervously. “If they should decide to attack—”
Aware that something was amiss, Mr. Livingston, who had been looking after the burros, came quickly. Jack showed him the arrow.
“It barely missed War,” he told the Scout leader.
“The miss was deliberate,” Mr. Livingston replied. “But that doesn’t make the situation any less serious. We’re in a bad spot, unless we can convince the natives that our intentions are friendly.”
Disturbed by War’s close call, the Scout leader ordered a search of the area surrounding the camp. The bearers were reluctant to venture from the protection of the group. They huddled together, chattering excitedly. Pedro, Mr. Livingston and Jack made a cautious investigation of the area themselves. Not a sign of anyone could they find, yet they were certain that Indians were all about them.
“We’ll take no chances,” Mr. Livingston advised. “Stay in camp boys, and keep your eyes open. We’ll post a double guard tonight.”
The shooting of the second arrow had filled everyone with uneasiness. Was it possible, they speculated, that in preceding them, Burton Monahan had fallen victim to just such a group of hostile Indians?
“I’ve heard about explorers being held captive for years,” War remarked morosely. “Maybe—”
“Pipe down!” Ken advised him. “Keep away from the firelight too, unless you want an arrow through your gizzard!”
Mr. Livingston advised the Scouts to try to catch some sleep.
“I’ll stay up and keep watch until midnight,” he promised. “After that, Pedro can take over.”
“Let me,” Jack offered.
“No, you need your sleep, Jack. We’ll have a hard day tomorrow.”
No further disturbance marred the slumber of the Scouts that night. However, when Jack pulled out of his bag at dawn, he knew instantly that some new disaster had befallen.
During the night, all of the native bearers save Pedro, quietly had deserted, taking with them five burros and nearly a third of the remaining supplies.
Mr. Livingston called a brief council that morning after breakfast.
“You know the situation,” he said. “We may as well face the truth. We’re entering hostile Indian country. Our bearers have deserted, leaving us barely enough rations to get safely back to Cuya. Pedro advises that we turn back.”
“He’s been advising that ever since we left there,” growled Ken. “Now he’s worried about those arrows.”
“No use ducking it, Ken. We’re in a bad spot. We can’t ignore the warnings.”
“We’ve not seen a single Indian,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Maybe Captain Carter is lurking around somewhere, and is trying tricks to scare us out.”
“That’s possible,” the Scout leader conceded, “but hardly probable.”
“What do you think we should do?” Willie asked. “Turn back as Pedro suggests.”
“If I were alone, I’d be sorely tempted to go on. I confess I have a feeling—call it a hunch, if you will—that we’re close to our goal.”
“I’ve had the same feeling!” Jack asserted.
“But we can’t depend on hunches,” Mr. Livingston continued soberly. “Other explorers have been betrayed time and time again, by that same yearning to keep on despite the odds.”
“You’re saying we must return to Cuya?” War prompted.
“I think it’s a decision we must make together. Frankly, I owe your parents a duty. I’m responsible for your welfare, and I have no right to take you headlong into danger.”
“We didn’t come on this trip with our eyes closed,” Ken reminded him.
“True, but you had no idea what you were up against. For that matter, neither did I. I knew this trip would be rugged, but I didn’t think we’d run into hostile Indians.”
“How long will our supplies last?” Jack inquired. “It seems to me that’s the basis for our decision.”
“I’ve made a careful check,” Mr. Livingston replied. “We have enough to get back to Cuya with probably a three or four day leeway.”
“If we’d cut our rations by half?” Jack suggested.
“Naturally that would give us more travel days. We could stand up under shortened intake probably, but what about the Indians?”
“Are we in any worse situation than we were before?” Ken speculated. “Our bearers wouldn’t have been much good in an attack.”
“No, they’d have deserted.”
“Personally, I’m in favor of going on for at least another day or two,” Jack suddenly proposed, his mind made up. “I’m not saying the prospect doesn’t scare me a little. But we’ve come a long way now, and I’d hate to turn tail. How would it sound, telling the fellows back home, that we quit because someone shot an arrow at us?”
“I feel the same way,” announced Ken quietly. “If we mind our own business and make no hostile moves, those Indians should tumble to the idea that we’re friendly.”
“We can leave some of our trade goods here at camp when we start on,” contributed War. “A sort of peace offering.”
“Unfortunately, we haven’t very much left,” Mr. Livingston said ruefully. “Our bearers helped themselves when they sneaked away last night.”
The matter was debated for awhile longer. In the end, however, the Scout leader agreed to proceed one day’s journey farther.