THE CHUMS SHOW THEIR METTLE
In Cuzco, while final plans were made and supplies were being assembled,
the chums were free, for several days, to explore. Bill had shown them
their map, which he had kept out of Mr. Grey’s note when he coaxed the
eaglet to his camp. The map did not mean much to them, but to Bill, who
had already gone alone over the passes to be sure there was a hidden
city, the map was quite clear. They would go on foot over the mountains,
he said. It was safer than by muleback: some of the passes were quite
narrow and dangerous, although he could show the best ones to them.
The chums were rather depressed that they could not accompany Mr.
Whitley and Bill: however they agreed to make the best of it, and with
the naturally buoyant spirits of youths in a new place they went about
and had a fine time.
One of the people they met was a youth, quite near their own ages. He
spoke a little English and acted as their guide.
None of them, nor their older companions, suspected his real purpose,
but it was divulged, one day, as they were in a meaner quarter of the
city where some of the natives of Peru, degraded and listless remains of
a once noble race, had their poor homes.
“Come—here—I show—how I live!” said their young guide. They all followed
him into a low room in an old building, squat and roughly built of a
composition something like the _adobe_ of the Mexicans.
But once they were inside they turned in dismay. The youth was not alone
with them: three fierce looking half-caste men, part Inca, part Spanish,
rose from a dark corner: one slammed the rude door and fastened it.
“Now,” he said, “you stay here.”
“What’s the big idea?” demanded Nicky hotly, relapsing into slang in his
excitement.
“You see!” said the man. He and his companions held a low-voiced
conference and then one of them rose and was gone: his malevolent
looking friends gave the door a vicious slam and shot its bolt.
“What are you going to do with us?” demanded Tom.
“We keep you. When that tall one—” he meant Mr. Whitley,”—start for Lima
once more, we let you go!”
“You daren’t!” cried Nicky, and made a dash for the window. But Tom and
Cliff restrained him.
“We’ll have the police—or whatever they’re got here!” Nicky said. He
gave a shout. But one of the men advanced with a very threatening
gesture.
“Keep quiet,” Tom urged and Cliff added, “we’re in a strange place.” He
counseled, “We have to keep our heads. We’ll find a way out but not by
making a disturbance. We don’t know these men or this part of town: we
don’t know the customs they have. If we keep quiet they may let us go or
relax their guard.”
“But then our trip’s ruined!” argued Nicky.
“Yes,” said Cliff, morosely, “and my father is the worst sufferer if he
is still alive. But we are trapped. We must do our best to get out of it
before they send that man to Mr. Whitley.”
“He’s already gone,” grumbled Nicky.
“No he isn’t. He’s just outside. I see him through the window. He’s
rolling a cigarette out there by a post.”
“He’s waiting for someone,” said Tom, “I see him.”
“Tom,” whispered Nicky, “your uncle gave you a pistol, didn’t he? Have
you got it? Let’s shoot our way out!”
That was Nicky all over! He was excitable and quick. He knew that Tom
had been trusted to carry a light .22-caliber revolver given him by his
uncle, because Tom had a cool head and would not abuse the possession.
It was more for signalling, than for a fight.
“Easy, Nicky!” counseled Tom, “We don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“No,” chimed in Cliff, “we’re outnumbered and we don’t know how
dangerous this neighborhood may be. Besides, if we do anything to get
into police courts it will make us tell what we are going to do and that
will upset all Mr. Whitley’s plans.”
“They’re upset already,” Nicky grumbled, “That man’s gone——”
“No he isn’t,” Tom replied, “He’s waiting outside, by a post—I can see
him through the window. There! Why—I believe the very same Indian we saw
by the temple is giving him money!”
“Yes—I’m sure it’s the same one,” Cliff said, “He’s coming in.”
The tall Indian, or Inca noble, for he was really that, was admitted.
The two waiting men stretched out eager hands.
“We get them,” said one, “You pay. We go.” Then he remembered that he
spoke a half-halting English, and repeated it in dialect.
The Indian paid them some money and the two men, as if glad to be away,
left quickly. The boy came in, acting shamefaced, but trying to look
cheerful. He, too, stretched out a hand.
“Now—if only we had some way to take these two by surprise,” began Tom.
“Sh-h-h!” warned Nicky, “They’ll hear you.”
Cliff reminded him that the Indian had not understood the half-breeds
when one spoke in English, and that the boy had to stop and translate.
He spoke in low, eager tones.
“Nicky, what did you do with that little box of magnesium powder you
took out of the supplies this morning? You were going to try to take a
daylight kodak picture inside a temple by flashlight. If you had it,
now——”
“I have,” Nicky whispered, “but——”
“Listen. Here’s a plan. It may work. It would play on the superstitions
of these fellows. They are both natives and I don’t think either one has
seen a flashlight, or an electric torch. If we could make them think we
were powerful magicians and could burn them, they might be scared enough
to be off guard——”
“It’s an idea!” exulted Tom, “I have that small burning glass,
Cliff—suppose I got to the window, and set the burning glass so it
focuses, while the man is paying the boy. Then——” That was Cliff’s idea,
too. Tom moved quietly over and pretended to look out of the window.
Really, he was adjusting a small lens, hidden by his hand on the stone
window ledge, so it focused the sun rays in one spot. On Cliff’s
instructions Nicky maneuvered his body to help conceal the tiny lens
from the sight of the others. Tom opened the flash powder box, a small,
single charge of magnesium powder which, when ignited, makes a great
white flash and a big puff of smoke, but is not dangerous.
The boy turned from being paid.
“Listen,” Cliff commanded, “You—tell—that—man—” he spoke slowly and
impressively, “—we—are—going—away—from—here. If—he—tries—to—stop—us,
we—will—burn—him—up!”
The boy stared. Cliff repeated his words. The boy, mystified,
translated. The man laughed scornfully. Cliff drew a small pocket
electric flashlamp into view. In a dark corner he played the rays while
the natives stared. Then, suddenly, he pointed a dramatic finger at the
tiny box on the window ledge. The natives stared at it curiously, not
knowing what to expect.
“Tell—him—we—burn—that—box—to—show—what happen—to you—if—you—stop us!”
Cliff said with a bold and threatening expression. The boy spoke in
dialect and both seemed unable to take their eyes off the box.
Cliff made a sign to Tom who pushed the small box into the focus of the
lens which Nicky screened from the natives’ view. Cliff pressed his
light switch, and pointed the ray with a few signs of his free hand.
Nothing happened!
The man laughed and the boy snickered. Nicky began to feel weak and
cold; but Cliff stood his ground.
Then, so suddenly as to startle even Nicky, the focused rays ignited the
powder: there was a dull “boop!” and a blinding glare.
Before the smoke had risen and began to spread Cliff whispered,
“Now—make for the door!”
Holding the flashlight pointed at the boy until the latter cowered back
against the man, Cliff led his chums to the door. He fumbled with the
catch: the man made a move as if to grapple with him but Cliff threw the
ray into his eyes and he flung up his arm, instinctive fear of something
not understood overcoming his wit. Cliff unfastened the clumsy catch,
the chums fled to the street and were off like young gazelles.
“They’ll find the lens!” Nicky panted.
“What do we care?” demanded Tom, “They won’t get us!”
Of course all plans had to be altered; the youths could not be left
behind. They were glad that in trying to prevent the expedition the
Indian had only made their part in it certain.
On a fine evening, with all the natives engaged, and with all supplies
packed, and with their course through the mountains carefully
determined, they went to sleep for the last time in a civilized hotel—if
the mean accommodations of the place they had selected could be called
“civilized.” Mr. Whitley’s Lima friend had not proved a very good
adviser. However, bright and early the next clear, temperate day—for
Cuzco was not in the hotter lowlands where tropical heat was
fiercest—they began their real adventure.
Bill and Mr. Whitley were in advance: then came the natives, laden with
quite heavy packs, under which they toiled along on an ever ascending
slope, singing native chants and talking in their unintelligible jargon.
Behind them came the Mystery Boys, also laden with packs containing
personal things and articles they wished to protect from prying eyes.
“We’re on our way,” they told each other and felt like capering at the
certainty that in trying to frustrate their plans the Indian had made it
possible for them to go along.
Up in the hills a tall, well built Indian stood with several companions,
watching the lower passes.
One day, as the comrades toiled along, entering the real mountains, the
vigilant watcher turned toward his companions.
“Brother, they come!” he said.
“They come—yes,” agreed his nearest aide, a noble of the old and almost
extinct true-blooded Incas, “They come—yes.”
He made a meaning gesture.
“But—they will not come back!”
That same day Cliff borrowed Bill’s field glasses and focused them on a
small band, toiling along far behind them.
“I think we’re being followed—I’ve noticed that group several times,” he
told the older members of their party.
They agreed, and frequently thereafter the followers were observed, but
always too far behind to enable the chums to guess their identity. Was
it the Spaniard? Was it the Indian?
Many days passed and they were well in the high cliffs before they
learned the truth!