I
Meanwhile, Dick, wandering through Callao until the time came to call
for Maria-Teresa, was strolling up the Calle de Lima. He had just come
from the Darsena docks, where the harbor engineers had been giving him
news the reverse of cheerful. In the present condition of the country,
they said, any venture in the deserted gold-mines of the Cuzco was
hopeless.
The last two days had brought news of fighting from the other end of the
country. Or, at all events, cartridges were being used up, even if
there was no attendant damage. Everybody had thought Garcia feasting
at Arequipa, but the pretender had evaded his enemies and attacked the
Republican forces between Sicuani and the Cuzco. It was even rumored
that Cuzco itself had fallen into his hands.
Were all this true, the outlook for Dick’s affairs was bad. His company,
thanks to the influence of the Marquis de la Torre, had obtained a
concession from President Veintemilla, This would not be worth the paper
it was written on if Garcia proved victorious. Super-active by nature,
the young engineer could not endure the thought of the long months of
enforced idleness before him until the revolution had been settled in
one way or another.
As he came into the Calle de Lima, Dick pulled out his watch. He
found that he still had a few minutes to spare. Much as she loved him,
Maria-Teresa did not like being interrupted at her work, so he
turned into the Circulo de los Amigos de las Artes for a drink. This
establishment, though baptized a club, was in reality a huge café and
reading-room. The ground floor was packed with people discussing the
latest events. Cuzco was in every mouth, and it was noticeable that
Veintemilla’s warmest partizans now had a good word to say for Garcia.
A stampede of shock-headed newsboys, shouting the latest edition of
an official paper, tore past the café, scattering still wet sheets and
collecting coppers. One of the customers climbed onto a table and
read out a proclamation by the President, urging calm and giving a
categorical denial to the report of the capture of Cuzco. General Garcia
and his troops, the President announced, were bottled up in Arequipa,
all the sierra defiles were in the hands of Government troops, and the
traitors would be hurled into the sea or chased into the great sand
deserts. The proclamation concluded with a reference to Indian troubles
in the suburbs, attributing them to the usual Interaymi effervescence,
and dismissing them as negligible. Cheers for the President ended the
reading of his manifesto. Wavering allegiances were at once restored,
and it was generally agreed that his statement was superb.
Dick left the café a little happier, though he did not really place
a great deal of faith in the official denial. Night had fallen and
he walked briskly, now fearing that he might be late. As he went, he
remembered his first day’s walk through this same labyrinth of narrow
streets. Then he caught sight of his fiancée’s verandah in the distance,
and noticed that the window was open, as on the first day.
There she sat, the little business-woman, with her brass-covered green
registers. What a manly little brain it was! And to think that the pair
of them had been such fools over that Golden Sun bracelet... Something
to laugh about in after years, that!
“Hello, Maria-Teresa!”
There was no answer, and Dick walked up to the window.
“Maria-Teresa!”
Still no answer. He peered into the room, trying to see where she was
hiding. Nobody there.
“Good God! Maria-Teresa!”
He walked into the room. There could be no doubt of it. That table
knocked down, those books on the floor, that curtain torn from its
rings, this broken pane in the window told the story. Silence greeted
his shout for help. Not a servant, not a soul in the place, and all the
doors open! “Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”
Hardly knowing what he did, Dick ran into the deserted courtyard, and
then back into the office. There could be no doubt of it. Huascar and
his Indians had carried her off. That dog Huascar, whom she trusted,
and who loved her, not as a dog should, but as if he were a man.
Horror-stricken, furious, Dick searched the room for some clue.
The scoundrels! He swore aloud as he pictured Maria-Teresa struggling
in Huascar’s arms and calling for help in vain. That was where he should
have been, instead of listening to all those fools in the café. He could
have laid his hands on Huascar then! That was the man they should have
watched instead of being thrown off the scent by all those wild-cat
legends about the Bride of the Sun.
An Indian in love with a white girl and thirsting for revenge! Of
course! He saw it all now, and remembered how Huascar had last left that
same room, driven out by Maria-Teresa. The insolent dog, with his fist
raised in menace!
As idea after idea swept across his brain, Dick stared helplessly at the
blank walls about him. What could he do? He jumped back into the
street and hesitated. No clue here--only the doors of closed stores and
sightless walls--a pit of gloom.
Suddenly he heard voices, and leaped into action. At the corner of the
street there, under that lantern, was a wine-shop, the only living thing
in this dead street. He ran toward it, kicked the door open, and almost
fell on top of Domingo, the night watchman.
“Where is your mistress?”
Domingo, taken aback, mumbled indistinctly. He thought that the señorita
had returned to Lima as usual with the señor. The motor had gone by just
a little while ago.
“What motor?”
Domingo shrugged his shoulders. There were not so many motors as all
that in Callao and Lima.
“Who was driving?”
“The boy.”
“Libertad?”
“Si, señor, Libertad.”
“Did he say anything to you as he went past?”
“No, señor, he did not see me.”
“Did you see your mistress?”
“The hood was up, señor, and the motor was traveling fast.... Nay,
señor!... That is the truth. I swear it!”
Dick seized the man by the collar, and shook him like a rat
“What were you doing here? Why were you not with your mistress, at your
post?”
“I meant no harm, señor. A Quichua offered me a drink here... real
pisco, señor.”
Dick, without listening, dragged the protesting man through the streets
and into the empty office. When he realized what had happened, Domingo
would have torn his hair out with grief, but Dick, seizing him by the
throat, drove him to the wall and looked into his eyes. A fool or a
traitor, which was he?
Told to speak, and speak quickly, Domingo answered Dick’s volley of
questions without a minute’s hesitation. The señorita could not have
been carried off without the aid of Libertad, a rascally half-breed to
whom the señorita had given work out of pity. The day and hour had been
chosen by some one who knew the place well, for on Saturday afternoons
there were no workmen or clerks on the premises.
“When you went out to drink, was the motor already waiting?”
“Yes, señor. It had been there half an hour.”
“Was the hood up?”
“No, señor. Libertad was sitting in it alone.” Releasing his grip, Dick
dashed into the street again and started running toward the main avenue.
If Maria-Teresa had been carried off in her own motor, it would be easy
to trace her part of the way. As Domingo had said, there were not so
many cars about.
As he dashed round a corner, Dick came into sharp collision with a man
emerging from a doorway, who swore vigorously. Dick recognized him at
once, and gave such a shout that the chief of police, for it was he,
fell into a posture of defense.
“Forgive me, señor.... I am Dick Montgomery... the fiancé of Señorita de
la Torre.... She has been carried off by the Indians!...”
“Doña Maria-Teresa? That is not possible!” In a few words, Dick told the
little old gentleman what had happened, and gave him his suspicions. He
found ready sympathy and belief.
“I was on my way to dine with a friend just opposite. A minute while I
tell them that I cannot come, and I am with you.”
He hurried across the street while Dick, with an indignant snort, moved
on toward the harbor, questioning shopkeepers and pedestrians as he
went. So far as he could gather, the motor had about half-an-hour’s
start of them.
Dick was convinced that he had seen the last of the Chief of Police.
In this he did the little man an injustice, for he had hardly gone two
hundred yards before he heard footsteps behind him.
“You did not wait, señor? Well, here I am. Natividad is always to be
counted upon.”
Though his real name was Perez, the Chief of Police was known throughout
the city as Natividad, a nickname earned him by his cherubic face,
and of which he was rather proud. Dick found the little man hot enough
against the Indians even for his taste. Natividad hated the Quichuas,
and believed them capable of anything.
Just before they reached the harbor, at the corner of the narrow Calle de
San Lorenzo, Natividad seized Dick by the arm and drew him to the wall.
The street was deserted, and lighted only by feeble rays from a low
glass-paned door a few steps ahead. This door had just been opened,
and a man peered out cautiously. Dick stifled a desire to shout. He had
recognized Huascar!
The Indian whistled, and two shadows, wearing wide-brimmed Indian
sombreros, detached themselves from the wall at the other end of the
street. They rejoined Huascar, who had closed the door behind him, and
exchanged a few rapid words. Then the two walked off in the direction of
the harbor, and Huascar disappeared as he had come.
Natividad, pressed against the wall, held Dick’s hand in a grip that
imposed silence. “Why is it? What does it mean? Perhaps she is in
there,” the young man whispered.
Signing the engineer to stop talking, Natividad crept toward the door,
and at the risk of being discovered, peeped through the uncurtained
panes. Dick, looking over his shoulder, saw a room full of Indians
sitting at tables, but neither smoking nor drinking. Huascar was walking
up and down between the tables, in deep thought Then he vanished up a
staircase leading to some room on the first floor.
Natividad had apparently seen enough, for he dragged Dick into the
shadow of a neighboring porch.
“I cannot make it out,” he said. “What are they all doing here during
the Interaymi? I thought every Quichua in the city had left for the
mountains. There should not be one here for the next ten days. But
I cannot believe Huascar has anything to do with the kidnaping. He
wouldn’t tell his secret to all the Indians of Peru, when he knows that
nearly every one of them can be bought for a few centavo!”
“Wait before you make up your mind. We can at all events find the motor.
I am sure Huascar knows where Maria-Teresa is. We must not lose sight of
him.”
“We shall not have to wait long,” replied Natividad, stiffening at a
fresh noise from the other end of the calle. “Here are those Indians
coming back with horses.... What does it mean?... Madré de Dios!... Is
it possible?... The Interaymi!... Silence!”
The clatter of hoofs on the cobbled roadway showed that quite a strong
cavalcade was approaching, and the watchers drew back farther to the
shelter of an alley nearly opposite the low door, and from which they
could still see all that was happening round it. As the cavalcade rode
up, the door opened again, showing all the Indians standing up, and
apparently waiting for somebody.
Huascar appeared first; after him an Indian whom Dick recognized at
once for the Red Preacher of Cajamarca; lastly a man in a lounge-suit of
impeccable cut:--Oviedo Huayna Runtu himself. Then an incredible thing
happened. All these men who had remained motionless before Huascar and
the priest bent on their knees, humbled their heads to the ground before
the bank-clerk.
The troop of horses and mules had halted before the low door, and men
with lanterns came out of the house. The bank-clerk was the first to
vault into the saddle, Huascar holding his stirrup. Then Huascar and the
Cajamarca priest mounted, ranging themselves on each side of the leader,
but just behind him.
Huascar turned in his saddle and made a sign. Every Indian in the party
threw open his poncho, showing beneath it, in the light of the lanterns,
another cloak of brilliant red.
“The Red Ponchos!” gasped Natividad, grasping Dick’s arm.
There was a whistle at the end of the street, answered by another a
long way off, at the other end of the Darsena quay,... and the cavalcade
started.
Dick made as if to follow, but Natividad held him back.
“Wait, and listen! We must know which way they are going!”
II
Hunched forward, he listened, then turned to his companion.
“The Chorillos road. Unless I am much mistaken, they are following the
motor.”
“Come on; we must get after them! Where can we get horses?”
“Follow me. We can do better than that. We have the telephone and the
railway.” And once again he took up his litany:--“The Red Ponchos! The
Red Ponchos!”
“What do you mean by that?... Red or gray, it’s all one.... Those men
belong to Huascar’s band, and helped him.... That seems pretty clear to
me.”
“Quite right, quite right. I agree with you now, young sir,” replied
Natividad, puffing by Dick’s side as they hurried toward the railway
station. “Yes, indeed. They are all in it.... The Red Ponchos.... The
Priests of the Sun.” Dick stopped dead. Natividad’s last words at last
made him understand. He remembered, in a flash, all the legends told by
Aunt Agnes and old Irene. And they had seen fit to laugh.
“Good God!” he groaned, and began running again. As he ran, he shouted
to his companion:--“But we’ll catch them yet, and you’ll arrest them
all!”
“I shall do what I can. But there are at least thirty of them, and there
are not enough troops in Callao to send a squadron in pursuit.... Every
soldier the city could spare has been sent into the sierra against
Garcia.”
“You can telephone to Lima.”
“And they’ll take me for a madman, as they did ten years ago,” replied
Natividad enigmatically.
“Will we get to Chorillos before them?”
“Yes, there’s a train in ten minutes’ time.”
“It seems to me we would have done better to follow on horseback. Then
we could have found out where they were going. Thirty of them, are
there? Only damned Indians, though. I wouldn’t mind tackling the lot
myself.”
“This way is the best....” And Natividad added in an undertone: “They
wouldn’t believe me ten years ago. Well, it’s beginning again.” Dick,
intent on reaching the railway station, did not hear him. He could only
think of those mysterious Indians on the highroad out there. “We shall
lose their track,” he groaned.
“You need not fear that,” replied the Chief of Police. “Their road runs
alongside the railway line. If we see a motor waiting on it, we stop the
train. If we overhaul the Red Ponchos alone, we go on to Chorillos, and
wait for them there. I’ll see that the police expect them. Nothing is
lost yet, Señor Montgomery.”
At the railway station, Natividad found he had just time to telephone
his instructions to the Chorillos police. No motor coming from the
direction of Callao was to be allowed to pass.
They were talking to the guard of the express when a Lima train steamed
into the station, and they saw the Marquis, Uncle Francis and little
Christobal appear.
“Where is Maria-Teresa?” shouted the Marquis as he caught sight of Dick,
and ran toward him. “Why are you alone? Where is she? What has happened?
Speak, boy!”
Little Christobal, clinging to Dick’s legs, reiterated his father’s
questions, while Uncle Francis’ long shanks took him wandering aimlessly
round the little group. The guard blew his whistle, and Natividad pushed
them all into a carriage just as the train started.
“Yes, she has been carried off by the Indians, but we know where she is.
She is at Chorillos.” Dick’s attempt to reduce the force of the blow to
the Marquis partly succeeded. Then he explained what he knew while Don
Christobal, raging in his corner, swore to kill with his own hands every
Quichua in the country. Little Christobal, understanding only that his
sister was lost, sobbed bitterly.
But what had given the others the alarm? The Marquis explained that Aunt
Agnes and Irene, going to church for the evening angelus, found that the
Golden Sun bracelet had been stolen from the shrine of the Virgin of San
Domingo. They had returned home in a panic, to find the Marquis nearly
distracted with fear. Going to his club for the first time in a week,
he had there found an anonymous letter warning him to watch over his
daughter day and night throughout the Interaymi. This letter, a twin
of the one received at Cajamarca, had been waiting some days. It
particularly warned him not to allow his daughter to go to Callao on
Saturday. It was then seven o’clock, and going home to find that neither
Maria-Teresa nor Dick were back, he had at once rushed to Callao. Little
Christobal, refusing to listen to orders, had followed his father and
Uncle Francis.
Dick listened like one demented. He was silent, but his mind was in
a turmoil. To think of such a thing! In a country where people used
telephones and traveled by rail! It was too horrible, too incredible,
yet horribly credible. There was no doubt in his mind now as to the
reasons for the abduction.
Natividad, closely questioned by the Marquis, finished by telling all he
knew, and left them little hope. While loth to cause pain, he could
not disguise certain facts. In a sense, too, he was triumphant. A
conscientious official, he had once almost ruined his administrative
career by certain reports on Quichua customs, dealing notably with the
ritual murder of women and children. He had been laughed at, and called
a lunatic--now the Red Ponchos were at work again.
The silence of despair greeted his words. Then, anxious to reassure
them, the little old gentleman insisted that the Indians could not go
far with their precious burden. All the defiles of the sierra were
held by Veintemilla’s troops. They would always give assistance to the
police, and the Indians were bound to run into them as soon as they left
the costa. The chief thing was not to lose the trail.
They had now reached the point where the railway line joined the
highroad running parallel to the sea, and all eyes were fixed on the
great white band stretching out there in the moonlight. At first, it was
bordered by a few tumble-down cabins and bamboo cottages, but soon there
was only the nakedness of a huge sandy plain before them. Dick, the
Marquis and Natividad, grouped at the windows, searched the night, while
Uncle Francis took little Christobal in his arms and strove to console
him. But the boy insisted on being held up, that he also might see out,
moaning the while: “Maria-Teresa, Maria-Teresa!... Why have they taken
my big sister?... Maria-Teresa!”
Suddenly, the same cry broke from them all: “The motor!” There it was,
standing before the gates of a lonely hacienda. Natividad almost tore
out the emergency cord, and the train, with a grinding of brakes, slowed
down and then stopped. They tumbled to the line, Natividad shouting to
the guard to go on, and send back police, troops and horses as soon as
they could.
Dick raced across the plain, while Natividad, panting in the rear,
called out to him to be careful, and not to give the alarm. The young
engineer drew a revolver as he reached the motor, ready to shoot down
the first man he saw. But there was nobody there. The car was empty, and
the courtyard of the hacienda showed deserted, peopled only by the blue
shadows of moonlight.
The gates were wide open, and he entered cautiously. Some of the
buildings round the courtyard were in ruins; all were manifestly
deserted. On his right, the bodega, or store-house; on his left, the
proprietor’s casa. Here again the doors were open.
Dick returned to the motor, and was there rejoined by the Marquis and
Natividad just as he lit one of the headlights. There was not a sound
to be heard, and they followed the young man in silence. As they entered
the first room of the house, a heavy, pungent perfume greeted their
nostrils. Dick, leading the way, made a few cautious steps, and then
fell back with a cry of horror. The furniture of the place was scattered
in all directions, and there was blood everywhere.
“Maria-Teresa!” The Marquis and Dick, both calling out at the same time,
were as suddenly silent again. Both seemed to have heard a faint voice
answering them.
“It’s up there!” shouted the young man, dashing toward a staircase
leading to the first floor. All could now distinctly hear a low,
prolonged moan. Dick, slipping on the stairs in his hurry, rose again
with a white face. His hands were red with blood!
III
The first two rooms were empty, but bore unmistakable signs of a
desperate flight and struggle. Then a landing, a door and a dark
cupboard, from which a loud cry for help now resounded throughout the
deserted hacienda. Dick, signing to the Marquis to turn the light into
the corner, bent down, and dragged a body from the cupboard. It was
Libertad!
Covered with knife-wounds, the negro boy was on the point of’ death,
struggling for air. They took him into the next room, and threw open the
windows, while Dick questioned him brutally. “Where is your mistress?”
A feeble hand pointed toward the sierra, and Dick stood away from the
dying man. That was all he wanted to know. The Red Ponchos were already
on the road to the mountains with his fiancée.
He dashed down into the road to find Uncle Francis with little
Christobal. The boy, climbing into the motor had discovered his sister’s
cloak there, and was crying over it. He threw himself into Dick’s arms,
but was roughly pushed aside while the young engineer raged impotently.
What could he do? Anything for a horse, a mule, something to carry on
the pursuit! The irony of it! That motor there, which had served for the
crime, was useless now on the narrow rocky mountain pathway which they
must follow.
Then little Christobal, listening with wide-open eyes, started. He had
heard a noise at the far end of the court. Could there be horses in
that deserted bodega. It sounded just like hoofs stamping on a plank
flooring. Then the child heard a faint neigh.
Dick had vanished, and Christobal, running toward the farm buildings,
slipped through a half-open door. Yes, there was something there...
llamas... three llamas,.. but thin, miserable creatures, worn out by the
heavy loads of years, and incapable of carrying even a child. But llamas
do not neigh. The boy slipped round the corner of the building, and
stopped short in the shadow. Sitting motionless a few yards away was a
horseman, watching the house. At his stirrup, attentively immobile as
the horseman, was a llama--one of those light, fine-limbed, long-necked
beasts which carry a man’s belongings and follow him like a dog.
As Christobal caught sight of them, the horse shied. The rider reined it
in, and swore, but his oath was cut short by a shot. A shadow had risen
in the night, only a few feet away, and had fired; the rider rolled from
his saddle, while the shadow, seizing the horse’s bridle, swung itself
into his place. Little Christobal ran toward it.
“Tell your father I’ve bagged one of them,” shouted Dick, turning his
mount and riding for the sierra.
The child, without answering, ran after the llama, which in its turn was
following the horse. His little fingers caught in its wool, he checked
it with the words one uses to llamas, scrambled up and dashed after
Dick. Uncle Francis, on the roadway, was passed by two black streaks,
and left alone there, speechless.
Meanwhile, in the room on the first floor, Libertad was making his
confession. Natavitad had realized, and had made the Marquis realize, the
great value to them which this might have. Nor, to tell the truth, did
he forget the value of the Marquis as a witness to this confession,
which he regarded in the light of a valuable piece of fresh evidence
in his case against the Indians generally. For this twofold reason,
Natividad was merciless, and forced the negro to speak till his last
breath.
This confession, made in gasps and groans, built up by question and
answer, and cut short by death, showed clearly that the abduction had
been long planned, and that the daughter of the Marquis de la Torre had
been chosen as the victim of the Interaymi at least two months before
the festival. That was as clear as the wonderful tropical night without.
Two months before, Libertad had first been sounded, and he had not long
resisted the temptation of the money offered him. All he was asked to
do was to drive the motor to a certain spot on a certain day, without
looking to see what was happening behind him. For this, he was to
receive two hundred silver soles, of which fifty were paid to him in
advance.
“And who did you make the bargain with?” demanded Natividad.
“With a clerk from the Franco-Belgian bank who sometimes came to see the
señorita. His name was Oviedo.”
Don Christobal started. Oviedo Huayna Runtu, the intruder of the
Cajamarca trip! If he had planned to kidnap Maria-Teresa at Callao,
that voyage must have been particularly disagreeable to him. That would
explain his close watch over them, and perhaps also the hint to the
police at Cajamarca, which resulted in their hasty return to Lima.
“When did you first know the date chosen?” questioned Natividad, holding
up the negro, who was choking.
“This morning. Oviedo came to see me. He told me that a man would say to
me, ‘Dios anki tiourata’ [‘good-day,’ in Aimara), and that I was to obey
that man. I was to take the wheel, not turn my head, and drive where I
was told to go.”
Libertad’s story, told in jerky sentences, showed that he did not really
know until the evening what had been plotted. Though he did not move
or look, the sound of the struggle at the open window told him what was
happening. It was then too late to draw back, and, when the order came,
he drove the car to the calle San Lorenzo, where they stopped for a
minute before a low door. Huascar came out, exchanged a few words with
the occupants of the machine, and ordered him to take the Chorillos
road, and not to stop until he had reached Ondegarda’s hacienda. There
was not a sound behind him throughout the journey.
At the hacienda, when his passengers got out, he had instinctively
glanced sideways, and had seen the señorita, unconscious, being lifted
out by three dwarfs with horribly-shaped heads. They took her into the
casa, while he, more dead than alive, waited where he was, anxious only
to be paid and to get away.
Then they were overtaken by a troop of mounted Indians, all wearing
red ponchos, and led by Oviedo. Huascar was also with them, and ordered
Libertad to come into the house. To his surprise, he found there half a
dozen women, veiled in black, and guarding the door to another room.
“The mammaconas,” gasped Natividad. “We can have no doubts now....
Speak, Libertad.... Speak, and God may forgive you.”
“Yes, the mammaconas,” said the negro lad, feverishly.... “But I did not
know.... God will forgive me.... The señorita, too, will forgive me....
You must save her.... She was so good to me.... And I betrayed her...
betrayed her for two hundred silver soles.... They did not know I
understood Aimara... they said that Atahualpa would have a beautiful
bride.... And they fell on their faces before her when she passed.”
“You saw her, then?” demanded the Marquis, bending low over the
prostrate figure at his feet to catch the faint words.
“Yes, I saw her.... She was so good.... And I sold her for two hundred
silver soles.”
“Tell us how it happened,” interrupted Natividad. “Was she no longer
unconscious?”
“She came out of the room, held up by women in black veils... the three
dwarfs were dancing around her.... She seemed to be in a dream... they
have terrible poisons and perfumes.... My sweet señorita... wrapped in
a gold veil... her face was hidden... only her eyes, staring sightlessly
before her.... The mammaconas were all round her... and the dwarfs were
dancing. I saw it all, because they had left me alone, and I looked
out of the window... they put her on a mule... in front of one of the
mammaconas... and the others followed.... Yes, señor, it is true...
all these stories you hear in the ranchos.... Quite true... the dwarfs
followed, señor.... Oviedo was there... they had prepared everything
in this hacienda.... I believe they murdered the owner and all his
people....
“Yes, I saw it all.... I did not care then that I had not been paid....
I watched.... And the Red Ponchos carried off my mistress... they are
taking her to the Temple of the Sun.... It is the Interaymi.... But you
will find them first... You must.... And God will forgive me.”
Libertad closed his eyes and fell back, but seemed to recover his forces
with the last flicker of life, and opened them again.
“What happened to you?” asked Natividad. “Was it in trying to save your
mistress?...”
Libertad smiled bitterly, and tried to cross himself, but his arm fell
nerveless by his side.
“Huascar,” he said. “He came into the room, and when I asked him to pay
me, pointed to the two hundred silver soles... they were on the table
there.... Not one over.... It was not much for betraying my mistress....
I did not know that was what they wanted.... When I told him so, he
asked me what I would have done if I had known.... I answered I would
have asked double the amount....”
“What then?”
“Then he drew a knife and came at me.... I ran, but he followed.... He
stabbed me once, and I escaped, but he followed.... I ran upstairs....
He stabbed me again and again.... When I fell, he thought I was dead...
and I am... I am... dying... oh!... Have mercy!”
Libertad’s last moment had come. The Marquis and Natividad, bending
over him, were startled by the shot outside, and rushed downstairs. They
found Uncle Francis by the motor, staring down the road. When they
asked him where Dick and little Christobal were, he gazed back as if not
understanding, and vaguely answered that he was looking for them.
Don Christobal and Natividad, turning to look in the direction the old
scientist was staring, suddenly saw two shadows dash across a moonlit
stretch of road and vanish in the darkness of a ravine leading into the
mountains, and spanned above by the railway bridge. Dick on his horse,
little Christobal on his llama, did not even check for an instant at
their hail.
Hardly had the hoof-beats died out in the depths of the ravine than the
sound of galloping horses came from the right, on the Chorillos road. A
moment later, a knot of riders appeared.
IV
Horses!” exclaimed Natividad. “Then we have them. They are probably
making for the Cuzco, or some place round Titicaca, But they are bound
to pass through Veintemilla’s lines, and we shall catch them at Canete
or Pisco.”
As Natividad had surmised, the riders were cavalrymen sent out from
Chorillos at his order. They ran toward them, Uncle Francis questioning
the Marquis, who did not answer. Indeed, Don Christobal, doubly anxious
now that his son had left his side, could not contain himself. Hardly
had the troopers dismounted than he swung himself into the nearest
saddle, and rode off after Dick.
“Sheer madness,” growled Natividad. “If they ever overhaul the Indians,
they are lost.”
“What are we going to do now?” demanded Uncle Francis. Maria-Teresa’s
fate moved him deeply, particularly from a literary point of view, but
under the circumstances he asked no better than to keep a little in the
background.
“We can only follow at a distance,” replied Natividad.
“Excellent... excellent... find out where they are making for, and all
that sort of thing.”
“There are still laws, a police force and troops in Peru, señor. We are
not afraid of the Indians.”
With which he turned to the four soldiers who had joined them, and who
represented what remained of the military force of the costa. Uncle
Francis, already delighted with Natividad’s plan of following at a
distance, approved of it even more warmly when he found that this little
escort was to accompany them.
Three policemen mounted on mules, coming from the direction of Callao,
now appeared on the road. Natividad at once requisitioned the mules for
his expedition. Before starting, however, he went back into the casa to
write a hurried letter to President Veintemilla, explaining what had
happened. He did so with a certain malice, remembering that ten years
ago this same president had been Chief of Police, and had threatened to
suspend him for his “mad reports.”
One of the policemen, entrusted with the letter, started back toward
Callao at once. The two others were ordered to take charge at the
hacienda and begin a preliminary enquiry. Then Natividad and Uncle
Francis mounted two of the commandeered mules, the third being taken by
the soldier whose horse had been carried off by Don Christobal. When the
soldiers saw that they were heading for the sierra instead of Chorillos,
there was a grumble, but Natividad silenced them. “Forward,” he ordered,
and they, in their turn, entered the ravine.
“We can, at all events, travel as fast as the mammaconas,” said the
Chief of Police to Uncle Francis.
“The mammaconas? Were they here then?” The scientist, intensely
interested, urged his mount alongside Natividad’s.
“Yes señor... the mammaconas... and three head priests of the temple...
only they may touch the Virgin of the Sun.... señor, for the past
fifteen years I have known all this, but they called me a lunatic. Why
should we suppose that the Indians have changed? Do they not eat, drink,
and get married just as they did five centuries ago? If their outward
customs have not changed, why should their secret rites have done so?
Why, señor, why?... But nobody will believe me. It all began when I was
a young man. I had to investigate a mysterious crime, the only possible
explanation for which was a religious one. You must not forget that you
are dealing with Incas to this day.... And I got my knuckles rapped....
Five years later, when the Orellana girl disappeared, they treated me in
the same way. So I let them give what explanation they liked, and worked
on my own. I speak Quichua like a native now, señor. I also learned
Aimara, which is their sacred language in the Cuzco and round
Titicaca.... That’s where they are making for now; some hidden temple,
where their priests have been working since the days of the conquest.”
Uncle Francis looked at his companion suspiciously. Were they all
engaged in a huge practical joke at his expense? This Chief of Police
was singularly calm under the circumstances; off-handed, almost gay.
“We are sure to catch them, are we not?”
“Of a surety, señor. Dios mio, be content! We will catch them.... How
can they possibly escape? We are on their heels; if they stick to the
mountains, they run into our troops; if they go down into the costa,
every corregidor (mayor) is at my orders.”
There was a moment’s silence, and he went on:--
“Will you not put on that cloak at your saddle-bow, señor? The nights
are chilly, and we are nearing the cordilleras.... The only road, you
see. They must have passed here. At dawn, we shall be able to see their
trail distinctly.... If only those crazy people who dashed on ahead
do not make fools of themselves.... A plucky youngster, little
Christobal.... We shall soon overhaul them.... One does not climb these
mountains as a bull jumps over the barrier at the ring....”
Natividad’s garrulous flow of words was interrupted by a chuckle from
Uncle Francis. Not a little astonished, he asked him what he meant,
but Mr. Montgomery contented himself with replying:--“I understand, I
understand.” Natividad, who did not understand, eyed him doubtfully.
Just before day-break they reached the first masses of the true Andes.
Their mounts did not appear over-tired, and after a two-hours’ halt at a
wayside guebrada, where beasts and men obtained food, they continued
the journey. Over them towered the giant mountain chain, blazing in the
molten light of dawn.
The half-breeds at the guebrada could not, or would not, give them any
information as to those they followed. That the Indian cavalcade had not
stopped there, however, was certain, or larder and loft would have been
empty. Natividad, convinced he would get nothing else out of the men,
forced them, in the name of “the supreme government,” to exchange two
strong mules for two of the horses.
Shortly after they had started again, they came on unmistakable traces
of a strong party of horse. Thistles, and the great yellow flower of the
amancaes, trampled flat, showed where hoofs had passed.
“We are close on them now, señor,” said Natividad.
Uncle Francis, coughing knowingly, assented in such a detached manner
that Natividad began to have serious doubts as to the mental welfare
of that illustrious scientist.
Before long, though, he was worrying a great deal more about something
else. So far, there had not been a sign anywhere of the Indians’ first
pursuers. Uncle Francis, on the other hand, was thoroughly happy, and
seemed to be enjoying the scenery.
As they climbed steadily upwards, the road was becoming more and more
dangerous, twisting and turning round the mountain-side. Peaks, sky, and
precipices; in the blue of the distance, a few mountain goats, all four
feet joined together, balancing on some rocky point.
The cold was now intense, and the soldiers grumbled openly. When
Natividad reminded them that they were serving “the supreme government,”
they let it be inferred that they did not give a tinker’s damn for the
supremo gobesnie, but nevertheless followed.
“Are you sure of those men of yours?” asked Uncle Francis.
“As sure as of myself,” replied Natividad, determined to be optimistic.
“What are they? Indians?”
“Quichuas, of course.... Where else would we get soldiers?”
“They do not seem to me to be enthusiastic militarists.”
“A grave error, señor. They are delighted to be soldiers. What else
could they be?”
“They are volunteers, then?” questioned the scientist. And to
Natividad’s stupefaction, he produced his note-book.
“No, not volunteers, illustrious señor.... We send troops into the
Indian villages, and arrest every able-bodied man who has not bolted.
Then we enroll them as volunteers.”
“Charming! And you are not afraid that they may turn on you when you
have armed them?”
“Not in the least. After the first few days they decide they are so
much better off under the colors that they would not go back to their
families for anything.... You should see them join in the recruiting
afterwards!... They make very good soldiers.... These men are
only annoyed at being taken into the mountains; they would die for
Veintemilla.”
“So much the better,” concluded Uncle Francis philosophically. And
he added, to Natividad’s growing amazement:--“But why insist on their
coming with us? We can find those other Indians just as well without
their aid.”
Natividad jumped. What kind of a man was this? Then his attention was
suddenly drawn to the road again.
“There, over there! They camped there.”
At this point, the mountain path widened to a kind of little plateau, on
which were unmistakable traces of a recently-pitched camp. The ashes of
the fire had not yet been swept away by the wind, and remains of food
littered one corner. Natividad, convinced that he had found the first
resting-place of the escort of the Virgin of the Sun, urged on his
party.
“It is strange,” he said, “that we should have seen nothing yet of the
Marquis, little Christobal, or your nephew.”
“Why worry? We’ll find them all, sooner or later.”
“What?”
“Sooner or later--some day.... Hello, what’s the matter? This beast of
mine won’t move. Gee up.”
Calm and collected, quite different from the frightened Mr. Montgomery
of the flight from Cajamarca, he urged on his mount, but the mule
refused to answer to his heel. Then Natividad, pressing forward to see
what was the matter, saw the body of a llama stretched across the narrow
path. Dismounting, he lifted its head, examined the nostrils, and then
pushed the body over the edge of the ravine.
“Little Christobal’s llama,” he pronounced. “The animal has been ridden
to death.... Poor child! I wonder where he is.”
Uncle Francis, busy with his note-book, refused to get excited.
“With my nephew, probably. Even if Dick had left him behind, his father
must have come upon him.”
“That is possible, of course,” said Natividad, doubtfully.
“Is this llama-riding common over here?” questioned the scientist,
intent on acquiring knowledge.
“No. Children sometimes amuse themselves with it if the llama is willing.
Rich people give them to their sons occasionally. Christobal probably
had his.”
“I would never have believed a llama capable of going so far, and so
fast.”
“No pack-llama could. But that was a good one, trained to carry light
weights and travel fast. Probably used to being ridden by children....
I wonder where they found it... Your nephew’s horse, too... in the
hacienda stables, I suppose.... A tragedy might have been avoided had
they not.”
The little party had ridden on, and now, taking a sharp corner, came
suddenly upon Dick and the Marquis, the former on foot, and the latter
mounted. Little Christobal was not there.
V
Dick was pale, but the Marquis was livid. So they appeared to
Natividad; as to Uncle Francis, he had not his glasses on, and noticed
nothing disquieting in their appearance.
“Those scoundrels have both my children now,” groaned Don Christobal in
answer to Natividad’s eager questions, and told what had happened.
Badly mounted for mountain roads, the Marquis had found great difficulty
in following. Several times he had been on the point of abandoning his
horse, but, thinking it might be valuable later on, had kept to it. Once
or twice he had been obliged to dismount and drag the unwilling beast
behind him. At dawn, he reached the Indians’ camp, which he searched in
vain for some personal sign of his daughter. She was evidently too well
guarded. Finally he found the llama’s body, but being convinced that
Dick was with little Christobal, had not worried overmuch. Then, a
little further on, he found Dick, but alone.
Dick, powerless to interfere, had seen little Christobal carried off
by the same Indians who already held Maria-Teresa. When they started on
their wild ride, and as soon as the road became steeper, the llama had
rapidly outpaced Dick’s horse. Little Christobal, riding it hard, would
not stop, and soon vanished ahead. Two hours later, Dick had lost his
horse in a ravine, throwing himself from the saddle only just in time,
and narrowly saving his own life by clinging to a projecting rock. He
continued his pursuit on foot, and finally came in sight of the boy,
just as the llama, exhausted, burst a blood-vessel and fell. He had
called to little Christobal, but the boy, unheeding, had run on, crying,
“Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”
They were right on the Indians then, and Dick could see them far above
him on the zig-zagging mountain-path. They had checked their horses,
waiting for the boy to catch up to them. Then one of the Red Ponchos
bent down, lifted him up to his saddle-bow, and hurried on with his new
captive. Dick was too far away to open fire, and the Indians had at once
spurred on, soon leaving him far behind. The Marquis had come up a short
time after.
“You must not despair, Don Christobal,” urged Natividad. “Your news is
not all bad. They are only just ahead, and cannot escape us. They must
pass through Huancavelica, and there we have troops to help us.”
Natividad ordered one of the soldiers to dismount and give his mule to
Dick. The man was indignant, and continued protesting in a weird jargon
as he trotted afoot behind the cavalcade. In this manner they reached a
point where the road forked, one branch going on up into the hills,
the other stretching down toward the coast. They had all turned up the
former when the dismounted soldier turned--he would go no further, but
would descend to the coast; and once there he would report to the powers
the manner in which he had been treated by a mere civilian. Natividad
wished him an ironical good-by, and he started, but only to reappear a
moment later, waving a soft felt hat in his hand.
“That belongs to Christobal!” exclaimed the Marquis.
They turned their mounts, grateful for the chance-found sign which had
saved them from a grievous mistake. Natividad alone hesitated, wondering
whether this was not an Indian ruse. They advanced slowly therefore,
until the mud and sand on the banks of a torrent just below showed
beyond doubt that a large number of mounted men had passed that way
and restored Natividad’s serene belief in the ultimate success of their
search.
“So they’re doubling back to the costa. They must have been warned
that the passes were guarded... all they have gained by the detour is
avoiding Chorillos.... Perhaps they are making for Canete.... Well, they
must stop somewhere, and then we have them!”
After an hour’s rest, they hurried on again at top speed, one of the
soldiers giving his dismounted comrade a lift behind.
“Did you, then, ever think that we might not catch them?” asked Uncle
Francis of Natividad, with an enigmatical smile.
“Why not, señor?... Between you and me, it is about time we did catch
them.... I for one shall not feel happy if señorita de la Torre and the
boy are still in their hands on the last day of the Interaymi.”
“Do you mean that the boy is in danger?”
“Speak lower, señor, speak lower.... Nothing is too young, too beautiful
or too innocent for the Sun. Do you understand?”
“More or less. More or less.”
“You people do not know what horrors they are capable of.... They still
have their priests.... You might blink at facts if it were only the
ordinary Red Ponchos, but there are also those three monsters.... You
always find them together in the old burial-grounds.... When one dies,
the other two are put to death.... Or when a king died, they sacrificed
themselves on his tomb.... They still exist, those monsters, those
high-priests of the sacred slaughters.... They exist, señor.”
“Do they?”
“You, señor, are a savant, and know about the Temple of Death. But do
you know how many dead were found buried with the mummy of Huayna Capac?
Four thousand, señor! Four thousand human lives sacrificed to honor the
dead--some by suicide, others strangled, knifed or suffocated.... And
the House of the Serpent.... But I prefer not to tell you what happened
there.”
“Tell me some other day.... You make an admirable guide. When we return,
I will tell the supremo gobierno how grateful I am to them for having
made the most erudite of police officers my cicerone.”
“I beg your pardon, señor?”
Natividad, completely taken aback, could only stare at his interlocutor.
“Nothing, nothing! I am only joking!” Scandalized at such levity,
Natividad turned away with an indignant snort, while Uncle Francis
chuckled. That worthy gentleman had now quite made up his mind that
there was a plot afoot against him, and sternly refused to be “taken
in.” The joke was rather tiring physically, but he would not cry for
mercy. As to all these hair-raising stories, he would take them for what
they were worth. Let them play their pranks till they tired of them.
The more he thought of it, the more he became convinced of the truth of
his deductions. His antiquarian’s eye rested lovingly on the traces of
that long-dead Inca civilization which they met. Here, aqueducts that
would have made the Romans wonder; there, remains of the great road
which ran from end to end of South America. They were all dead, those
Incas. Yet these people wished to make him believe that those vanished
warriors and priests had carried off a boy and girl of to-day to offer
them as a sacrifice to equally-forgotten gods!
They had now left the arid ranges and dusty wind behind them, and
reached a little village nestling in green fields at the foot of the
mountain. A babbling stream, tumbling down from the Cordilleras, had
transformed this corner into an oasis of verdure, in which Uncle Francis
would willingly have passed a few hours. But now that they were in
flat country again, Dick, the Marquis and Natividad increased the pace
feverishly. Uncle Francis, still determined not to show that he had
fathomed their plot, was careful not to protest.
Once or twice, they stopped to ask questions, but it was difficult to
obtain information. Hamlets were rare, and the Interaymi festivals
had drawn away nearly the whole population. The few Indians they met
received their questions with evident suspicion, and even hostility. Nor
would money loosen their tongues.
Fortunately, there were half-breeds more ready to talk, and they learned
that Huascar and his companions were riding hard. Nobody had seen Red
Ponchos; presumably the priests had concealed the ceremonial raiment
imposed by their ritual for the reception of the Bride of the Sun. They
were traveling so fast that nobody had had time to notice whether they
had a captive boy or young woman with them. At the questions on this
score all their informants began to grow uneasy, and turned away with
evasive sentences.
Huascar and his men had about two hours’ start, but it soon became
evident that they were gaining ground steadily. Natividad could not
fathom the meaning of the Indians sudden turn toward the sea, this
riding into a town where, normally, everything must be against them if
the alarm was given.
They reached Canete at nightfall, Dick still leading. There was a
big fête on, with torchlight processions and the deafening noise of
fireworks set off by delirious roisterers. Half the native population
was under the influence of drink, and Natividad, trained to understand
the populace, at once saw that the town was in a state of dangerous
effervescence.
Of all the towns in Peru, Canete is perhaps the one which shows most
markedly that strange admixture of the new and old. Factory chimneys
tower to the sky side by side with Inca aqueducts which to this day
bring the water of the Rio Canete to the surrounding plantations.
Just above the town are still the remains of the huge native fortress
demolished some two hundred years ago by the then viceroy of Mañdelova
when he needed materials for the defenses of Callao.
Natividad’s first visit was to the corregidor, who told him that the
town was celebrating Garcia’s victories. It was now certain that the
rebels had captured Cuzco, and routed the Federal forces. Natividad then
told him of the plight of the Marquis de la Torre’s children. The Mayor
was skeptical, and showed it. Indians committing such a crime, he said,
would never have dared pass through a town.
“They could not stop in the Sierra,” said Natividad, “and had to make
for somewhere. Perhaps they intend taking boat, and reaching Arequipa
by sea. They could get up into the Cuzco that way.”
“That is more than possible,” replied the corregidor, anxious to rid
himself of the troublesome visitor. “A troop of strange Indians has, in
fact, passed through the town. They bought provisions, and then hurried
on to Pisco. They might have a boat ready there.... Personally, I can do
nothing for you. I haven’t a single soldier or policeman to dispose of.
They have all gone to fight Garcia.”
At this moment, an extraordinary procession passed under the
corregidor’s windows. A dancing, singing procession, at the head of
which Natividad recognized his four troopers. He opened the window and
shouted menaces, but they passed unheeding.
In a sad mood Natividad rejoined his companions. Without any
explanation, he told them they must follow to Pisco, and they started
again. Natividad, in a brown study meanwhile, would answer no questions.
Don Christobal, hearing that the Indians were making for Pisco, grew
hopeful. He was known in the town, having a branch business there,
with big guano dépôts, stores in the harbor, and a considerable coolie
station on the Chincha Islands, which are just off the town. There he
could speak with authority, and make the corregidor listen.
They reached Pisco dog-tired, on mounts that could hardly stand. Uncle
Francis alone displayed a calm and unconcern which would have convinced
the others he was mad, had they had time to notice him. The news of
Garcia’s victory had just reached Pisco, and the mob was even more
delirious than that of Canete.
The Marquis, taking the leadership, led the way to his dépôt and stores,
only to find them completely deserted. There was not a single employee
there to answer his questions.
“To the corregidor’s, then,” he ordered.
The four travelers had entered the main and only street of the town, and
were riding toward the sandy central square when a thundering _feu de
joie_ made them pull up. The Indians were burning the sacred maize-leaf
in honor of Garcia, to the grave danger of the little blue-and-white
houses around. The inhabitants of these, well-to-do half-breeds, had
locked themselves in, or taken to flight.
The madness of alcohol and the madness of fire crackers had taken firm
hold of all that was visible of the population. The mob had pillaged a
pisco distillery, and was enjoying itself thoroughly with that virulent
spirit, which is made from a kind of Malaga grape, and takes its name
from the town.
Natividad, casting round for a guide, found a half-breed sadly huddled
under a doorway. He doubtless was one of those who had something to lose
by the rioting; a house to be burned, or a cellar to be plundered.
“Follow me,” he said, when asked where the corregidor could be found.
He led them along a plank pavement which was just beginning to burn,
until they reached the corner of the arena, opposite the church. Four
skinny palms adorned the center of the square, and at the foot of one of
these a mob was dancing round a fire. Above, something was hanging from
a branch. The half-breed pointed to that thing.
“There is the corregidor,” he said.
Natividad, Dick and the Marquis stopped short, mute with horror. The
half-breed whispered a few rapid words to Natividad, who turned to run.
“Come on! Come on!” he almost screamed.
“Why this hurry?” demanded Uncle Francis, phlegmatically.
“Why? Why?... Because they are going to eat him!”
“Not really?” drawled the scientist with mediocre interest. “Right
away?”
But Natividad did not notice his tone. He was really running away, for
he had not forgotten a scene in Lima, when the Guttierg brothers were
torn from the presidency they had usurped by the same mob which had
placed them there. Massacred, then hanged over the cathedral gates, they
were finally roasted and devoured by the populace.
So fast did Natividad flee, that Dick and the Marquis could hardly
keep up with him. Uncle Francis, bringing up the rear, was muttering to
himself:
“Damn nonsense, sir, damn nonsense. They’re not going to frighten me.”