“I knew you fellows would take this attitude,” he declared. “I’m proud of you. I just hope we’re making no mistake.”
Pedro accepted the decision in gloomy silence. He made it clear by his attitude, however, that he felt Mr. Livingston was courting almost certain trouble.
Breaking camp, the Scouts shouldered their packs and started doggedly on. With only one burro remaining, practically all supplies and camp equipment had to be carried on their backs.
The climb became so difficult that frequent halts had to be called for rest. Mr. Livingston’s seemingly indefatigable strength began to fail.
“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he muttered when Jack remarked upon his pallor. “I thought I had more stamina. This hard climbing seems to be doing me in.”
“Want to camp?”
“No, Jack, with our rations so short, we’ll have to push on without delay, or turn back. I’m thinking maybe I made the wrong decision this morning.”
“We’ve had no more trouble from the Indians.”
“I know, Jack, but they may be everywhere around us. We’re in a precarious position and must be very careful.”
As the day wore on, the party proceeded at a slower and slower pace. Mr. Livingston had developed a sudden fever which came on after the midday halt for lunch.
Though he insisted it was nothing serious, the Scouts were alarmed to see that he shivered violently and alternately burned with heat.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Pedro, Jack and Ken decided to take the burro and all heavy supplies and push on ahead of the others.
“We’ll make camp and have supper ready by the time the rest of you get there,” Jack promised. “With Hap sick, you can’t go as fast as we can. I’m worried about him.”
“If he isn’t better tomorrow, we’ll have to turn back and forget Burton Monahan,” declared Willie morosely. “Bad luck is coming in large doses now.”
Before pressing on, Ken and Jack persuaded the Scout leader to take another measure of quinine.
“This may be just a passing attack,” he said, trying to reassure them. “Tomorrow will tell. If I get down, leave me, and start back to Cuya.”
“Oh, sure,” Jack joked. “We’ll toss you to the Indians!”
Nevertheless, he and Ken were well aware that Mr. Livingston’s illness, coupled with loss of their supplies, might add up to a very serious situation.
“We’re about at the end of our trail,” Ken remarked after they had left the slower party. “Hap may snap out of his sickness, but I have a feeling he’ll be worse tomorrow instead of better.”
“Same here,” agreed Jack, studying the crude map the leader had given him. “It begins to look as if we’re licked! But then, we never had too good a chance from the start. Our clues were too vague.”
“Sometimes I think we made an error not to team up with Captain Carter. He’s a reptile all right, but I’ll bet he could have led us to Burton Monahan.”
“Then why didn’t he lay his cards honestly on the table?”
“Carter’s not the type,” Ken replied. “Besides, he has to be the whole show. It hurt his ego to be hooked up with Scouts.”
Despite comparatively fast travel, the two Explorers and Pedro were overtaken by dusk long before they had reached their destination. Finally, while it remained light, they brought up at a deep ravine over which hung a suspension bridge of withes.
The structure was not unlike other bridges on which the Scouts previously had passed. It looked older though, as if no one had crossed it in many years.
Four stout cables of braided withes were anchored on either side to a pair of heavy stones. Across the cables, at right angles, twigs had been laid to form a pathway. Above, two smaller cables provided handrails.
“According to directions from Hap, we’re supposed to camp across the river,” Jack said, studying the map. “The distance here was a lot longer than he figured. Maybe we ought to stop right now.”
“No decent place to make camp,” Ken pointed out. “It looks like wild country on across the bridge too!”
Jack nodded, gazing in awe at the strangely jagged peaks ahead. In the last gathering rays of sunset, the rocks gleamed as if inset with gold and precious jewels.
“‘It was a country of strange and unearthly beauty,’” he quoted thoughtfully, “‘but over it all there seemed to brood a spirit of mystery, an omen of fear.’”
“Shut up—you!” growled Ken. “Isn’t this place eerie enough without you adding to it? Don’t remind me of that parchment at a moment like this—all that junk about strange Gods visiting wrath and terror on intruders!”
“Somehow, a fellow feels as if he were an intruder here, Ken. And doesn’t the locality fit the description Father Francisco gave us?”
“In a way, yes. But we’ve been saying that every time we come to a particularly impressive gorge.”
“This one tops them all, Ken. Well, do we go on?”
“I guess so,” Ken decided reluctantly. “Let’s leave a note here for Hap under a pile of stones. That bridge doesn’t look any too safe though, so we’ll have to check it before trying to cross.”
The two Scouts scribbled a message, placing it conspicuously near the bridge.
Pedro meanwhile, was repacking a duffle bag. The task finished, he led the burro to the entrance of the bridge. There the animal balked.
“Hey, wait!” Jack called. “That bridge may not be safe!”
Pedro either did not hear or understand the command. He tugged at the halter and succeeded in getting the timid burro started across the weaving suspension bridge.
To the horror of the two watchers, the withes underfoot suddenly gave way. The burrow crashed through.
Pedro clutched wildly for the supporting cables. His pack slipped from his shoulders.
He could not save himself despite his frantic efforts. The entire end of the bridge gave way, carrying him with it. Uttering an agonizing cry, he dropped into the chasm below.
Rushing to the edge of the drop-off, Jack and Ken saw that Pedro had fallen into the stream below. The impact, they were certain, must have broken his back.
But, to their great relief, they saw him begin to move. With feeble, dog-like strokes, he swam toward the sheer walls of the chasm.
“Keep swimming!” Jack shouted encouragement. “We’ll get you out!”
Already Ken had uncoiled a long length of nylon rope which had served the party well in several previous emergencies.
The weighted line fell with a splash into the water close to the struggling Pedro. He managed to grasp it, and the Scouts pulled him to the rocks below. There, he gained more substantial support, dragging himself out on a shelf, where he lay exhausted.
“Jeepers! We’re in a pickle now,” Ken muttered, studying the terrain below. “Without help, it’s going to be hard to get Pedro out of that chasm.”
“And the burro is gone—with most of our stuff! We’re lucky though that Pedro wasn’t killed.”
“He’s badly hurt, Jack. If we can’t pull him out, we’ve got to get down there and give him first aid.”
“We can get down all right, but to get out is a different proposition.”
“Pedro should have tested that bridge before he started across,” Ken said with a worried frown. “Wonder why it collapsed? Age probably.”
“It seemed to give way everywhere at once.”
Ken examined the withes, and the muscles of his lean, brown jaw tightened.
“Jack, this bridge was deliberately weakened!”
“You’re sure?”
“See for yourself, Jack. The underpinning’s been cut with a sharp knife. Quite recently too! Maybe today or within the last few hours!”
The discovery rather unnerved the two Scouts. With Pedro helpless on the rocks below, and Mr. Livingston somewhere behind them, suffering from fever, their situation seemed to be growing more precarious by the moment.
“Hostile Indians probably,” Jack muttered. “Something like this is to be expected after those warning arrows. They’re trying to prevent us from going on. We’re at the fringe of the forbidden country.”
“If the Indians get it into their heads we’re here to despoil treasure temples, I hate to think of the revenge they might wreak on us! We’re in a spot, Jack.”
“I sure wish Hap would get here,” Jack declared, casting an uneasy glance back toward the darkening crags. “No chance for a few hours.”
“Pedro’s safe enough on the ledge, but we’ve got to get down to him. You’ll have to lower me on the rope.”
“Getting back won’t be so easy.”
“We’ll worry about that later. It’s no good trying to make camp on this side of the stream. Too exposed. If an attack should come, we’d have no protection whatsoever.”
“We’ve lost most of our supplies,” Jack said grimly. “This finishes us, even if Pedro isn’t in a bad way.”
The fading sunlight, splashing on the great rocks, transformed them into glowing fire. But the two Scouts had no thought for the splendor of the scenery.
Working feverishly against darkness, Jack managed to lower Ken to the rock shelf above the stream. He provided first aid, and made a crude splint for Pedro’s leg which had a cracked bone.
Then Ken called excitedly that he could see a balsa raft made of logs, hidden in a clump of bushes close by.
“If I can get Pedro onto the balsa, we can ferry downstream where we can make camp,” he called up to Jack. “It’s our best bet.”
“Okay,” Jack agreed after considering the proposal. “I’ll lower the duffle bags, and then try to get down there without breaking my neck.”
He left another note for Mr. Livingston, after making certain that the following party was nowhere in view of the mountainside. Anchoring the rope to a stone support of the wrecked bridge, he slid down onto the narrow shelf.
Pedro lay moaning with pain, unable to take a step by himself.
Leaving him for a few moments, Ken and Jack investigated the balsa, which proved to be in sea-worthy condition.
Ken took the stern paddle and Jack the bow. Steering in close to the rock shelf, they managed to lower Pedro onto the raft. What few supplies that remained, were piled in the center of the craft.
“This river evil,” whispered Pedro, stirring beneath the blanket Jack spread over him. “Dangerous to cross.”
Only too well, Jack and Ken were aware of the risks involved. The surface of the fast-moving stream was broken by a series of rapids, a warning that a waterfall might await them beyond the first bend.
“We may as well shove off,” Ken urged.
The balsa slid easily through the foaming water, close to shore. Rocks were everywhere and the current was deceptively swift.
Jack dipped his paddle cautiously, studying the opposite shore. Where could they land? He knew the stream was treacherous, and that once the awkward raft was out into the main draw, they might not be able to stay its progress down river.
“Think we can make it?” he asked doubtfully.
“We’ve got to, or we’re licked,” Ken answered.
“We could just wait here for Hap.”
“He’s expecting us to have a camp ready, Jack. Besides, I don’t like to wait here. I’ve got one of those feelings.”
A rather terrifying silence had fallen upon the river. The Scouts had seen no one. Yet they sensed as certainly as if they had stared directly into a hostile coppery face, that their every movement was being watched.
“With Pedro laid up, Hap coming down with fever, and most of our supplies gone, we’re at the end,” Ken asserted. “The best we can do is make some sort of camp tonight, and start back in the morning.”
“I reckon so,” Jack agreed gloomily. “It’s tough to be licked, but I guess we are. That weakened bridge shows you what the natives will do, if they get good and sore at us.”
The balsa crept on down stream, until finally Ken shoved it out into the swift current.
“Dig in!” he shouted as the craft moved faster and faster.
The water seethed and eddied about the balsa, but Ken and Jack kept it under control. They were nearing the opposite shore and already had selected their landing spot, when suddenly arrows began to splash in the water ahead of them.
“Jeepers!” Jack exclaimed, nearly dropping his paddle. “Now what?”
He could see no one in the gathering darkness. Not a single face. But the warning arrows kept coming from the shore.
“They’ll kill us if we try to land,” Ken cried. “We’ll have to turn back.”
“We can’t against this current. We have to keep on.”
Passing the point where they had expected to land, the Scouts continued down river. The balsa bounded wildly through the rapids, barely missing projecting rocks and boulders. The current was running stronger by the moment.
“Listen!” Jack suddenly cried.
His keen ears had detected the unmistakable roar of a waterfall ahead!
The rapid might not be a very formidable one, but its thunder struck terror to the three on the bouncing balsa. Pedro began to whimper piteously and to whisper a prayer.
“Paddle!” Jack shouted to Ken. “Try for shore! It’s our only chance!”
Ken and Jack fought the current desperately, but could not delay the swift progress of their balsa downstream. Irresistibly, they were drawn closer and closer to the brink of the waterfall.
The stern swung around, and the craft went broadside, striking a large boulder. Pedro was spilled into the boiling waters.
In trying to save him, Jack and Ken lost their paddles, and also were thrown into the stream. The former grasped a rock, and managed to extend a helping hand to Pedro, who clung desperately.
But in assisting the guide, Jack lost his own grip on the rock. The current swept him on. He swam frantically, exerting all his strength. Exhausted and grasping for breath, he finally pulled himself out on shore.
Dragging himself to his feet, he peered back to see what had become of Ken and Pedro. Both were clinging desperately to the rocks, but at any instant might be swept on over the falls. The balsa and all their vitally precious stores were gone.
“Hold on!” he shouted hoarsely. “Don’t let go!”
Jack had no rope. He knew he could expect no help from the Indians.
“Stay back!” Ken shouted, as he started to wade toward the boulder. “You’ll be swept off your feet!”
Feeling the vicious tug of the current, Jack retreated to the fringe of trees. His gaze fastened upon a long, tough vine which hung within reach.
Ripping it down, he waded as far as he dared out into the shallow water. He floated the vine rope toward the boulder, but it was only after a fourth desperate try, that he reached his objective.
Ken seized one end and tied the vine about Pedro’s waist. Working fast, and fearful that at any instant the make-shift rope would snap, Jack pulled the guide to safety.
Moaning with fright, Pedro collapsed on the beach.
Once more Jack paid out the vine. Ken was able to grasp it on the second try, and also was hauled to shallow water.
Resting briefly, he and Jack then carried Pedro back among the trees. Darkness now covered their movements, but they knew the forest was alive with unfriendly Indians.
The two Scouts were too shocked and discouraged to discuss their desperate predicament. The loss of the balsa and their stores was a serious matter. Their only hope, it seemed, lay with Mr. Livingston and the other Scouts. Yet if the following party should arrive at the broken bridge, it might find itself ambushed.
“We ought to warn ’em what they’re running into,” Jack muttered. “But how?”
He fished in his packets. His Scout knife was gone, but there remained a metal, water-proof container of matches.
“I’ll get a fire started,” he announced.
“Won’t it draw the Indians?”
“It may,” Jack conceded, “but you can be sure they’re watching our every move anyway. So there’s nothing to be gained by freezing to death. Besides, if Hap reaches the bridge, he’ll be able to see the fire.”
“But he won’t know it’s ours, Jack. He may think it’s a native camp.”
“Anyway, let’s have a fire,” the other urged. “We can dry out our clothes at least.”
While Ken did what he could to make Pedro more comfortable, the crew leader searched for suitable wood.
The matches had remained dry. Choosing a protected spot where a large boulder provided a windbreak, he built a small fire. Then, while Ken and Pedro warmed themselves, he gathered more wood. This he stacked nearby, intending to throw it all on, should there be any evidence that Hap’s party had arrived at the broken bridge.
The fire cheered the three and gave them a measure of reassurance.
“No attack yet,” Ken remarked hopefully. “Maybe those Indians intend to leave us alone.”
“Don’t count on it,” Jack replied. “They’re just being deliberate.”
Time wore on. Pedro slept fitfully, but Ken and Jack were afraid to doze off even for an instant. They kept the fire going and maintained a ceaseless vigil for their friends.
“Hap should be at the bridge by this time,” Ken said anxiously. “Something’s happened.”
Jack felt particularly sick at heart, blaming himself for the disaster that had befallen.
“We made our first bad mistake in not testing the bridge,” he said.
“That was Pedro’s error, Jack.”
“Yes, but we should have watched him. Then I misjudged the swiftness of the current.”
“We both did,” Ken corrected. “No use blaming yourself, Jack. What’s done is done.”
“This means the end of the expedition, even if we weren’t beaten before,” Jack went on. “It will be nip and tuck getting back to Cuya with only the supplies Hap, Willie and War have on their backs. And there’s Pedro—”
“Let’s meet one problem at a time,” Ken advised. “Our first is to make contact with Hap before the Indians do. Try to catch some sleep now while I watch.”
Jack settled himself as comfortably as possible, but he was too tense to doze. Some time later, Ken touched his arm. Instantly, he was alert.
“What gives?”
Without speaking, Ken pointed along the shore.
“Alive with savages!” Jack gasped, pulling himself to his feet. “They’re going to attack!”
Beyond the rim of firelight, he dimly could see the banks lined with Indians, who had landed in canoes and balsas. They wore no feather headdress, but their faces had been made grotesque with red paint from the juice of forest berries.
“We’re sunk unless we can convince ’em we’re friendly!” Ken declared. “I’ll go down to meet ’em—”
“Don’t risk it,” Jack warned, grasping his arm. “Those boys mean business this time.”
His words were drowned by a sudden shout which came from the savages. A shower of arrows, shot with great force from powerful bows, descended on the camp site.
Ken and Jack retreated from the fire, dragging the trembling Pedro with them. The three huddled in the underbrush, tensely waiting.
“We might have a fighting chance if we were armed,” Jack muttered. “As it is, we’re wholly at their mercy.”
“It’s better we’re unarmed,” Ken returned. “Maybe if we don’t return the fire of arrows or make any hostile moves, they may get it through their thick skulls that we mean them no harm. Wow!”
The exclamation was wrung from his lips as an arrow whizzed by his ear to bury itself in the bark of a tree trunk directly behind.
“Sure, we can convince ’em we’re friendly!” Jack exclaimed. “If one of those arrows ever hits us, we won’t be doing any talking!”
The three flattened themselves upon the earth. For a while the rain of arrows kept up but then subsided.
Cautiously, the Scouts raised themselves up to survey the situation.
Natives were swarming in from behind the trees, moving swiftly and menacingly. Those in advance carried throwing sticks. Behind them were others with battle axes and war clubs.
“We’re surrounded!” Ken gasped. “They’ve got us!”
Jack went forward to meet the oncoming swarm. His hand was flung up in a salute, a token of good intentions.
“Amigos!Friends!” he shouted.
All about him, he beheld only leering, hostile faces. An Indian with a long spear seized him by the arms, spinning him around.
He struggled and tried to shake off his captor. But he was powerless to move. His arms were held as if by bands of steel. A heavy object crashed down on his head and he knew no more.
Jack opened his eyes to find Ken anxiously bending over him. Gradually, he came to a realization that he was lying on a pile of straw in a darkened hut. He could hear the monotonous beat of drums beyond the open doorway, through which flickered the light of a moving torch.
“Feeling better?” Ken asked.
Jack rubbed the swelling on his head, and managed a sickly grin. “Where are we?” he asked hoarsely.
“Your guess is as good as mine. We’re in one of the villages.”
“Pedro?”
“He’s here. His leg keeps him hobbled, but he’s not in too much pain now.”
“Hap?”
Ken shook his head. “After you passed out, Jack, they brought us to this village upriver from the falls. I’d judge it’s four hours journey from the suspension bridge.”
“What time is it now?” Jack asked, trying to orient himself.
“They took my wristwatch—not that it would be much good after that river ducking. I figure it lacks a couple of hours until dawn.”
“We’re prisoners in this hut?”
“Nothing else but! A guard is posted at the door.”
Jack lay for awhile, staring into the darkness. His head throbbed and he seemed incapable of rational thought. He tried not to think of Happy, War and Willie. Had they reached the broken suspension bridge? And if so, what had happened to them?
“Any water?” he mumbled after a time.
Ken pressed a vessel into his hands. “This was left for us,” he said. “I guess they don’t aim to make us die of thirst, at least.”
Jack drank deeply. The water was warm and unpleasant of taste.
Getting unsteadily to his feet, he staggered to the doorway of the hut. A native with hair cropped short, a spear in his hand, guarded the exit.
Some distance from the hut a big fire had been started. Around it in a semi-circle were grouped the Indian warriors, their heads moving sideways in rhythm to the beat of the drums.
Jack tried to pass the guard, only to be shoved back into the hut.
“No use getting him riled,” Ken cautioned. “If you do, we may get pretty rough treatment.”
“Any chance we can make a break for freedom?”
“Where’d we go, Jack? Our compass, supplies, everything is gone.”
“If we were lucky, we might make contact with Hap.”
“We’d have to be darned lucky, Jack. Even if we could get away, the Indians would be after us in a flash. Besides, Pedro can’t move on that bad leg.”
“Then our only chance is to wait and hope that somehow Hap will be able to help us.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Ken admitted reluctantly. “It’s a slim chance, I know, but something may turn up.”
As the night wore on, the never-ending beat of the drums hammered at Jack’s nerves. Restlessly, he moved about the hut, trying desperately to hit upon a plan for escape. Ken and Pedro slept at intervals but his own body was too tired and battered to feel its own fatigue.
Dawn came, driving back the shadows. As the sun rose, the natives began a solemn dance, rocking from side to side.
The central figure, whom Jack took to be a chief, wore his hair cut short with two plaits at the ears, ornamented with bright red plumes. About his neck was a collar of large green stones.
“Get a load of that bird!” Jack directed Ken who had been awakened by the louder throb of the drums. “Do you suppose those stones can be emeralds?”
“They look like it. Look at the size of ’em! As large as pigeon eggs!”
“That horse collar is worth a fortune if those stones are real emeralds, Ken!”
“You can bet they’re genuine, all right! And look at this water vessel.”
Ken picked up the container in which there now remained a scant inch of liquid. The jar was of curious design in the shape of an animal head. Obviously, it was of pre-Inca design and very old.
“Pure gold,” he commented briefly.
“Then it’s possible, Ken, that we’re close to the sacred city and the treasure temple!”
“Maybe. Either that, or rich mines are situated near here. Many were lost at the time of the Spanish conquest.”
Ken put the jug on the floor and joined Jack near the doorway. Their guard stood like a statue, staring straight before him.
“Get a load of the robe that chief is wearing!” Jack directed. “Embroidered in gold and silver thread!”
“This must be a special ceremonial occasion. I hope we’re not the occasion!”
In silence the Scouts watched the dancing which had mounted in frenzy. Then, into the circle came a strange looking creature in blue striped trousers, his face covered by a cougar animal mask.
To the amazement of the two prisoners, he danced with the finish of a professional. He completed his sprightly routine with a handspring which brought chuckles of delight from the circle of natives.
“That old boy must be a medicine man,” Jack declared. “He’s good!”
“Too good.”
“What d’you mean, Ken?”
“Did you ever see dancing like that before?”
“On the stage.”
“That’s the point, Jack. That native—if he is one—has picked up some pretty showy tricks. Either he’s been taught by a white man, or he is white.”
“You might be right, at that,” Jack agreed, impressed by the other’s alert observation. “If he’s white, he should help us, if he can.”
“Whoever he is, it’s plain he has influence over these savages. If we bide our time, we may get a chance to try to talk to him.”
“I can wait,” Jack returned with a feeble grin. “Right now, I have nothing more pressing to do!”
As the morning wore on, the scouts made several attempts to talk to their guard. He neither understood English nor Spanish, speaking a strange dialect which Ken and Jack did not recognize.
By gestures they did convey that they were hungry and thirsty. But several hours elapsed before a native woman brought them another jug of water and a pudding made of ground maize.
Though encouraged by the treatment they had received, the Scouts were fretting under confinement. What, they speculated, would be their fate and Pedro’s? Happy certainly would attempt to find them, and in so doing might lose his life. Their prospects were too dismal to contemplate.
As the sun rose higher, the village became quieter. Armed warriors went exhausted to their hammocks and the camp fires died down. The medicine man, whose strange costume and actions had attracted the Scouts’ attention, vanished from view.
“We’ve lost our chance to try to talk to him,” Jack said in disgust. “If he should be a white man, he probably doesn’t even know that we’re being held here.”
Sunk in gloom, the two abandoned conversation. Because there was nothing else to occupy their minds, they alternately looked after Pedro, and slept. The guide had abandoned all hope, taking no interest in his surroundings. His depression dragged even lower the faltering spirits of the two Scouts.
Jack had fallen into another light doze, when he felt Ken’s touch on his arm. Instantly, he was awake.
“Something’s up!” the other informed him in a half whisper.
The drums were rolling once more, and natives could be seen pouring excitedly out of their huts.
Ken and Jack tried to peer out the doorway, but the guard blocked their view deliberately. He jabbed at them with his spear, forcing them back.
As the hubbub and tumult increased, their curiosity steadily mounted. What was causing such excitement in the village? Were visitors expected or had the natives captured other unfortunate prisoners?
And then, unexpectedly, the cause of the commotion was made known to them. The guard moved aside. Through the hut doorway, supported on either side by Warwick and Willie, staggered Mr. Livingston!
Shocked to see their friends, Jack and Ken helped to lower Mr. Livingston onto the pallet of straw.
“What happened?” Jack asked grimly.
“We were captured at the suspension bridge,” Willie explained. “The Indians surrounded us, and we didn’t have a chance. Hap’s in bad shape. He needs a doctor.”
“We’ve lost our quinine supply,” War added miserably. “Those natives stripped us of everything except our clothes.”
Many hours, of which the Scouts kept painful account, slowly passed. Mr. Livingston tossed fitfully, calling often for water.
Ken and Jack took turns sitting beside him, giving War and Willie opportunity to sleep. Repeatedly, they tried to make the guard at the hut door understand their urgent need for medicines, but he eyed them blankly.
At dusk, a native woman again brought food. By signs, the Scouts tried to convey the idea of Mr. Livingston’s desperate need. She gave no indication she understood. But shortly after she had left, a medicine man came to the hut. He wore an animal mask, and the Scouts recognized him as the same one who had danced so professionally.
“Me Ino,” the man announced.
“You speak English?” Jack cried. “Our leader is down with fever and we’ve got to get him out of here! Will you help us?”
“Me Ino,” the medicine man repeated.
“He didn’t understand a word of what you said,” Ken said despairingly. “That ‘Me Ino,’ is the only phrase he knows.”
The medicine man however, had crossed the hut to gaze at the prostrate Mr. Livingston. In that instant, Jack had the uncomfortable feeling that despite the native’s apparent lack of comprehension, he understood English perfectly.
Acting upon this conviction, he tried again to talk to Ino. But it was useless. The medicine man shook his head and kept repeating the foolish phrase.
Squatting beside Mr. Livingston, he laid a black handkerchief on the floor of the hut.
“He’s going to try some of his magic stuff!” War muttered. “That’s all we need to make this a jolly occasion!”
The cloth laid out, Ino sprinkled it with leaves, examining the manner in which they fell. Then he seemed to lapse into a semitrance, muttering cabalistic phrases.
The magic incantations finished, the medicine man prepared a hot brew of herbs made from a white root which resembled a turnip.
As he thrust the brimming gourd to Mr. Livingston’s lips, Willie leaped forward, intending to strike the cup from Ino’s hand.
“Don’t do that, Willie!” Ken ordered sharply.
“But it may be poisoned.”
“I don’t think so. Ino is trying to help us. Maybe his herbs will do Hap some good.”
“It’s a cinch something has to be done,” added Jack. “The tea probably won’t do any harm, and it may help.”
Mr. Livingston himself reached out, and with a trembling hand, took the gourd. He sipped the hot liquid cautiously and made a wry face. Then he slowly drained the entire gourd. A few minutes later, as the Scouts anxiously watched, he dropped off into deep sleep.
“Hap’s been drugged,” Willie asserted. “He may never come out of it.”
“He seems to be sleeping quite naturally,” Ken observed. “Take it easy, Willie. I have a hunch this old medicine boy knows his stuff.”
“I’d like to get a peep beneath that animal mask he wears,” Jack muttered. “I have a notion to—”
A quick shake of the head from Ken made him change his mind about trying to expose the native’s face to view. Sober thought convinced him that any such action would be sheer folly.
The medicine man remained a few minutes longer in the hut, briefly examining Pedro. He nodded approvingly at the manner in which Ken and Jack had set the guide’s leg, and then vanished.
“You know, Ino isn’t as dumb as he pretends,” Jack declared when the native had gone. “He’s been around white folks—you can tell that from the way he acts and the manner in which he danced.”
“He means to be friendly,” Ken asserted. “If we play our cards right, he may help us get out of here.”
“I don’t trust him,” Willie declared.
“I keep thinking he may be a white man,” Jack went on, paying no heed to the other’s remark. “At any rate, he knows more English than that silly phrase, ‘Me Ino.’”
“I thought so too,” nodded Ken. “Several times when Willie was talking, I noticed that he was listening as if he understood. But if he knows English, why didn’t he reveal himself?”
“Maybe he doesn’t trust us any more than we do him,” Jack returned. “We didn’t tell him anything about why we’re here, or who we are. We didn’t even let him know we’re Scouts.”
“I didn’t figure it would mean anything to him.”
“Probably not, Ken. But I can’t help wishing we’d tried to convince him that we’re trying to find Burton Monahan, not to steal Inca gold.”
Dusk came on and still Mr. Livingston slept as one dead to the world. Later, however, he aroused and seemed somewhat better. His temperature had dropped and he no longer was wracked by sudden chills. Though he could not eat, he insisted that he felt greatly improved.
“Guess I was wrong about Ino,” Willie admitted. “That vile looking brew of his turned the trick.”
Food had been brought to the hut at regular intervals and its quality improved. This, the Scouts also attributed to Ino’s influence. The medicine man himself, did not reappear.
Throughout the night, the Explorers again took turns watching Mr. Livingston and Pedro. For the most part, both slept, and required little attention.
Another day passed, a monotonous repetition of the previous one. Mr. Livingston improved steadily, suffering only a few minor relapses during which his fever mounted.
“I’m well on the way to recovery, thanks to that herb tea or whatever it was,” he told the Scouts. “How to get out of here is our next problem. The natives aren’t unfriendly. If we bide our time, they may release us.”
“Ino’s working for us,” Jack insisted. “Even though we haven’t seen him, you can tell by the way we’re treated now, that we’re not distrusted as we were.”
During the early part of the night, he took his turn watching Mr. Livingston, and then tried to sleep after Ken had relieved him. Toward morning, he was aroused, and discovered his friend bending over him.
“Get up, Jack! Our guard has gone!”
“What?” Jack came fully awake. “Are you sure?”
“Not a sign of him. The entire village seems deserted. The warriors have gone off somewhere.”
Getting to his feet, Jack awakened Willie and War. Excitedly, they studied the possibilities of their situation.
“This is our chance to escape,” Ken declared, “but it may be a trap.”
“Even if we get away, what of Mr. Livingston and Pedro?” Jack asked in an undertone. “We can’t leave them behind, and they’re in no condition to travel even under favorable condition.”
“It must be a trap,” Willie insisted. “These natives are stupid. But not stupid enough to leave this hut unguarded unless they want us to walk off.”
“They’ve been drinking chicha or whatever it is, pretty steadily since we were dragged in here,” War pointed out. “Maybe they’ve all passed out, including our guard.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Ken advised bluntly. “Some sort of celebration is in full swing all right, but our guard had his wits about him a half hour ago. There’s something mighty queer about this exodus.”
“At any rate, there’s no future in staying here,” Jack announced. “I’m going to slip out and look around. The rest of you wait and see if I get peppered with arrows!”
While the other Scouts watched anxiously, he moved some distance from the hut. Cautiously, he surveyed the darkened village. No one was visible. Though he had no way of accurately telling time, he judged that it lacked about two hours of dawn.
A fire, in which a lamb had been roasted whole earlier in the night, still smoldered. Otherwise, there was no sign of life or activity. Had the natives suddenly decided to abandon their villages, and if so, why?
“This sure is queer,” Jack muttered. “I don’t get it.”
He made a quick tour of the village, seeing not a man, woman or child. Some distance away, through the dense trees, he caught the flash of lighted straw torches. There were a great many of them, and they were moving away from the village.
“This is the best chance we’ll ever have to get out of here,” Jack told himself. “But dare we take it?”
His common sense advised that Mr. Livingston and Pedro could never endure the rigors of the trail in their present conditions. He had only a vague idea as to their whereabouts, and no compass. A lack of supplies made the situation even more hopeless.