HITTING THE TRAIL
“Return to Cartagena!” Ken exclaimed after he had reread the message
delivered to Mr. Livingston. “Of all the miserable luck, this is the
worst!”
“I thought we were headed for the emerald mine,” Willie added, sunk in
gloom. “Why did Corning send for us anyway, if he doesn’t want us here?”
Mr. Livingston was unable to explain the strange communication. The
failure of the mining engineer to meet his party had worried him more
than he had confessed to the Scouts.
“Hey, before we start packing, let me put in my two cents worth,” spoke
up Jack. “How did Corning know we were at this hotel?”
“That’s right!” Ken exclaimed, startled by the implication of the
other’s question. “Maybe the message is phony!”
“Sent by Mrs. Rhodes or Ferd Baronni,” suggested Warwick. “Jack and I
know they’re up to something! They don’t want us to go on to the mine.”
“What’s more, Mrs. Rhodes promised the company agent she’d take care of
the matter,” Jack went on. “Before we act hastily, shouldn’t we try to
check on this message?”
“I’ll do it myself,” Mr. Livingston offered. “Wait here for me.”
For nearly two hours the Scout leader was absent from the hotel. When
finally he rejoined the Explorers, his face was grave.
“Learn anything?” War eagerly greeted him as he entered the bedroom
where the Scouts awaited him.
“I did. The message, supposedly from Appleby, was delivered to the hotel
by a boy, but it never came from the telegraph communications office.”
“Then Mr. Corning couldn’t have sent it?” questioned Ken.
“I’m fairly certain he didn’t. The message must be a fake.”
“Any idea who sent it?” asked Jack.
“An idea, yes. But no proof. We couldn’t trace the message.”
“I take it, we’ll not obey the instructions,” Jack remarked, well
pleased by the investigation.
“No, I’m more than ever in favor of pushing on to the mine above Emerald
Valley. We can’t get there soon enough to please me. I have a feeling
Appleby didn’t meet us because he’s in bad trouble.”
“How soon can we get out of here?” asked Ken quietly.
“We can catch a plane to Bogota in an hour. I’ve already booked
reservations.”
“Any chance Mr. Corning may show up here after we leave?” speculated
Willie, quickly starting to gather his scattered belongings.
Mr. Livingston replied that the possibility seemed a remote one. “Except
for the enjoyment we’ve had in seeing the banana plantations, I think it
was a mistake to come here,” he admitted.
“You believe Ferd Baronni deliberately threw us off the track?”
“I’m afraid so, Willie. For some reason, he doesn’t want us to go on to
the mine—possibly for fear of what we may learn. This trip to Santa
Marta, I suspect, was only to keep us occupied.”
“Then if we waited a month, you don’t think Mr. Corning ever would show
up here?”
“That’s my slant. I’ve been unable to locate any of those close friends
Appleby was supposed to have here. To be on the safe side, I’ll leave a
letter for him here at the hotel. Now pack your duds, fellows. We
haven’t much time.”
The plane flight to Bogota proved an uneventful but thrilling experience
for the Scouts. Accustomed as they were to air travel, they were awed
nevertheless, by breath-taking views of the vast Magdalena valley,
forests of deep green, and the great ranges of the Andes which divided
the land into isolated plateaus and valleys.
At the capital city, the party lingered half a day before taking a bus
to a little Colombian village high in the cool hills. During their brief
stay in Bogota, Jack and Mr. Livingston twice visited the mining company
office. The official in charge, they learned, had absented himself on a
week’s holiday.
“We can’t wait for him,” Mr. Livingston decided. “We’re going on to the
mine.”
Late the next morning, the bus deposited them in the chilly little
village which served as a take-off point for the mine. The trail which
the Scouts were to follow wound sharply upward toward a line of rugged
mountain peaks and a narrow pass. Somewhere beyond, lay the Last Chance
mine.
Their lagging spirits revived by rolls and hot spiced chocolate, the
Scouts set about making arrangements for mules to take them up the
zigzag trail to their destination.
From their Indian guide, Jose, Mr. Livingston learned that Appleby
Corning had not been seen in the village for many weeks. His absence had
occasioned no alarm, for the engineer usually remained secluded at the
mine for months at a time.
“Senora come here today,” the guide reported.
“Senora?” Mr. Livingston repeated in surprise. “What Senora, Jose?”
“The Senora that go on to mine. Wife of engineer there.”
“Corning has no wife to my knowledge,” Mr. Livingston replied. “You
don’t mean the wife of McClellan Rhodes?”
“_Si, Senor._” The little guide pulled his _ruana_ more tightly about
his shoulders as protection from the chill wind. “She leave on trail at
dawn. Join husband there.”
The information that Mrs. Rhodes had gone ahead of them was most
disconcerting to the Scouts. Mr. Livingston was especially troubled to
learn that the deposed engineer might be at the mine.
“This may explain though, why Appleby didn’t meet us,” he told the
Explorers. “With McClellan Rhodes on the scene, he might hesitate to
leave, even for a few days.”
“Mrs. Rhodes sure must have traveled like a house afire to get here
ahead of us,” Willie remarked thoughtfully. Turning to Jose, he
inquired: “So went on to the mine? Not alone?”
“No, _Senor_, with a guide. Senora know trail well. Travel light. Shoot
straight like a man. Good traveler.”
“I hope you’re mistaken about her going to the mine to join her
husband,” Mr. Livingston said, frowning. “Rhodes shouldn’t be there. At
least it was my understanding that Corning sent him packing when he took
over.”
“Senora go to be with husband,” the guide repeated. “At emerald mine
changes come fast. Today one engineer—tomorrow another.”
The Indian’s information increased Mr. Livingston’s eagerness to be
away. He urged that the loading of the animals be hastened.
After numerous and vexing delays, the Scout party finally set off single
file into the hills. Considerable equipment had to be taken, for the
Explorers repeatedly had been warned that they must expect extremes of
heat and cold, often within an eight or ten mile stretch of trail.
“Odd that a road never was built to the mine,” Willie remarked as he
trudged along.
“Not so odd,” Jack returned. “The government never has been eager to
make the mining area accessible. Emeralds are too easily stolen.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Livingston backed him up. “About the only equipment
needed for emerald mining is a strong back, a pick axe and a crowbar.
Laborers are kept under contract and during the period of their service,
not permitted to leave the area. That’s to prevent theft of emeralds.”
“I’d like to find an emerald while we’re at the mine,” War remarked
eagerly. “A great big one!”
The others laughed. “Don’t worry,” Jack teased him. “If you do find one,
you won’t be allowed to walk off with it.”
“For that matter, the size of an emerald isn’t as important as its shape
and color,” Mr. Livingston added.
Before the Scouts had been long on the steep, winding trail, they noted
evidence that Mrs. Rhodes, traveling fast, was well ahead of them. At a
spring they came upon her heel marks, and Willie picked up a lacy
handkerchief with the letter “R” embroidered in one corner.
“It’s Mrs. Rhodes, all right,” he asserted gloomily. “I’d hoped Jose was
wrong.”
“She’s making better time than we are,” Jack nodded in chagrin.
Skirting outthrusts of rock, the Scouts continued to follow a fairly
well outlined trail. As the sun rose higher, they could see sharp peaks
with caps of snow outlined against the blue sky. Climbing above the
desolate little farms to a world of chilly isolation, they met no one.
Higher and higher they struggled, marveling anew at the remarkable
stamina of the woman ahead.
“You got to hand it to her,” Willie admitted grudgingly. “She’s tough.”
“Don’t waste any sympathy or admiration,” Jack advised. “That old gal
has a grim purpose that is driving her on.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could toss a stick,” Willie
answered quickly. “The mere fact that she’s going to the mine makes me
suspicious.”
“If it’s true her husband is at Emerald Valley, that’ll make two of ’em
to gang up on us,” interposed War soberly. “I guess Appleby Corning will
be glad to see us arrive. He may be in a spot.”
Descending into a valley area where the trail was nearly obliterated by
dense foliage and creepers, the Scouts encountered rain. It let up by
late afternoon. Nevertheless, Mr. Livingston decided to camp early.
War and Willie soon had a fire going which enabled them to dry out other
wood for use during the night. Damp clothing was hung on a quickly
constructed rack near the heat.
By the time supper was ready, everyone felt quite comfortable. Jack and
the guide looked after the pack animals, while the other Scouts cleaned
up the camp for the night.
Returning to the fire, Jack stood for a moment with his back to the
flames. The night had closed in dark and with a hint of more rain.
“Y’know, I’ve had an uneasy feeling the last hour or so,” he confessed
in a low voice.
Ken, busy laying out his eiderdown sleeping bag, quickly raised his
head. “Uneasy?” he repeated. “About going on to the mine, you mean?”
Jack kept his voice low. “It’s not that, Ken. I’ve had an odd feeling
that someone has been trailing us, even before we made camp.”
He expected Ken to laugh, but the other accepted his remark seriously.
“I’ve had the same feeling, Jack. The foliage is so dense here that one
gets that closed in sensation. But who would follow us? Not Mrs.
Rhodes?”
“No, she couldn’t have doubled back because there’s no other trail.”
“I’ve thought several times in the last hour that I’ve heard a rustling
among the foliage, Jack. Wild animals probably. All the same, I think
I’ll look around.”
“I already have, Ken. No sign of anyone.”
“We’re just being jittery.”
“Maybe,” Jack agreed, not completely convinced. “We’d better keep a good
fire going tonight, just in case.”
Feeding the dying flames with another cut log, he started into the tent.
Just then he was startled by a slight rustling of leaves almost directly
behind. He and Ken both turned swiftly. Their pulses began to pound.
Against the dark foliage, a man stood clearly outlined. He was armed. As
they stood frozen, he spoke a sharp command in Spanish, and came slowly
toward them.