HOSTILE INDIANS
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!