  Jack and Ken did not understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough. The smiling, hard-faced man who confronted them was a bandit. Before they could make any response to his command, he fired a shot. The bullet nipped into the dirt at Jack’s feet. Thus warned that the grizzled little man was not one with whom to trifle, the two Scouts quickly raised their hands. The shot had brought War, Willie and Jose out of the shelter. They too were instantly covered and forced to line up with their faces to a tree. The bandit kept up a patter of Spanish which only Jose could understand. Shaking with fear, he interpreted for the others. “The bandit is Carlos, who long has terrorized the hills,” he told them nervously. “He says he will not harm anyone, if his commands are obeyed. We are to turn over all money and watches. If we refuse, he shoot to kill!” Willie and War began to empty their pockets. Jack and Ken were more deliberate. Their delay brought an exclamation of impatience from the bandit. Carlos gazed sharply about the camp, evidently aware that only five persons were accounted for. What had become of Mr. Livingston, Jack wondered. He remembered that the Scout leader had slipped away from camp for a moment to bring in more fire wood. Surely, he must have been alerted by the firing of a shot! Carlos swiftly scooped up the money and watches which the Scouts reluctantly turned over. But before he could stuff the loot into the pouch he carried at his belt, there came a sharp command from the darkness behind the bandit. “Hands up or I’ll shoot!” The voice was Mr. Livingston’s! The Scouts knew that their leader was unarmed. Carlos, however, had no such knowledge. Startled, he whirled around and fired blindly into the darkness. In that instant, when the man’s attention was diverted from the captives by the fire, Jack and Ken acted together. Lunging forward, they tackled the bandit below the knees. He went down, and in the brief but fierce struggle, they succeeded in knocking the weapon from his hand. With the agility of a jungle cat, Carlos squirmed from Jack’s grasp. Slipping back into the foliage, he was swallowed by the darkness. Jack groped and finally found the lost weapon. He started in pursuit. “Let him go,” ordered Mr. Livingston, who had emerged into the circle of flickering firelight. “We can’t possibly overtake him, and it’s risky to try. He’ll have a horse tethered somewhere near.” As the Scouts listened, they heard the bold bandit’s retreating footsteps. Then all became silent in the forest. “What if he comes back later, maybe with some of his followers?” War asked anxiously. “We have his gun, so I don’t think he’ll be back tonight,” Mr. Livingston replied. “Good work, Jack! I thought you and Ken would react as you did! Any of our stuff missing?” The Scouts took careful inventory. In his haste to escape, the bandit had left behind all the cash and jewelry. “I doubt Carlos will try another raid tonight, knowing we’ll be on the alert,” Mr. Livingston commented. “All the same, we’ll set up a guard.” The incident was more disturbing to Jose than to the Scouts. For hours after the bandit had gone, he huddled in his blanket, his back to a tree, fearfully watching the shadows. In broken English, he related to the Explorers that Carlos was well known for his cruelty and bold ways. Somewhere in the hills he maintained a hide-out with a few faithful but disreputable followers. The Colombian government had placed a price upon his head. But no one ever had claimed the reward. Year after year, the bandit continued to swoop down on luckless travelers. Three times in the past year he reportedly had made valuable hauls of emeralds which were being taken out of the mine for shipment. Despite Jose’s fears, no more was heard that night from the bandit. The Scouts slept well, and as soon as the sun came up, were on their way. For several hours they pushed on, keeping an alert watch for Carlos. At times, they imagined they heard a soft rustling of the foliage along the trail, but they saw no one. Jack had kept the bandit’s automatic as a souvenir, disregarding Jose’s advice to discard it. “You keep gun—Carlos come back for it,” the guide predicted grimly. “Let him,” Jack returned cheerfully. “Next time I’ll be more alert.” By noon, the party had reached a low ridge. As they rested briefly, Jose pointed out a forested valley and a fast-moving river. “Last Chance mine,” he informed the group. “We be there in next hour.” “The mine is very old?” Mr. Livingston inquired. “Si, Senor. It was worked before the Spanish Conquest and many times lost. When the mine close, workers move away—jungle close in. Mine have many names.” “The Last Chance sounds pretty modern,” the Scout leader remarked with a smile. “Senor Corning give it that name when he come,” Jose explained. “I can imagine why,” Mr. Livingston remarked to Jack. “He figured that if he didn’t make good here, the mine might be closed again. At least the company which employs him would lose its government lease.” “With Carlos hovering around ready to swoop down, I shouldn’t think mining would be very profitable,” Ken contributed. “That old boy is a pest! Maybe Mr. Corning sent for us to help him get rid of the hill bandits.” “I doubt it,” the Scout leader rejoined. “Corning would know how to deal with Carlos. No, I’m afraid the trouble is more serious than that.” Eager to reach the mine, the party went on, working through vines which had overgrown the trail. After a wearisome struggle, they emerged onto a wider path which showed evidence of recent use. Finally, they came out into a clearing which offered a view of the mine. Spread before them at the edge of a gorge were a cluster of wooden buildings with thatched roofs. The largest, and most sturdily constructed, they took to be the main office. Weary and footsore, the arrivals left Jose in charge of the animals, and tramped into the central building. Their approach had been observed by native workmen. Yet, there had been no one to welcome them. “Corning may be sick,” Mr. Livingston remarked anxiously. He and the Scouts found themselves in an untidy two-room office, furnished with a couch, a desk, a safe and a filing cabinet. As they gazed about, a tall, lean man with dark moustache came in through the door they had just entered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them, politely but without a flicker of a smile. “Anything I can do for you?” “We’re looking for the engineer in charge,” Mr. Livingston said after a moment of silence. “Speaking.” “Appleby Corning, I should have said,” the Scout leader corrected himself. “Corning no longer is in charge here.” “Not in charge?” Mr. Livingston responded, startled. “There must be some mistake.” “No mistake, I assure you.” “Is Mr. Corning ill?” “I wouldn’t know,” the man replied somewhat indifferently. “He’s not here. The last time I saw him was six months ago.” “Six months!” the Scout leader exclaimed. “Impossible! Why, I’ve had letters from him and a couple of cables since then.” “Of that I wouldn’t know, Mr.—” “Livingston,” the Scout official supplied. “Excuse me for not introducing myself and the other members of my party. Seeing you instead of my friend, rather gave me a jolt.” “I can imagine,” the other rejoined coldly. “I’m McClellan Rhodes.” “I guessed it,” Mr. Livingston returned. “You say you’re in charge here? The company reassigned you?” The engineer gazed at the Scout official with defiant, unwavering eyes. “I took charge when I found everything going to the dogs here,” he informed the group. “Someone had to do it, you understand. If I had waited to get authority from the company, the workers would have been gone, and the mine stripped.” “Where is Mr. Corning?” “I wish I knew.” “When did you take over here?” Mr. Livingston demanded. His voice was sharper than he meant it to be. “About ten days ago.” “Mr. Corning wasn’t here when you came?” “He was not. As I told you, I found everything in a mess—workers preparing to pull out. I stepped in to save the mine for the owners.” “What became of my friend?” “I’ve told you I don’t know,” the engineer replied, no longer hiding his impatience. “I have important work to do now, and can’t answer any more questions. Corning, I think, is dead. That’s all I can tell you.” |
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