_Those in the Hut_
In an angle formed by two cliff sides, within a stone's throw of the
lake of Guadiva, a native, Flores by name, had built himself a hut.
Here he lived with his mate Lotta in a little Nirvana of his own,
content with his love and his task of tending a flock of sheep which
furnished them both with food and clothing. Few came near this hut.
The sky above, the lake before, and the mountains round about were all
his, his and his alone even as was the love of the dark-eyed woman
near him. Within their simple lives they had sounded the depths of
despair and reached the heights of bliss.
The woman Lotta was the daughter of a chieftain of the tribe of
Chibca, one whose ancestry went far back into the history of the
Golden One. Some of them had been priests, some of them guards, and
all of them had fought hard for their god. But the father of this girl
incurred the displeasure of the Priest and finally, not yielding to
discipline, his wrath. The stern autocrat of these tribes condemned
him to extreme punishment--a fast of thirty days in the hut upon the
mountain top--the hut of the Golden God. Cowed and frightened, the
man, somewhat feeble with sickness, bade good-bye to his daughter and
climbed the rugged path. Below, the girl waited day after day until
the strain became unbearable. She ventured, knowing well what the
penalty was, to visit him with food. She found him groaning upon the
stone floor, eaten by fever and racked with pain. She nursed him until
her supplies were exhausted and then came down for more, choosing a
secret path which she in her rambles as a girl had discovered. It was
then she heard whispered among the gossips news of a white stranger
with marvelous powers who was hiding in the hut of a neighbor. It was
just after the battle with the men from the sea--a battle terrible in
its ferocity. This man was one of the refugees from the scattered
army, sheltered at first for gold and later because of the power he
possessed of stopping pain. A wounded native, member of the family
which sheltered him, had been brought in suffering agonies and the
stranger had healed him with the touch of a tiny needle. Lotta heard
these things and that night found the stranger's hiding place and
begged him to follow. He knew enough of the native language to
understand and--to make his bargain. If she would guide him to the
mountain pass, he would follow.
The man was Sorez.
The next few hours were burned into Sorez' mind forever. At her heels
he had clawed his way up the steep hillside expecting at every step a
spear thrust in his back. He tore his hands and knees, but, drawn on
by a picture of the girl, moving shadow-like in the moonlight ahead of
him, he followed steadily after. Pausing for breath once he saw the
dark fringe of trees below the lava slopes, the twinkle of the camp
fires, and over all the clear stars. But this region here was a dead
region. He felt as if he were moving through some inferno, some
ghastly haunt of moaning specters, with the dark-faced girl guiding
him like some dead love. On they climbed in silence until his head
began to swim with the exertion and the rarefied air. Suddenly the
girl disappeared as though she had dropped over a precipice. To the
left he saw a small path leading over a yawning chasm. She beckoned
and he felt his way along. Then they came upon a tiny plateau upon
which had been built a hut of rocks.
The scene within was terrible. Upon the stone floor lay a brown-skinned
skeleton with bulging eyes and clawing fingers muttering incoherently.
Sorez could do nothing but administer a small injection of the soothing
drug, but this brought instant relief and with it a few moments of
sanity. The doctor had picked up a small vocabulary and gathered from
what the dying man muttered that he, Sorez, a very much bruised and
weary mortal, was being mistaken for one from heaven. A smile
lighted the haggard face of the invalid and the bony hands came
together in prayer. The girl bent over him and then drew back in
horror. She met the eyes of her father in some new-found wonder,
gasping for breath. Then she bent her ear once more. The message,
whatever it was, was repeated. Still, as though half doubting, she
moved to the rear of the hut and pounded with a large rock against what
was apparently the naked face of the cliff in which the hut was
built. It swung in, revealing a sort of shrine. Within this reposed
a golden image. She turned her eyes again upon her father and then
without hesitation took out the idol and handed it to Sorez.
"The God of Gods," she whispered, bending low her head.
"But I don't want your god," protested the doctor.
"You must. He says it is for you to guard."
He had taken it carelessly to humor the dying man. And when the latter
closed his eyes for all time, Sorez remembered that the heathen image
was still in his possession. He started to return it to the shrine,
but the girl threw herself before him.
"No. The trust is yours."
Well, it would be a pleasant memento of an incident that was anything
but pleasant. He brought it down the mountain side and put it beneath
his blanket.
It was not until several days later that bit by bit he came to a
realization of that which he had so lightly taken. The old man who
brought his food whispered the news through ashen lips.
"The Golden One is gone."
"Who is the Golden One?"
"The Golden God in the hut above who guards the secret of the sacred
treasure. It is said that some day this image will speak and tell
where the lost altar lies."
The whole tribe was in the grip of an awful terror over this
disappearance. But the Priest proved master of the situation.
"It will be found," he said.
In the excitement Sorez found his opportunity to escape, with the help
of the girl, the image still beneath his coat,--the image fated to
light in him the same fires which drove on Raleigh and Quesada. Before
he reached the home trail he had a chance to see this strange Priest
of whom he had heard so much in connection with the rumored treasure
in the lake. He came upon him, a tall, sallow-faced man, when within
an hour of safety. Sorez had never before met eyes such as looked from
beneath the skull-like forehead of this man; they bored, bored like
hot iron. The Priest spoke good English.
"Leave the image," he said quietly.
Sorez, his hand upon a thirty-two caliber revolver, laughed (even as
Quesada had laughed) and disappeared in the dark. The next time he met
the Priest was many months later and many thousand miles from the
Andes.
The girl who, at the command of her father, had given Sorez the image
was made an exile in consequence of this act by a decree of the
priest. But the thread of love is universal. It is the strain out of
which springs all idealism--even the notion of God--and as such is
bounded by neither time nor place. It is in the beating hearts of all
things human--the definition perhaps of humanity. Civilization differs
from savagery in many things, but both have in common, after all,
whatever is eternal; and love is the thing alone which we know to be
eternal. Just human love--love of man for woman and woman for man.
Flores followed her into the mountains among which they had both
grown. He built a shelter for her, bought sheep and toiled for her,
and with her, found the best of all that a larger life brings to many.
The Priest, of course, could have easily annihilated the two, but he
hesitated. There was something in the hearts of his people with which
he dare not tamper. So the two had been able to live their idyl in
peace, though Flores slept always with one eye open and his knife
near.
It was quite by accident that Sorez and the tired girl came upon the
two at the finish of his second journey into these mountains. The
woman in the hut recognized him instantly and bade him welcome. The
one-room structure was given up to the women while Flores built near
it a leanto for himself and Sorez. This simplified things mightily for
the exhausted travelers, and gave them at once the opportunity for
much-needed rest. They slept the major part of two days, but Sorez
again showed his remarkable recuperative powers by awaking with all
his old-time strength of body and mind. He accepted the challenge of
the lake and mountains with all his former fearlessness. He thought no
more of the danger which lurked near him than he did of the possible
failure of his expedition. It was this magnificent domination of self,
this utter scorn of circumstance, which made such a situation as this
in which he now found himself with the girl possible. No ordinary man
would, with so weak a frame, have dared face such a venture.
To the girl he had been as thoughtful and as kind as a father. He
lavished upon her a care and affection that seemed to find relief for
whatever uneasiness of conscience he felt. Though Sorez realized that
the Priest must know of his presence here and would spare no effort to
get the image, he felt safe enough in this hut. With a few simple
defenses Flores had made secret approach to the hut practically
impossible. The cliff walls protected them from the rear, while
approach from the front could be made only by the lake, save for short
distances on either side. Across these spaces Flores had sprinkled dry
twigs and so sensitive had his hearing become by his constant
watchfulness that he would awake instantly upon the snapping of one of
these. As a further precaution he placed his sheep at night within
this enclosure, knowing that no one could approach without exciting
them to a panic.
Moreover, Sorez suspected that the Priest had kept secret from the
tribe his failure to recover the image after his long absence in
pursuit of it. Not only was such a loss a reflection on his power,
but it challenged the power of the Golden Man himself. Would the
Sun God allow such a thing? Could the image be gone with no divine
manifestations of its loss? Such questions were sure to be asked.
The Priest had no men he could trust with a secret so important. He
would work alone. The matter would end with a rifle bullet or a stab
in the dark--if it ended in favor of the Priest. With the vanishing of
the treasure and the return of the image--if in favor of Sorez.
During the three days they had spent at the lake Jo had grown very
serious and thoughtful. This seemed such a fairy world in which they
were living that things took on new values. The two were seated around
the fire with Flores and his wife in the shadows, when the girl spoke
of new fears which had possessed her lately. Led on as much by what
she herself saw and continued to see in the crystals, by the
fascination she found in venturing into these new and strange
countries, but above all by the domination of this stronger and older
personality, she had until now followed without much sober thinking.
If she hesitated, if she paused, he had only to tell of some rumor of
a strange seaman in the city of Bogova or repeat one of the dozen wild
tales current of Americans who had gone into the interior in search of
gold and there been lost for years to turn up later sound and rich. He
had hurried her half asleep from the house at Bogova and frightened
her into silent obedience by suggesting that Wilson might by force
take her back home when upon the eve of finding her father. She had
looked again into the crystal and as always had seen him wandering
among big hills in a region much like this. What did it all mean? She
did not know, but now a deeper, more insistent longing was lessening
the hold of the other. Her thoughts in the last few days had gone back
more often than ever they had to the younger man who had played, with
such vivid, brilliant strokes, so important a part in her life. She
felt, what was new to her, a growing need of him--a need based on
nothing tangible and yet none the less eager. She turned to Sorez.
"I am almost getting discouraged," she said. "When shall we turn
back?"
"Soon. Soon. Have you lost interest in the treasure altogether?"
"The treasure never mattered very much to me, did it? You have done
your best to help me find my father, and for that I am willing to help
you with this other thing. But I am beginning to think that neither of
the quests is real."
She added impulsively:
"Twice I have left the most real thing in my life--once at home and
once in Bogova. I shall not do it again."
"You refer to Wilson?"
"Yes. Here in the mountains--here with Flores and his wife, I am
beginning to see."
"What, my girl?"
"That things of to-day are better worth than things of to-morrow."
Sorez shifted a bit uneasily. He had come to care a great deal for the
girl--to find her occupying the place in his heart left empty by the
death of the niece who lived in Boston. He was able less and less to
consider her impersonally even in the furtherance of this project. He
would have given one half the fortune he expected, really to be able
to help the girl to her father. He had lied--lied, taking advantage of
this passionate devotion to entice her to the shores of this lake with
her extraordinary gift of crystal-seeing. He was beginning to wonder
if it were worth while. At any rate, he would be foolish not to reap
the reward of his deceit at this point.
"Well," he concluded brusquely, "we must not get gloomy on the eve of
victory. To-morrow the moon is full--do you think you will be strong
enough to come with me to-morrow night to the shrine of the Golden
Man?"
"Yes," she answered indifferently.
"He chose his own and surely he will not desert the agent of his
choosing."
"No," answered the girl.
Her eyes rested a moment upon the silver lake before her and then upon
the cliffs beyond. She had an odd desire this evening to get nearer to
those walls of granite. A dozen times she had found her eyes turning
to them and each time she obeyed the impulse it was followed by a new
longing for David. She wished he were here with her now. She wished he
was to be with her to-morrow night when Sorez took her out upon the
lake with him. She did not mind gazing into the eyes of the image, of
sinking under their spell, but now--this time--she would feel better
if he were near her. She had a feeling as though he _were_ somewhere
near her--as though he were up there near the cliffs which she faced.