A MYSTERIOUS FOLLOWER
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, but _muy 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, unless _Senor_ unpack.”
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!”