  “I was just putting away the emeralds that were brought up this morning,” McClellan Rhodes remarked as Mr. Livingston and the two Scouts tramped into the office. “Quite a haul?” inquired the Scout leader. “Fair.” Reluctant to discuss the subject of emeralds, the mining engineer dismissed the matter. “You’ve pitched your tent, I see,” he remarked. “Well, you can take your meals with my wife and me for today. I’d advise an early start in the morning.” “We hadn’t planned on leaving,” Mr. Livingston told him. “No?” Rhodes voice was sharp. “I don’t like to seem inhospitable, but visitors aren’t particularly welcome here at the mine. No facilities, you know.” “We don’t mind roughing it.” “You can’t stay,” Rhodes said shortly. “Your presence here would interfere with the work. If it’s worry about Corning that is holding you, let me say again, there is absolutely nothing you can do. In time, there may be a ransom demand—probably in emeralds.” “But didn’t you tell us earlier today that Carlos stripped the safe?” Jack interposed. There was a moment of strained silence, and the engineer’s dark eyes glinted with suppressed anger. But his voice was carefully controlled when he replied: “That’s right. Since then, we’ve dug a few more. I just finished washing them in a bath of hydrochloric acid.” Jack let the remark go unchallenged. He was convinced however, that the man was lying. Since he had left him in the pit, there had been insufficient time to clean the day’s gleaning of emeralds. Yet the cardboard box, replaced in the safe, had contained at least a double handful of fine specimens. “Please tell me everything you know about the bandit raid,” Mr. Livingston urged, seating himself on a high stool. “Nothing to tell. When I arrived here, the workers were preparing to pull out. They told me Carlos and his men had swooped down the night before, terrorizing the camp. Your friend Corning was caught by surprise and taken prisoner. The bandits made him open the safe. They took the emeralds and a little cash and rode off.” “Odd they’d burden themselves with Corning,” Mr. Livingston commented. “Especially after they got what they wanted.” “Carlos doesn’t miss any bets. He’ll make a ransom demand.” “Earlier today you said you were convinced Corning is dead,” Ken reminded him. “Now you’re pretty sure he’s being held prisoner?” “What are you trying to do? Mix me up?” Rhodes shot at him. “I told you I think your friend is dead, and I’ll stick by it. But if he’s still alive, there will be a ransom demand. Do I make myself clear?” “Perfectly,” Ken drawled. “I don’t mean to be inquisitive, but to help us get the picture, would you mind telling us why the mine operators hired Corning in the first place?” “I’ll be glad to, because it was a mistake, and they realize it now. Until Corning took over, I’d been in charge here for nearly three years. Emerald production began to drop during the last six months or so. That wasn’t my fault. The vein’s played out.” “Then it was because production had fallen off that Corning was assigned here?” Mr. Livingston inquired. “That was behind it,” Rhodes admitted with a scowl. “Corning’s a big talker. He sold himself and ran me down—convinced the operators that the miners weren’t being handled right, and that I—” “Yes?” the Scout leader prompted as Rhodes ended in mid-sentence. “Nothing,” the engineer said shortly. “That’s all there was to it. Corning took over here and things went to the dogs fast. He had a wild theory that he could find the old mine that was worked at the time of the Spanish Conquest. He spent a lot of his time searching for it, and even had some of the natives helping him. Production fell off more than ever.” “Corning didn’t find the rich vein?” Mr. Livingston questioned to keep the other talking. “What do you think? That old mine has been lost for centuries, and it will stay hidden for years to come.” “Corning always was a methodical sort of fellow,” Mr. Livingston said thoughtfully. “If he searched for that old vein, he must have done it systematically. He’d have left a record of his work too.” “He did make a map.” “A map?” Jack interposed eagerly. “May we see it?” “It’s worthless.” “Anyway, may we see it?” Jack insisted. “It’s in the safe, and I haven’t time to get it out now,” Mr. Rhodes said, looking at his wrist watch. “I must get back to the pit.” Making certain that the safe door was locked, the engineer abruptly quitted the office. “That talk about the map certainly made him pull out in a hurry,” Ken remarked when they were alone. “What do you think, Hap?” “That he was lying again,” Mr. Livingston answered. “I can’t believe he has the slightest concern about Appleby Corning’s welfare.” “And how was it that he just happened to arrive here at the opportune time to take over the mine for the owners?” Jack added. “Fishy!” Ken had moved to the desk, an old fashioned roll top affair. It was locked. On top of a bookcase devoted to mining journals and books on mineralogy were numerous specimens of rock, an Indian bow and arrow and other trinkets. Noticing several sheets of paper thrust into one of the books, he examined them. All were blank, evidently having been used as a page marker. Inspired by Ken’s activity, Jack also searched the room for possible clues, even peering behind the safe. “If Corning left any papers behind, they’re locked in the desk,” he concluded. “Rhodes wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave anything kicking around.” “He might at the house where Corning lived,” Ken suggested. “Naturally, he wouldn’t figure we’d do any searching there.” “How can we?” Jack demanded. “Not with Mrs. Rhodes camped on the spot.” “She can’t stay there forever. Maybe, if we watch our chance—” “I don’t know,” Mr. Livingston demurred. “It’s a risky thing to do and not to my liking.” “We’re not dealing with honorable people,” Jack reminded him. “Shouldn’t we try to learn the truth about what happened here?” “Go ahead,” Mr. Livingston reluctantly consented. “I can’t see, though, that we’re likely to come upon anything that will help us trace Corning.” “We could go for the authorities,” Ken proposed. “Wouldn’t they organize a search party?” “Possibly, Ken. But from what I’ve been told, the authorities don’t concern themselves very much with the activities of Carlos. He’s a law unto himself.” “How about setting off by ourselves?” Ken asked. “I’m afraid Rhodes told us the truth when he said the country hereabouts is impossible. Once we left the trail, we’d have to hack our way foot by foot. We’d have no chance of reaching Carlos’ hide-out without a guide. And who knows the way?” “What’s more,” Ken added, “if we did succeed in finding it, we’d be no match for Carlos and his armed followers. They’d make short work of us.” “Then what’s to be done?” Jack asked in discouragement. “Give up? Return to Bogota or Cartagena?” “I’ve thought it over, and I intend to stay here at the mine for a day or two at least,” Mr. Livingston told him. “I’m not convinced that Corning is dead. If there should be a ransom demand, I want to be on hand when it comes.” “Will Rhodes let us stay, do you think?” Jack questioned doubtfully. “He may become quite unpleasant,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “We’ll ignore his hints to leave, and see what happens. Circulate a bit, meanwhile, and see what information you can pick up. I’ll do likewise.” Quitting the little office, the three went out into the bright sunlight. Jack noted that Mrs. Rhodes was seated in the screened porch of Corning’s former dwelling. Although she appeared to be reading a magazine, he noticed that her gaze followed the trio. Workmen were coming up out of the mine pit, to eat their lunch. The man whom McClellan Rhodes had abused, sat down with his back to a rock and began munching a cold tortilla. Jack sauntered over to speak to him. Before he had spoken more than a phrase of halting Spanish, he heard heavy steps behind him. Turning, he saw Rhodes bearing down upon him. “You are not to talk to the workmen,” he told Jack harshly. “A company rule.” “Seems to me you have a lot of ’em around here,” Jack growled. “I was only passing the time of day.” “It makes no difference. You know my orders. Stay out of the pit, and away from the miners.” “Okay,” Jack agreed, deciding to make no issue of the matter. He ambled down to the edge of a deep but swift flowing stream some distance from the camp but within the cleared area. A log bridge, made by felling a tall tree, spanned the torrent. He started to cross, but had taken scarcely three steps on the precarious footing when Rhodes again descended upon him. “Hey, you!” the engineer shouted. Startled, Jack nearly lost his balance. Retreating to shore, he waited for Rhodes to come up. “Stay in camp!” the engineer ordered. “Don’t go wandering around.” “I merely intended to cross the stream,” Jack replied, nettled. “I hope I have better sense than to go roaming the wilds without leaving a trail.” “No one is allowed across the river.” “Then why the bridge? Decoration?” Mr. Rhodes coldly ignored the question. “My wife has lunch ready,” he said. “She’s an excellent cook and I trust you’ll enjoy her cooking during your brief stay here. You will join us?” “Thanks,” Jack responded, feeling at a disadvantage. “But we don’t want to put you to any trouble, or your wife.” “No trouble,” the engineer said shortly. “Come along.” Jack fell into step. As they left the river, Rhodes relaxed somewhat and talked cheerfully of a recent visit he had made to the coast. “You don’t trust me, do you?” he abruptly asked the Scout. The unexpected question caught Jack off guard. At a loss for a reply, he began to stammer. “You have me all wrong,” the engineer went on. “Maybe I seem abrupt, but this is rough country, and one can’t be too careful. Worried about Corning?” “Naturally.” “Believe me, if anything can be done, I’ll do it,” Rhodes assured him. “The point I’m trying to make is this, you can’t help him by remaining here. You’ll only hinder my work.” “It’s for Mr. Livingston to decide what we do.” “So I gathered.” The engineer eyed Jack shrewdly. “But your opinion carries weight with him. I saw that right away. Now if you and the other boys were to talk to him, you could make him see how foolish it is to remain here. I’ll make it worth your while.” “How do you mean?” Rhodes drew a small emerald from his pocket. In the sunlight it shown with a deep fire. “Notice the color,” he directed. “A perfect gem. You like it?” “Who wouldn’t?” “Feel it—roll it in your hand,” Rhodes urged, closing Jack’s fingers over the gem. “Now all you need to do is convince Mr. Livingston to leave here by tomorrow morning. Do that and this emerald is yours!” |
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