There was no use resisting the gang for the six promptly jumped to the task of securing the Flying Buddies with their own lariats, and every man of them saw to it that there was no possible chance of them getting out of the bonds.

“Now, let’s take these nice rings—”

“Let those rings alone.” It was the tall man and he spoke so sharply that the would-be thief paused.

“Say, how do you get that way?”

“I’m telling you, let them alone, don’t touch ’em.”

“Aw, what’s eatin’ you—”

“Listen, if any man jack of you touches those rings, I’m through, see, I quit right now—”

“Yeh, well, we aint grievin’ none.”

“What you got on your mind? What’s the matter with the rings?”

“You weren’t with the Big Boss as long as I was, see, and maybe you never heard his orders to steer clear of green rings, ’specially emerald ones. Lord amighty, his brother shot a guy one night fer taking them two rings.”

“Shot him!”

Through the Flying Buddies’ minds flashed the recollection of the night when the De Castro plane had been driven through a raging storm only to be brought down by members of the Big Boss’ gang, including young Gordon. That was the time when the four were bound on a ledge and a fellow who wore a tight green costume and close fitting mask, had appeared, called the men to task for what they had done, and later been frightened away from the spot by the ingenious Ynilea.

“Yes. He said his brother’s orders were not to touch the rings, and don’t I know once in Chicago a guy brought one in, said he’d picked it up in a hock shop, and the Big Boss kicked it through the window into the lake, that’s what he done.”

“Yeh. Well, what do you reckon’s the matter with them rings?”

“Sounds like a lot of stewed tripe to me,” declared the chap who was determined to possess himself of the jewels.

“Maybe it does,” retorted Mills, “But I’m tellin’ you to leave ’em be. I asked one of the lieuts en’ he told me that a long time ago, when there wasn’t no white folks in the U. S. er down in these parts either, there were rich Indians.”

“Go on, Indians aint rich.”

“Shut up, some of ’em were and are. Well, the whites came along, and saw them all dressed up in gold feathers, the women wearing ropes of diamonds and pearls big as eggs. It made ’em sore so much wealth goin’ ter waste, so they shot a mess of ’em and took the stuff. Only a few was left and they were good and sore, so they dug hiding places, deep ones in these here mountains, and they took a lot of the best green stones they could find and made ’em into rings—nice ones that a fella would like to want fer himself en maybe fer his girl. Then, when the rings was all ready they took them to their temple on top of one of the peaks, and they prayed fer weeks and weeks, then they cussed them rings up one side and down the other. Cussed everybody who got a look at one, cussed all his family, and put some extra cussin’ on the white guy who carried one, even fer a minute. Then they prayed some more to make it stronger, and they cooked up a lot of meat on the temple and the smoke all went straight into the sky, meanin’ that the cussin’ had took, see! Then they passed them rings around here and there so they’d bob up fer a long time and raise Sam Hill with any white man that got hold of one,” he said impressively.

“Cussed ’em, eh.” The chap straightened, and despite their predicament, the Flying Buddies had difficulty to keep from roaring with laughter at the strange recital. “Aw, I say, these fellows has been wearin’ ’em!”

“Sure, en aint they outta luck?” That was evident to the gangster, who resolutely turned his face from temptation and such glaring misfortune.

“Say, you guys know the way outta here ’cept by plane?” Mills demanded suddenly.

“No we do not,” Jim replied emphatically. He recognized the questioner as one of the men who had been on the ledge the night they were captured with the De Castros.

“Quit wastin’ time on them. Come on in this place en we’ll see where it’s leading,” proposed the pilot. “We aint none of us hankerin’ to hang around here.”

“No we aint,” responded Lang. “You take that whirlgig plane en fly her where she won’t be spotted—”

“I aint flying no plane that can be spotted side every other one between here en Medicine Hat. En what’s more, I aint leavin’ my machine while I go off some place else, see. How’d I get back, you goop—”

“That’ll do—”

“Sure it will, but when I leave, it’s in my own cock-pit, see.”

“Yeh, en when he goes, I’m goin’ long,” spoke up a red-headed fellow stepping beside the pilot, his fist dug menacingly in his pocket.

“Oh, keep your shirts on,” snapped the leader. “I fergot you couldn’t get back. Can you cover the machine up so if any one flies over she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb?”

“Sure,” the pilot agreed readily, then he and his pal strode off to the helicopter. “Get the boys to chop us some vines,” he called.

Paying no further attention to their captives, the men set to work with a will and soon the two planes were so effectively covered with foliage that only a very close observer in the air would have suspected for a moment that they were not clumps of underbrush which had sprung out of the rocky crevices. Cautiously Mills and his red-headed pal examined the work and finally pronounced it finished.

“And we can get it off quick if we’re needin’ to leave in a hurry,” Mills announced with satisfaction.

“That’s good,” Lang nodded.

“What you going to do with those bozos,” the red head demanded.

“Take ’em along,” came the short answer. “Untie their feet so they can walk.” Two men set to the job and in a few minutes the Flying Buddies were loose enough to stand but their arms were securely fastened and each rope had a length left dangling so that their captors could keep a firm grip on them.

“Now, step lively—” came the order.

“You got to give us a minute so the blood will circulate in our legs,” Bob protested. “They are like pin cushions.”

“Kick ’em around and they’ll be good enough,” Lang answered. “Move on, we’re going.”

With a helpless glance at each other the boys kicked and bent their knees to relieve the discomfort, and in a moment they were being marched behind the red headed fellow into the opening where Bob had stood when the butterfly “storm” started such a series of misfortunes. Caldwell had been in the place before and he knew that the soil was softer than out in the open, so now, on a pretense of limbering his stiffened limbs, he took very short steps, bringing each foot down hard so that his shoes left a heavy imprint. He was thankful that he had not worn soft soled shoes that morning and that his heels left a larger mark than those made by the feet of members of the gang.

Jim observed this activity on the part of his step-brother, and added to the clue in the trail by kicking bits of brush and sand with his toes. If by any possible bit of luck pilots from the British town found where the pair had been spending the morning almost anyone could be trusted to discover in which direction they had been taken. He managed to glance over his shoulders to see if the men coming behind him had thought of the possibility, but they were stepping quickly, for Red-head was leading at a lively pace.

“Go on, you don’t need to stop to kick all day. Your legs are good enough,” Lang snapped suddenly.

“Yeh, you’re holdin’ up traffic.”

“They feel better now,” Jim grinned cheerfully, but both boys continued to make a track whenever possible.

The way they were following was undoubtedly some path used by either natives or woodsmen traversing the dense forest, and the further they went into it, the more convinced the boys were that they were proceeding along a secret trail built by the ingenious natives. Overhead the leaves and vines grew in a thick mass and soon the route began to grow darker and darker, but Red-head kept going, feeling his way with his feet until they were making very little progress.

“Come on, get the lights out,” Mills growled.

“Sure, nobody can see a light in here now,” Red added. He did not produce a flash himself, but two of the men in the rear did, sending the rays on the floor of the trail. On they went at a quicker pace.

At times the forest cave lead them down steep declivities where it was evident to the Flying Buddies that the enclosure was made by hand, not nature, although she had helped. Another time they were walking forward on a woven floor and through the loosely secured vines they caught glimpses of sparkling water which pounded against the rocks that confined it and sent a spray so high that the place was spongy and wet. Later they were close to the surface of the stream and the boys guessed its bed was an underground passage. At this point the route turned sharply to the left and presently the flooring ended; they began to ascend a gradual incline which they judged was a circuitous path through some rugged section of the country.

It seemed to Jim that they must have been going for hours. His feet were beginning to tire and his calves felt as if every muscle was strained. He wondered about the Indians they had seen before the bandits came down in their plane and marveled more and more that nothing was done to impede progress. By that time they began to climb, and now the foliage was more dense, the air grew hot and stifling, as if the enclosure had not seen the light of day in many generations. Thinking it over the boy concluded that this route was rarely used and it certainly was not so well constructed as the hidden trail from Cuzco which he had traversed months before. In the first place, that was both light and the foul air driven out, then he remembered that it was cared for by the men in the great Amy Ran Laboratories from which it was constantly purified.

Austin tried hard to keep his mind clear and reasoned that perhaps Lang had in some way discovered the bare spot in the vast Andean forest, and may have investigated it, or he may have learned of it while working for the Big Boss. Then, overcome with greed, he had organized this handful of men to explore with him, calculating that the haul they would make would give each greater wealth if they were not forced to divide what they found with the whole organization. It struck the boy as odd that so many of the gang members had started out on their own, and each must have been thoroughly convinced that untold wealth lay at the end of this “rainbow” and they were eager to risk their lives in pushing their own discoveries to the limit. It was disquieting to realize that such a number of small groups were viciously determined to fathom the Don’s secrets and reap the benefits of the riches which rumor carried like wild fire among the outlaws.

Following the wiry Red, Caldwell marveled at the strength of the little man who leaped briskly ahead as energetically as when they first entered the opening. Through his mind ran a series of plans for their escape but with arms bound, ropes held by grimly determined gangsters who doubtless had guns ready to fire at the first false move, the situation appeared utterly hopeless. He, too, was beginning to feel fatigue, his feet seemed weighted with lead, and his head and lungs ached from the foul air. Occasionally he glanced back at Jim, who kept as close as possible, but they spoke no word as they went on and on. At last the journey was telling on all of the men, for their panting breaths were coming in painful sobs. Even Red faltered; twice he slipped and almost fell flat, but he managed to recover himself.

“Better let someone else take the lead,” Lang proposed.

“Better stay where you are,” Red snapped angrily. Nothing more was said, then the boys began to wonder if any of the gang would drop out from exhaustion, but as far as they could tell, none had. Then one of the lights grew dim, and Red cursed.

“Change your battery.” This was done, and soon they were going on swiftly, but there was a steep climb ahead. With difficulty it was finally negotiated, but it took nearly half an hour. At last they were all on the top. The place looked as if it crossed, or followed a high ledge, the wall which was moss grown formed one side, while the other was slanting, like a shed roof. Again they passed over a stream, but it was a mighty dangerous undertaking, for great holes yawned beneath them, and Red managed to make it by hanging on to the vines above him.

“We can’t catch hold,” Jim protested.

“Go on.” Mills gave them a boost, and after a struggle they were on the other side. Then the way descended again, and suddenly the air seemed to clear.

“Whew, this is better,” Mills gasped, with relief, and they all paused a moment to inhale deeply.

“There’s daylight,” Red shouted a few minutes later, and with a bellow of joy, he sprang forward. His shout changed quickly to the snarl of terror, and a shriek of abject fear. The Buddies saw his feet slip from under him on the log he was crossing. His arms shot up in a frantic effort to catch hold of something, then his body twisted and dropped from sight, leaving a great hole in the rotten tree. An agonized wail split the air, then all was silent.

“What’s the matter,” gasped Lang fearfully.

“Quit shovin’, the thing’s rotten as hell,” Mills snarled and he threw his weight against the men who were pressing forward. “Get more light.”

Two more flashes were produced, illuminating the spot. It appeared as if half of the great log which was suspended from great boulders, had given way. The lights revealed a deep, narrow cavern, they could hear water gurgling as if it formed a passage for a small spring or stream, and after fumbling with the light, Mills finally was able to locate the huddled body of the red-headed man. Silently, and shivering, the group stood for several minutes.

“I’m going back,” Mills announced positively.

“Yes, come on.” As if they were one man they turned about.

“Don’t be quitters,” Lang urged. “This air is better than back there and we must be almost out.”

“Yeh, well, I’m going back.” The ropes which bound the Buddies were not forgotten, and in a minute they were retracing their steps, this time with more lights than when they came forward. Although Lang argued that they were giving up when they had almost won, no one paid the slightest attention to him. They seemed to forget their earlier discomfort and went swiftly until they reached the last stream.

Again they stopped suddenly. The woven bridge, or flooring had broken at the edge and was dangling forty feet away. Mute with horror, the men stared paralyzed at the calamity.

“There’s no way to get over,” a gangster sobbed.

“Maybe we can chop our way through the roof,” one suggested. He caught the side of the natural wall and hauled himself up, but when his ax struck the roof it rang against solid stone. Besides the stuff upon which the fellow was braced, gave way, and he slid back with a howl of fear.

“That log wasn’t all rotten,” Lang declared. “Come on back and at least we can cut some of the vines, make it stronger and get out that way.”

“Yeh, en get pitched down with Red—”

“If you can think of anything better, suppose you get busy,” Lang snapped at him.

“All right, I’m comin.”

“Let them kids do the leadin’ this time,” Mills proposed, and without further ado the Flying Buddies were turned about and forced to head the march back.

“Give us a chance with our arms,” Jim urged.

“Nothing doing, you go ahead. If you slip we’ll haul you back.”

They had to be content with this uncertain promise and in a moment the hard barrel of a gun was poked in Jim’s ribs. Slowly they went ahead, and after what seemed like an eternity, they came again to the rotten log. Lang himself wriggled forward, tested it with the back of his ax, then tearing loose a number of long vines, he straddled the dangerous path, hauled himself forward with the vines, and after ten breathless minutes, he dropped off at the other side and the men he had left behind, sighed with relief.

“It’s solid over here,” he called. Then Mills made the journey, but he did not need to loosen the vines, so it took him less time, and presently he was standing beside the leader. The Flying Buddies saw the two confer, and finally nod agreement.

“Leave them kids till next to the last,” Mills ordered. Quickly the third man made his way over, then the fourth, while the fifth stood with his gun out ready to shoot if either of the boys moved.

“We can’t make it with our arms tied,” Jim protested.

“I don’t care if you make it or not. Get on there—”

“Listen, if we don’t make it, you don’t, see,” Bob spoke quietly.

“No?”

“No. It’s this way, if the log doesn’t hold us or we have to kick it much to keep on, it’s going to break good and plenty, and when it breaks, it leaves you here, just like that, caught between the two traps,” he explained, and the fellow’s face went white as a sheet.