That announcement came with all the force of a bolt from the blue, and even the professor dropped his glasses with a gasp of amazement, while Bruno would have leaped to his feet, only for the hasty grab which his brother made at the tail of his coat.
“White—where? Surely it cannot be that—Edgecombe—”
“Augh, take a tumble, boy!” ejaculated Waldo, giving a jerk that rendered compliance nearly literal, though scarcely full of grace. “Want to have the whole gang make a howling break this way? Want to—They're white all right, though!”
“Where? Which direction? Point them out, and—I fail to see anything which would bear out your—”
The professor was sweeping yonder field with his glass, searching for the primal cause of that latest excitement, but without success. No sign of a white face, male or female, rewarded his efforts, and he turned an inquiring gaze upon the youngster.
Waldo was peering from beneath the shade of his hand, but now drew back with a long breath, to slowly shake his head.
“They've gone now, but I did see them, and they were white, just as white as—as anything!”
Bruno frowned a bit at that unsatisfactory conclusion, but the professor was of more equable temper, for a wonder. He smilingly shook his head, while gazing kindly, then spoke:
“I myself might have made the same error, Waldo, but you surely were in error, for once.”
“What! You mean I never saw those white women, uncle Phaeton?”
“No, no, I am not so seriously faulting your eyesight, my dear boy,” came the swift assurance. “But even the best of us are open to errors, and there were in olden times not a few Aztecs with fair skins; not exactly white, yet comparatively fair when their race was considered. And, no doubt, Waldo, you saw just such another a bit ago.”
But the youngster was not so easily shaken in his own opinion.
“There were a couple of 'em, not just such another, uncle. And they were white,—pure white as ever the Lord made a woman! And—why, didn't I see their hair, long and floating loose? And wasn't that yellow as—as gold, or the sunshine itself?”
“Yellow hair?”
“Yes, indeedy! Yellow hair, white skins,—faces, anyway. Blondes, the couple of 'em; and to that I'll make my davy!”
And so the youngster maintained with even more than usual sturdiness, when questioned more closely, pointing out the very spot upon which the strange beings were standing, the top of a large, tall building, clearly one of the series of temples.
In vain the field-glass was fixed upon that particular point. The partly roofed azotea was wholly devoid of human life, and though watch was maintained in that direction for many minutes thereafter, by one or other of the air-voyagers, naught was seen to confirm the assertion made by the younger Gillespie.
For the moment that fact or fancy dominated all other interests, for, granting that Waldo had not been misled by a naturally fair Indian face, there was room for a truly startling inference.
“Could it actually be they?” muttered Bruno, face pale and eyes glittering with intense interest. “Could they have escaped with life from the balloon, and been here ever since?”
“You mean—”
“The wife and child of Cooper Edgecombe,—yes! Who else could they be, unless—I'd give a pretty penny for one fair squint at them, right now! If there was only some method of—It would hardly do to venture down yonder, uncle Phaeton?”
The professor gave a stern gesture of denial, frowning as though he anticipated an actual break for yonder town, in spite of the odds against them.
“That would be madness, Bruno! Worse than madness, by far! Look at yonder warriors, all thoroughly armed, and eager to drink blood as ever they were in centuries gone by! They are hundreds, if not thousands, while we are but three! Madness, my boy!”
“Four, with Mr. Edgecombe, uncle.”
“And that means a complete host so long as we are backed up by the air-ship,” declared Waldo, in his turn. “Those fellows!” with a sniff of true boyish scorn for aught that was not fully up to date. “What could they do, if we were to open fire on them just once?”
“Prove our equals, man for man, armed as they assuredly are,” just as vigorously affirmed the professor, inclined rather to magnify than diminish the importance of these, his so recently discovered people. “You forget how the Aztecans fought Cortez and his mailed hosts. Yet these are one and identical, so far as valour and training and blood can go.”
“Huh! Scared of a runty horse so badly that they prayed to 'em as they did to their own gods!” sniffed Waldo, betraying a lore for which he did not ordinarily receive fair credit. “Why, uncle Phaeton, let you just slam one o' those dynamite shells inside a chief—”
“Nay, Waldo, must I repeat, we are not here for the purpose of conquest, unless by purely amicable methods. There must be no fighting, for or against. Savages though most people would be inclined to pronounce yonder race, they are human, with souls and—”
“But I always thought they were heathens, uncle Phaeton?”
The professor subsided at that, giving over as worse than useless the attempt to enlighten the irrepressible youngster, at least for the time being.
Silence ruled for some little time, during which each one of the trio kept keen watch over the valley, the field-glass changing hands at intervals in order to put all upon an equal footing.
One thing was clear enough unto all: the Indians had been greatly wrought up by the brief appearance of some queerly shaped monster of the air, and while a goodly number of their best warriors had hastened out of the valley and up the difficult passes, in hopes of learning more, still others were astir, weapons in hand, evidently determined to defend their lives or their property from any assault, should such be made, whether by known or foreign adversaries.
This busy stir and bustle, combined with the novel architecture and so many varying points of interest, would have been a mental and visual feast for the trio of air-voyagers, only for that one doubt: were white captives actually in yonder temple? And, if white, were they the long-lost relatives of the aeronaut, Cooper Edgecombe?
Quite naturally the interest displayed by the Indians centred in the quarter of the heavens where that air-demon had been sighted, hence our friends saw very little cause for apprehension on their own parts.
Thus they were given a better opportunity for thinking of and then discussing the new marvel.
Again did Waldo vow that his eyes had not befooled him. Again he positively asserted that he had seen two white women, wearing blonde hair in loose waves far adown their backs. And once again Bruno, in half-awed tones, wondered whether or no they were the mother and child borne away upon the wings of a mighty storm, fifteen long years gone by.
“It is possible, though scarcely credible,” admitted uncle Phaeton, in grave tones, as he wrinkled his brows after his peculiar fashion when ill at ease in his mind. “Edgecombe lived through just such another experience; though, to be sure, he was a man of iron constitution, while they were far more delicate, as a matter of course.”
“Still, it may have happened so?” persisted Bruno, taking a strong interest in the matter. “You would not call it too far-fetched, uncle?”
“No. It may have happened. I would rather call it marvellous, yet still possible. And if so—”
“There is but a single answer to that supposition, uncle; they must be rescued from captivity!” forcibly declared Bruno.
“That's right,” confirmed Waldo. “Of course all women and girls—I mean other people's kin—are a tremendous sight of bother and worry, and all that; but we're white, and so are they.”
“We must rescue them; there's nothing else to do,” again emphasised the elder Gillespie.
“That is no doubt the proper caper, speaking from your boyish point of view, my generous-hearted nephews; but—just how?” dryly queried the professor. “Have you arranged all that, as well, Bruno?”
“You surely would not abandon them, uncle Phaeton?” asked the young man, something abashed by that veiled reproof. “To such a horrible fate, too?”
“A fate which they must have endured for fifteen years, provided your theory is correct, Bruno,” with a fleeting smile. “Don't mistake me, lads. I am ready and willing to do all that a man of my powers may, provided I see just and sufficient cause for taking decisive action. That is yet lacking. We are not certain that there are white women yonder. Or, if white women, that they are captives. Or, if captives, that they would thank us for aiding them to escape.”
“Why, uncle Phaeton! Think of Mr. Edgecombe, and how—”
“I am thinking of him, and I wish to think yet a little longer,” quietly spoke the professor, “keep a lookout, lads, and if you see aught of Waldo's fair women, pray notify me.”
For the better part of an hour comparative silence reigned, the boys feasting eyes upon yonder spectacle, their uncle deeply in reverie; but then he roused up, his final decision arrived at.
“I will do it!” were his first words. “Yes, I will do it!”
“Do what, uncle Phaeton?” asked Waldo, with poorly suppressed eagerness, as he turned towards his relative.
“Go after Cooper Edgecombe,—bringing him here in order that he may, sooner or later, solve this perplexing enigma. Come, boys, we may as well start back towards the aerostat.”
But both youngsters objected in a decided manner, Waldo saying:
“No, no, uncle Phaeton! Why should we go along? You'll be coming right back, and will be less crowded in the ship if we don't go.”
“And we can better wait right here; don't you see, uncle?”
“To keep the Lost City safely found, don't you know? What if it should take a sudden notion to lose itself again?” added Waldo, innocently.
In place of the indulgent smile for which he was playing, Waldo received a frown, and directly thereafter the professor spoke in tones which could by no possibility be mistaken.
“Come with me, both of you. I am going back to the aerostat, and I dare not leave you boys behind. Come!”
Kind of heart and generally complaisant though uncle Phaeton was, neither Bruno nor Waldo cared to cross his will when made known in such tones, and without further remonstrance they followed his lead, slipping away from the snug little observatory without drawing attention to themselves from any of yonder busy horde.
Not until the trio was fairly within the gulch did the professor speak again, and then but a brief sentence or two.
“Give me time to weigh the matter, lads. Possibly I may agree, but don't try to hurry my cooler judgment, please.”
Waldo gave his brother an eager nudge at this, gestures and grimaces being made to supply the lack of words. But when, the better to express his confidence that all was coming their way, the youngster attempted a caper of delight, his foot slipped from a leaf-hidden stone, and he took an awkward tumble at full length.
“Never touched me!” he cried, scrambling to his feet ere a hand could come to his aid. “Who says I don't know how to stand on both ends at the same time?”
Barring this little caper, naught took place on their way to the air-ship; and once there, the professor heaved a mighty sigh, wiping his heated face as one might who has just won a worthy race. But he betrayed no especial haste in setting the flying-machine afloat and Waldo finally ventured:
“Can we help you off, uncle Phaeton?”
But he was assured there existed no necessity for such great haste.
“In fact, it might be dangerous to start while so many of the Aztecs are upon the lookout,” came the unexpected addition. “I believe it would be vastly better not to leave here until shortly before dawn, to-morrow.”
It took but a few words further to convince the brothers that this idea was wisest, and while the young fellows felt sorry to have their view cut so short, neither ventured to actually rebel.
After all, the day was well-nigh spent, and, besides preparing their evening meal, it was essential that their plans for the immediate future should be shaped as thoroughly as possible.
Professor Featherwit had resolved to fetch Cooper Edgecombe to the scene of interest, in order to give him at least a fair chance to solve the enigma which was perplexing them all. Even so, he felt that no small degree of physical danger would attend that presence, particularly if it should really prove, as they could but suspect, that both wife and daughter of the involuntary exile were yonder, among the Aztecans.
Much of this the professor made known to his nephews during that evening, the trio thoroughly discussing the matter in all its bearings, but before the air-ship was prepared for the night's rest, uncle Phaeton made the youngsters happy by consenting to their remaining behind as guardians to the Lost City, while he went in quest of the balloonist.
“But bear ever in mind the conditions, lads,” was his earnest conclusion. “I place you upon your honour to take all possible precautions against being discovered, or even running the least unnecessary risk during my absence.”
“Don't let that bother you, uncle Phaeton,” Waldo hastened to give assurance. “We'll be wise as pigeons, and cautious as any old snake you ever caught up a tree; eh, Bruno, old man?”
“We promise all you ask, uncle, but does that mean we must stay right here, without even stealing a weenty peep at the Lost City?”
Professor Featherwit felt sorely tempted to say yes, but then, knowing boyish nature (although Bruno had just passed his majority, while Waldo was “turned seventeen”) so well, he feared to draw the reins too tightly lest they give way entirely.
“No; I do not expect quite that much, my lads; but I do count on your taking no unnecessary risks, and in case of discovery that you rather trust to flight, and my finding you later on, than to actually fighting.”
So it was decided, and at a fairly early hour the trio lay down to sleep. Although so unusually excited by the marvellous discoveries of the day just spent, their open-air life tended to calm their brains, and, far sooner than might have been expected, sleep crept over them, one and all, lasting until nearly dawn.
Perhaps it was just as well that the wakening was not more early, for the professor was beginning to regret his weakness of the past evening, and had there been more time for drawing lugubrious pictures of probable mishaps, he might even yet have insisted on taking the youngsters with him.
Knowing that it was rather more than probable some of the Indians would be stationed upon the hills to watch for the queerly shaped air-demon, the professor felt obliged to lose no further time, and so the separation was effected, just as the eastern sky was beginning to show streaks and veins of a new day.
“Touch and go!” cried Waldo, with a vast inhalation as he watched the aeromotor sail away with the swiftness of a bird on wing. “And for a weenty bit I reckoned 'twas you and me as part of the go, too!”
In company the lads enjoyed a more leisurely meal than their relative had dared wait for, knowing that, at the very least, they would have the whole of that day to themselves, so far as uncle Phaeton was concerned. As a matter of course, he would not attempt to return except under cover of night, or in the early dawn of another day.
All that had been thoroughly discussed and provided for the evening before, and was barely touched upon by the brothers now. Their first and most natural thought was of yonder Lost City, with its inhabitants, red, white, and yellow, as Waldo put it; but being still under the foreboding fears of the professor, they finally agreed to remain where he left them until after the sun crossed its meridian.
It was a rather early meal which the brothers prepared, if the whole truth must be told; and the last fragments were bolted rather than chewed, feet keeping time with jaws, as they hastened towards the observatory.
There was pretty much the same sort of view as on the day before, the main difference being that many of the Indians were labouring in the fields, instead of watching for the air-demon.
Using the glass by turns, the lads kept eager watch for the white women whom Waldo stubbornly persisted were within the town; but hour after hour passed without the desired reward, and Bruno began to doubt whether there was any such vision to be won.
“The sun was in your eyes, and you let mad fancy run away with your better judgment, boy,” he decided, at length. “If not, why—what now?”
For Waldo gave a low, eager exclamation, gripping the field-glass as though he would crush in the reinforced leather case. A few moments thus, then he laughed in almost fierce glee, thrusting the glass towards his brother, speaking excitedly:
“A crazy fool lunatic, am I? Well, now, you just take a squint at the old house for yourself and see if—biting you, now, is it?”
For Bruno showed even more intense interest as he caught the right line, there taking note of—yes, they surely were white women! Faces, hair, all went to proclaim that fact. And more than that, even.
“Fair—lovely as a painter's dream!” almost painfully breathed the elder Gillespie. “I never saw such a lovely—”
“Injun squaw, of course. Couple of 'em. Nobody but a fool would ever think different. The idea of finding white women—”
“They are ladies, Waldo! I never saw such—and I feel that they must be the ones lost by poor Edgecombe when that storm—”
“That's all right enough, old fellow,” interrupted Waldo, claiming the glass once more. “No need of your playing the porker on legs, though, as I see. Give another fellow a chance to squint. But aren't they regular jo-dandies, though, for a fact?”
The two women in question, clad in flowing robes of white, lit up here and there by a dash of colour, were slowly pacing to and fro upon the temple where first discovered by the keen-eyed youngster. Thanks to the excellent glass, it was possible to view them clearly in spite of the distance, and there could be no dispute upon that one point: both mother and daughter (granting that such was their relationship) were more than ordinarily fair and comely of both face and person.
For the better part of an hour that slow promenade lasted, and until the women finally passed beyond their range of vision, the brothers took eager and copious notes. Then, in spite of the fact that scores of other figures still came within their field of vision, curiosity lagged.
“It's like watching a street medicine show, after hearing Patti or seeing Irving,” muttered Bruno, drawing back and stretching his wearied limbs beyond possible discovery.
“Or the A B C class playing two-old-cat, after a league game of extra innings; right you are, my hearty!” coincided Waldo, feeling pretty much the same way, “only with a difference.”
Shortly after this, Bruno suggested a retreat to the rendezvous, and for a wonder his brother agreed without amendment.
The brothers passed down to the gulch, which formed the easiest route to their refuge, saying very little, and that in lowered tones. The confirmation so recently won served to stir their hearts deeply, and neither boy could as yet see a way out of the labyrinth that discovery most assuredly opened up before them.
“Of course we can't leave them there to drag on such a wretched existence,” declared Bruno. “We couldn't do that, even though we learned they held no relationship to Mr. Edgecombe. But—how?”
“I reckon it's—what?” abruptly spoke Waldo, gripping an arm and stopping short for a few seconds, but then impulsively springing onward again as wild sounds arose from no great distance.
A score of seconds later they caught sight of a huge grizzly bear in the act of falling upon a slender stripling, whose bronze hue as surely proclaimed one of the Aztec children from yonder Lost City.
What was to be done? Disobey their uncle, or leave this lad to perish?
Only a lad, slight-limbed and slenderly framed to the eye, yet for all that gifted with a gallant heart, else he surely must have been cowed to terror by the huge bulk of such a dire adversary at close quarters.
Instead of trying to find safety in headlong flight, the Indian stood at bay, with both hands firmly gripping the shaft of his copper-bladed spear, at far too close quarters for employing bow and arrows, while the copper knife in his sash was held in reserve for still closer work.
Snarling, growling, displaying its great teeth while clumsily waving enormous paws which bore talons of more than a finger-length, the bear was balanced upon its hindquarters, evidently just ready to lurch forward with striking paws and gnashing teeth.
Its enormous weight would prove more than sufficient to end the contest ere it fairly began, while a slight stroke from those taloned paws would both slay and mutilate.
No one was better aware of all this than the Indian lad himself, yet he took the initiative, swiftly darting his spear forward, lending to its keen point all the power of both arms and body. A suicidal act it certainly appeared, yet one which could scarcely make his position more perilous.
An awful roar burst from bruin as he felt that thrust, the blade sinking deep and biting shrewdly; but then he plunged forward, striking savagely as he dropped.
The Indian strove to leap backward an instant after delivering his stroke, but still clung to the spear-shaft. This hampered his action to a certain degree, yet in all probability that stout ashen shaft preserved his life, which that wound would otherwise have forfeited.
The stroke but brushed a shoulder, nor did a claw take fair effect, yet the stripling was felled to earth as though smitten by a thunderbolt.
All this before the brothers could solve the enigma thus offered them so unexpectedly; but that fall, and the awful rage displayed by the wounded grizzly as he briefly reared erect to grind asunder the spearshaft, decided the white lads, and, temporarily forgetting how dangerously nigh were yonder Aztecan hosts, both Bruno and Waldo opened fire with their Winchester rifles, sending shot after shot in swift succession into the bulky brute, fairly beating him backward under their storm of lead.
Victory came right speedily, but its finale was thrilling, if not fatal, the huge beast toppling forward to drop heavily upon the young savage, just as he was recovering sufficiently from shock and surprise to begin a struggle for his footing.
Firing another couple of shots while rifle-muzzle almost touched an ear, the brothers quickly turned attention towards the fallen Indian, more than half believing him a corpse, crushed out of shape upon the underlying rocks by that enormous carcass.
Fortunately for all concerned, the young Aztec was lying in a natural depression between two firm rocks, and while his extrication proved to be a matter of both time and difficulty, saying nothing of main strength, success finally rewarded the efforts of our young Samaritans.
The grizzly was stone-dead. The Indian seemed but a trifle better, though that came through compression rather than any actual wounds from tooth or talon. And the brothers themselves were fairly dismayed.
Not until that rescue was finally accomplished did either lad give thought to what might follow; but now they drew back a bit, interchanging looks of puzzled doubt and worry.
“Right in it, up to our necks, old man! And we can't very well kill the critter, can we?”
“Of course not; but it may cause us sore trouble if—”
Just then the young Aztec rallied sufficiently to move, drawing a step nearer the brothers, right hand coming out in greeting, while left palm was pressed close above his heart. And—still greater marvel!
“Much obliged—me, you, brother!”
If yonder bleeding grizzly had risen erect and made just such a salutation as this, it could scarcely have caused greater surprise to either Bruno or Waldo, looking upon this being, as they quite naturally did, in the light of a genuine “heathen,” hence incapable of speaking any known tongue, much less the glorious Americanese.
True, there was a certain odd accent, a curious dwelling upon each syllable, but the words themselves were distinctly pronounced and beyond misapprehension.
“Why, I took you for a howling Injun!” fairly exploded Waldo, then stepping forward to clasp the proffered member, giving it a regular “pump-handle shake” by way of emphasis. “And here you are, slinging the pure United States around just as though it didn't cost a cent, and you held a mortgage on the whole dictionary! Why, I can't—well, well, now!”
For once in a way the glib-tongued lad was at a loss just what to say and how to say it. For, after all, this surely was a redskin, and the professor had explicitly warned them against—oh, dear!
Was it all a dizzy dream? For the Aztec drew back, speaking rapidly in an unknown tongue, then sinking to earth like one overpowered by sudden physical weakness.
Bruno Gillespie, too, was recalling his uncle's earnest cautions, and now took prompt action. He quickly secured the weapons which had been scattered as the Indian fell before the grizzly's paw, then the brothers drew a little apart to consult together.
“What'll we do about it?” whisperingly demanded Waldo, keeping a wary eye upon yonder redskin. “You tell, for blamed if I know how!”
“We daren't let him go free, else he might fetch the whole tribe upon our track,” said Bruno, in the same low tones, no whit less sorely perplexed as to their wisest course.
“No, and yet we can't very well kill him, either! If we hadn't come along just as we did, or if—but he's a man, after all! Who could stand by and see that ugly brute make a meal off even an Injun?”
Bruno cast an uneasy look around, at the same time deftly refilling the partly exhausted magazine of his Winchester.
“Load up, Waldo. Burning powder reaches mighty far, even here in the hills; and who knows,—the whole tribe may come helter-skelter this way, to see what has broken loose! And we can't fight 'em all!”
“Not unless we just have to,” agreed the younger Gillespie, placing a few shells where they would be handiest in case of another emergency. “But what's the use of running, if we're to leave this fellow behind to blaze our trail? If he is our enemy—”
“No en'my; Ixtli friend,—heart-brother,” eagerly vowed the young Aztec, once again startling the lads by his strange command of a foreign tongue.
He rose to his feet, though plainly suffering in some slight degree from that brief collision with the huge beast, and smiling frankly into first one face, then the other, took Bruno's hand, touched it with his lips, then bowed his head and placed the whiter palm upon his now uncovered crown.
In like manner he saluted Waldo, after which he drew back a bit, still smiling genially, to add, in slowly spoken words:
“You save Ixtli. Bear kill—no; you kill—yes! Ixtli glad. Sun Children great—big heart full of love. So—Ixtli never do hurt, never do wrong; die for white brother—so!”
More through gesticulation than by speech, the young Indian brave made his sentiments clearly understood, and if they could have placed full dependence in that pledge, the brothers would have felt vastly relieved in mind.
But they only too clearly recalled numerous instances of cunning ill-faith, and, in despite of all, they could not well avoid thinking that this was really something like a white elephant thrown upon their hands.
“All right. Play we swallow it all, but keep your best eye peeled, old man,” guardedly whispered Waldo. “Fetch him along, yes or no, for it may be growing worse than dangerous right here, after so much shooting.”
“You mean for us to—”
“Take the fellow along, and keep him with us, until uncle Phaeton comes back to finally decide upon his case,” promptly explained Waldo. “Of course we ought to've let him die; ought, but didn't! We couldn't then, wouldn't now, if it was all to do over. So watch him so closely that he can't play tricks even if he wishes.”
There was nothing better to propose, and though the job promised to be an awkward one to manage, Ixtli himself rendered it more easy.
Past all doubt he could understand, as well as speak, the English language, for he took a step in evident submission, speaking gently:
“Ixtli ready; heart-brother say where go, now.”
Again the brothers felt startled by that quaintly correct accent, and almost involuntarily Bruno spoke in turn:
“You can talk English? When did you learn? And from whom?”
A still brighter smile irradiated the Aztec's face, and turning his eyes towards the secluded valley, he bowed his head as though in deep reverence, then softly, lovingly, almost adoringly, responded:
“SHE tell me how. Victo,—Glady, too. Ixtli know little, not much; his heart feel big for Sun Children, all time. So YOU, too, for kill bear,—like dat!”
Bruno turned a bit paler than usual, catching his breath sharply, as he repeated those names:
“Victo,—Glady,—Wasn't it by those names, Victoria, Gladys, that Mr. Edgecombe called his lost ones, Waldo?”
“I can't remember; but get a move on, old man. The sooner we're back where uncle Phaeton left us, where we can see a bit more of what may be coming, the safer my precious scalp will feel. This Injun—”
“No scalp,” quickly interposed the Aztec, with a deprecatory gesture to match his words. “You save Ixtli. Ixtli say no hurt white brothers. Dat so,—dat sure for truth!”
Only partially satisfied by this earnest disclaimer of evil intentions, Waldo gripped an arm and hurried the Aztec along, leaving the bear where it had fallen, intent solely upon reaching a comparatively safe outlook ere worse could follow upon the heels of their latest adventure.
And Bruno brought up the rear as guard, eyes and rifle ready.
No difficulty whatever was experienced in reaching that retreat, and milder prisoner never knew a guard than Ixtli proved himself to be, silently yielding to each impulse lent his arm by Waldo, smiling when, as sometimes happened, he was brought more nearly face to face with that armed rear-guard.
Nor were the Gillespie brothers worried by sound, sign, or token of more serious trouble from others of that strangely surviving race. And it was not long after reaching the rendezvous from which the professor had sailed in the early dawn, that the youngsters agreed the echoes of their Winchesters could not have reached the ears of the Lost City inhabitants.
“That's plenty good luck for one soup-bunch,” quoth Waldo, yet adding a dubious shake of the head as he gazed upon their bronzed companion. “And if it wasn't for this gentleman in masquerade costume—”
“Ixtli friend. Ixtli feel like heart-brother,” came in low, mellow accents from those smiling lips.
There certainly was naught of guile or of evil craft to be read in either eyes or visage, just then; but the brothers could not feel entirely at ease, even yet. How many times had warriors of his colour played a cunning part, only to end all by blow of tomahawk, thrust of knife, or bolt from the bended bow?
At a barely perceptible sign from Bruno, his brother drew apart, leaving their “white elephant” by himself, yet none the less under a vigilant guard.
“He seems all right, in his way,” muttered the elder Gillespie, “but how far ought we to trust him, after what we promised uncle Phaeton?”
“Not quite as far as we can see him, anyway. Still, a fellow can't find the stomach to bowl him over like a hare,—without a weenty bit of excuse, at least.”
“That's it! If he'd try to bolt, or would even jump on one of us, it would come far more easy. Look at him smile, now! And I hate to think of clapping such a bright-seeming lad in bonds!”
“Time enough for all that when he shows us cause,” quickly decided Waldo, with a vigorous nod of his curly pow. “Pity if a couple of us can't keep him out of mischief without going that far. And we want to pump the kid dry before uncle Phaeton gets back; understand?”
Bruno gave a slight start at these words, but his eye-glow and face-flush bore witness that the idea thus suggested had not been unthought of in his own case.
“Then you really think—”
“That there's more ways than one of skinning a cat,” oracularly observed Waldo. “Without showing it too mighty plainly, one or the other of us can always be ready and prepared to dump the laddy-buck, in case he tries to come any of his didoes. And, at the same time, we can be hugging up to him just as sweetly as though we knew he was on the dead level. Understand?”
Possibly the programme might have been a little more elegantly expressed, but Waldo, as a rule, cared more for substance than form, and his speech possessed one merit, that of perspicuity.
Having reached this fair understanding, the brothers dropped their aside, and moved nearer the young Aztec.
Ixtli gazed keenly into first one face, then the other, plainly enough endeavouring to read the truth as might be expressed therein, as related to himself. What he saw must have proved fairly satisfactory, since he gave another bright smile, then spoke in really musical tones:
“Good,—brother, now! That more good, too!”
In spite of the suspicions, which seem inborn where people of the red race are concerned, both Bruno and Waldo felt more and more drawn towards this remarkable specimen of a still more remarkable tribe; and not many more minutes had sped by ere the younger couple were chatting together in amicable fashion, although finding some little difficulty in Ixtli's rather limited vocabulary.
Not a little to his elder brother's impatience, Waldo apparently took a deeper interest in the recent adventure than in the subject which claimed his own busiest thoughts, but he hardly cared to crowd the youngster, lest he make matters even worse.
Aided by the sort of freemasonry which naturally exists between lads of an adventurous nature, Waldo readily succeeded in picking up considerable information from the Aztec, even before broaching that all-important matter.
Ixtli was the only son of a famed warrior and chieftain of the Aztecan clans, by name Aztotl, or the Red Heron. He, in common with so many of his people, had witnessed the approach and abrupt departure of the strange bird in the air, and had hastened forth in quest of the monster.
He failed to see aught more of the strange creature, but, disliking to return home without something to show for the trip, remained out over night, then chanced to fairly stumble into the way of a mighty grizzly.
There were a few moments during which he might possibly have escaped through headlong flight, but he was too proud for that, and but for the timely arrival and prompt action on the part of his white brothers would almost certainly have paid the penalty with his life.
Then followed more thanks and broken expressions of gratitude, all of which Waldo magnanimously waved aside as wholly unnecessary.
“Don't work up a sweat for a little thing like that, old man. Of course we saw you were an Injun and—ahem! I mean, how in time did you happen to catch hold of our lingo so mighty pat, laddy-buck?”
“My brother means to ask who taught you to speak as we do, Ixtli?” amended Bruno, catching at the wished-for opportunity now it offered.
“And who was that nice little gal with the yellow hair? Is she—what did you call her? Gladys—And the rest of it Edgecombe?”
Waldo was eager enough now that the ice was fairly broken, but his very volubility served to complicate matters rather than to hasten the desired information.
Ixtli apparently thought in English pretty much as he spoke it,—slowly, and with care. When hurried, his brain and tongue naturally fell back upon his native language.
Sounds issued through his lips, but, despite all their animation, these proved to be but empty sounds to the eager brothers. And, divining the truth, Bruno checked his brother, himself acting as questioner, pretty soon striking the right chord, after which Ixtli fared very well.
Still, thanks to his difficulty in finding the right words with which to express his full meaning, it took both time and patience for even Bruno to learn all he desired; and even if such a course would be desirable, lack of space forbids giving a literal record of questions and answers, since the general result of that cross-examination may be put so much more compactly before the generous reader.
The first point made clear was that the young Aztec owed his imperfect knowledge of the English language to certain Children of the Sun, whom he named as if christened Victo and Glady. With this as starting-point, the rest formed a mere question of time and perseverance.
Growing in animation as he proceeded, Ixtli told of the coming to their city of those glorious children; riding upon the wings of an awful storm, yet issuing unharmed, unawed, bright of face, as the mighty orb the sons of Anahuac worshipped.
He told how an envious few held to the contrary: that these fair-skins had come as evil emissaries from the still more evil Mictlanteuctli, mighty Lord of Death-land, who had laden them with pestilence and brain-sorrow and eye-darkness, with orders to devastate this, the last fair city of the ancient race.
With low, sternly suppressed tones, the young warrior went on to tell of what followed: of the wicked attempt made by those malcontents to punish the bearers of death and misery; then, his voice rising and growing more clear, he told how, from a clearing-sky, there came a single shaft flung by the mighty hand of the great god, Quetzalcoatl, before which the impious dog went down in everlasting death.
“Struck by lightning, eh?” interpreted Waldo, who seemed born without the influence of poetry. “Served him mighty right, too!”
Bowing submissively, although it could be seen he scarcely comprehended just what those blunt words were meant to convey, Ixtli spoke on, seemingly with perfect willingness, so long as the adored “Sun Children” formed the subject-matter.
From his laboured statement, Bruno gathered that the sudden death of one who had dared to lift an armed hand against the woman so mysteriously placed there in their very midst awed all opposition to the general belief in the divine origin of mother and child; and ere long Victo was installed as a sort of high priestess of the temple more especially devoted to the Sun God.
That was long ago, and when Ixtli was but a child. As he grew older, and his father, Red Heron, was appointed as chief of guards to the Sun Children, Victo took more notice of the lad, and ended in teaching him both the English tongue and its Christian creed, so far as lay in his power to comprehend.
Then came less pleasing information concerning the Children of the Sun, which went far to prove that the death of one evil-minded dog had not entirely purged the Lost City, and it was with harsher tones and frowning brows that Ixtli spoke of the head priest, or paba, Tlacopa the evil-minded, who had built up a powerful and dangerous sentiment against both Victo and Glady, even going so far as to declare before the holy stone of sacrifice that the Mother of Gods demanded these falsely titled Children of the Sun.
“The fair-faced God must come soon, or too late!” sighed the Aztec, bowing his head in joined palms the better to conceal his evident grief. “He has promised to come, but hurry! They die—they die!”
This was hardly an acceptable stopping-point, but questioning was of little avail just then. Satisfied of so much, the brothers drew apart a short distance, yet keeping where they could guard their more or less dangerous charge, conversing in low tones over the information so far gleaned from the Aztec's talk.
“Well, we'll hold a tight grip on him, anyway, until uncle Phaeton gets back,” finally decided Waldo, speaking for his brother as well.