DISASTER
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.
“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.