A POISONED ARROW
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 an _atlatl_ or 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!”