  When Quipu Bill questioned the Peruvians they remained sullenly wordless. What he called the vanished Whackey was, fortunately, expressed in Spanish; otherwise it would have called for reproof from Mr. Whitley. “What are you going to do?” John Whitley asked as Bill threw a fresh shell into the magazine of his rifle and offered the weapon to him. “You stand guard till dawn,” Bill replied, “Don’t let one of these hombres leave. The rifle is only to scare them—I don’t expect you to use it. I’m going after that Whackey and get that map back.” Tom, who had been very thoughtful, spoke up. “Are you certain that you can trail him?” he asked. Bill grinned in the light of their rekindled campfire. “He may go a roundabout way,” he stated, “But he is bound to end up at the Spaniard’s camp. That’s where I’ll go. I can locate it. That party must be somewhere behind us, maybe in a cut that’s out of sight of the main pass.” “What Tom is thinking is that it might not be the Spaniard’s party, I believe,” Cliff said. Tom nodded. “There is the man—or the men—that runner was sent to find,” Tom suggested. “That is so,” said Mr. Whitley, “How can you know which party is behind this affair?” “I don’t,” Bill admitted, “But the Spaniard’s crowd stopped dogging us just before this happened.” “Perhaps his natives have started trouble—or deserted,” Mr. Whitley hinted. “I think the Spaniard would have told Whackey to take both maps,” Nicky said, “It would take less time to grab a paper than to stand and tear it to pieces.” “Maybe Whackey did that on his own inspiration,” Bill said. “Then the evidence points more toward the Incas than toward the Spaniard,” Cliff urged, “The Spaniard is cunning enough not to leave anything to be decided by Whackey.” Bill began to whittle on a stick, thinking. He nodded. “You may be right,” he agreed, “We must find out which party has the map. If it is the Spaniard we can hide and let him pass and then trail him; but if it is the other side, then we must either take a long chance at finding the one right path or else we must give up the trip.” Cliff thought of his father. Perhaps he was still alive; unless they completed their plans he might never know. “Probably we will have to give up,” said Mr. Whitley, “There are so many menacing things: I promised the relatives of our younger members——” “We can at least be sure which side has the map,” said Cliff, “Before we do give up.” “How can we find out?” asked Nicky eagerly. Cliff explained a plan he had worked out. It was very simple, so simple that Bill poked fun at himself because he had not worked it out himself. He agreed, as did Mr. Whitley, that it was worth trying. Carrying out the scheme, Bill called the natives. “You tried to run away,” he told them, “We don’t want you now. We cannot trust you. Take food enough to get to your homes, or at least enough to get out of the mountains. And go.” To their surprise the natives protested. “Not so,” said the spokesman, “We not try run away. We do all to make you follow us while Huayca do what he plan.” “What did he plan?” “That we not know. We must do that way. That all we know.” “I see the scheme, I think,” Mr. Whitley told Bill, “Huayca made the natives pretend to be stealing the food, so that our attention would be concentrated on them while he took the map. It does not seem logical to me that natives as clever as these would make enough noise to attract attention otherwise.” “We not like to run away. You not pay us yet,” said a native. So they knew no more than before. But Cliff was not discouraged. “Now we must try the second part of my plan,” he pleaded. Mr. Whitley sanctioned it, cautioning the youths to take no needless chances in the event of possible trouble. He remained with Bill’s rifle, out of the direct glow of the fire, his eyes watchful, although the natives seemed content to lie down for sleep. Cliff, Nicky, Tom and Bill made final plans and then drifted quietly away from camp, down the mountain pass. “He has had time to get there—Whackey has,” Tom whispered. Bill agreed and no further conversation was used. For hours they moved like flitting ghosts, avoiding noise as much as they could. In time Bill held out an arm against which, in turn, they came to a stop. He pointed to a very faint flicker that showed on a rock at the mouth of a narrow diverging break in the cliff. For an instant the flare of a bit of wood showed, then it died. Its brief reflection on the rock showed them the location within the cleft of the hidden company: at least, it proved that someone was there with a fire; the deduction that followed was almost sure to be right. No one else was likely to be there. When Bill came back, after a long silence, he had made a scouting trip into the cleft and in a whisper reported to the trio of chums that the camp was there. Final plans were made and Bill crept away again. Cliff held his radium dialed watch so that all three could watch the slow minutes crawl away. It became a matter of seconds before they could act. And how the seconds dragged! But finally the hands touched an agreed point. “Now!” said Cliff. They gathered hands full of pebbles and moved into the mouth of the cleft which they had not dared enter before for fear of making some noise that would disturb the camp. Now noise was their very purpose! All together, at Cliff’s word, as they saw the dull embers of the dying campfire, sole proof of the camp’s existence, they shouted wildly, with all their lungs. At the same time there was a shower of pebbles, thrown wildly but toward and beyond the fire. Then they rushed closer, screeching, yelling, howling. Excited, frightened cries greeted the surprise attack. Then, like a beam of white fire, the flare of Bill’s flashlight cut into the opened flap of a tent, the only one in camp. Guttural, surprised Spanish came from within. Running feet and terrified cries proved that the surprise had demoralized the natives and put them to flight. But hardly had the flash cut into the darkness than it was out and Cliff, seeing it disappear, urged his comrades to retreat with him; their purpose was accomplished and they must be gone before the Spaniard could organize pursuit. “I found him sound asleep when I threw the light on him,” Bill said as they hurried back up the pass. “He was so dazzled by the light I know he didn’t recognize me, with all the noise to muddle up his mind.” “Then he has no map,” Cliff declared. “When he is surprised and can’t take time to exercise his willpower a man does things by instinct; I read a lot about that in a book. If a man has something very valuable and he thinks—or doesn’t have time to think—there is any sudden threat to its safety, he makes a grab for it.” “Well,” Bill told them, “Our ‘friend’ Sancho Pizzara, was sound asleep and when I woke him up, with noise and excitement, he reached for his Crucifix. So, you see, he did not have the map stolen—unless Whackey failed to get there.” “This Sancho man would be awake—waiting,” Tom objected. “With his gun ready and—and everything!” Nicky added. When they reported to Mr. Whitley he agreed that they had fixed the theft of the map and its destination. The Incas! “That ends our trip,” he declared, “I cannot risk our lads in such dangerous affairs.” Cliff did not argue; that was not his nature. He did not remind Mr. Whitley that the plan suggested by Cliff before they started and for which certain materials had been packed, would not be likely to incur any danger. He simply sat still and watched Nicky and Tom show their disappointment. But when the camp was once more quiet, if not asleep, he spoke to his comrades quietly and later on slipped away. |
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