They watched.
“W-h-i-t-l-e-y,” he spelled. John Whitley!
They breathed sighs of relief.
“Chasca does not wish that a sacrifice be made,” Bill spoke, “Chasca has made peace with Raymi for you. He is angered that you do not show more trust in him, a messenger of Raymi, come to give you blessings.”
His two hands dropped into his trousers pockets. That meant that they must not look for whoever came. They must pay no attention. Cliff nodded.
Then Bill drew his hands free and folded his arms. At once they knew that the council of communion was over.
“Chasca has bidden his servant—he of the dark locks—to go forth and find a certain thing.” Bill went on in the nobles’ dialect, “behold—that servant returns!”
The boys did not look up, mindful of their orders; but all the others in the group did so. Through the crowd came pushing John Whitley. They made way for him but so dense was the press that he moved only slowly. Bill must have seen him signal from the outskirts of the crowd, Cliff guessed; it was true.
But what would Mr. Whitley say? Had he found what he wanted? Or—not! And would he understand the danger into which Cliff had been forced when Challcuchima failed to keep his word?
Then they saw that Bill’s ear was causing him a seemingly great lot of trouble; his middle finger scratched industriously as John Whitley approached. Would he recall the signal?
“This is sacrilege!” cried the high priest. “Chasca, son of the skies, will not seek to change the rites to which we and our fathers have bowed ever since Manco Capac, founder of our line, sunk his golden wedge near Titicaca and began his rule!”
“Chasca does seek to change no rites,” Bill replied calmly. “Chasca seeks to save a life because there is no need for its sacrifice!” He kept working at his ear. John Whitley broke into the circle.
“What?—” he began. He stared around. There was a moment of intense silence. A stick fell and crackled on the altar: among the maidens of the Sun there was stifled sobbing from Caya, close beside her sister but not daring to touch her!
John Whitley’s eyes seemed caught by Bill’s finger: he stared. Then he looked at Cliff and suddenly he folded his arms!
“Let the sacrifice proceed!” shouted the high priest, jealous of his position.
“Not so!” shouted Bill.
His fist came down into an open palm as though to emphasize his cry, but John Whitley divined that in the secret sign manual a question was being asked! “Did you get it?”
“Yes!” his right finger rubbed his chin.
“Ah,” said Bill, and his voice rang out clearly as he faced the high priest.
“Chasca denies you the right of sacrifice!” he said, “There is no need. The corn will be saved. The Sun, Raymi, has sent that which will destroy the insects!”
Clearly the Inca was impressed. Bill seemed so sincere. Mr. Whitley was smiling. The three chums were standing erect in poses of confidence.
“Within a day your corn will be on the way to security,” Bill said as Mr. Whitley whispered swift words. “Complete your feast and tomorrow you shall see that we speak truth!”
Cliff ran past them all, caught the shrinking, veiled figure and beckoned Caya.
“Go back to our house,” he said. “Caya—take her! We’ve won!”
When Cliff returned to his friends he saw that they had been joined by a tall, cold-eyed Indian noble. He and the high priest were exchanging frowning glances: it seemed evident that they disliked each other. Mr. Whitley was whispering hurriedly to Bill. The high priest turned toward Cliff with a sharp word but Bill advanced, held up his hand, and faced the Inca.
“Oh, royal son of the Sun,” he began, loudly enough to be heard by many nobles gathered nearby, “Chasca’s servant brings report. There was no destruction of your corn by insects, as Huamachaco, your high priest, told you. The corn grew sick because the earth it grows in has become tired and must be made fruitful once more.”
“That is not so!” shouted the high priest, forgetting his dignity in his anger.
Bill paid no attention.
“Oh, Inca,” he went on, “here, beside me, is one you trust. Is it not so?”
He indicated the new arrival: the Inca glanced at him and smiled. “He is my son, my oldest son,” he agreed, “I trust him.”
“Make report, oh, son of the Inca,” urged Bill.
“Make report,” chorused the nobles.
“I make report of this, oh, noble Inca and my father,” said the Indian. “This servant of the messenger from the stars came to my fields soon after Chasca appeared among us: he observed the corn and he took up the earth and made magic with it.” The crude tests Mr. Whitley had been able to make had seemed to be incantations to the untutored Indian. “Then went he afar among the hills with one of my servants. They came back with something borne in a sack and from that which they brought my servants did make a magic fluid by mixing it with water.”
“Their earth is starving for nitrogen,” Mr. Whitley said in a low tone to Cliff, “they do not rotate their crops here; that is they plant the same crop until the earth is exhausted, instead of resting it by changing the crop from one sort to another. I brought them some mineral salts rich in nitrogen and saved time by sprinkling the earth around the cornstalks. And we had to make tiny holes in a golden crock to sprinkle with—imagine! A golden sprinkling can.”
“Already my corn begins to change and no longer does it droop.” The Indian cast a triumphant look at the high priest: evidently there was jealousy. “It was not the insects, as Huamachaco did tell you, oh, my father, but the earth that starved the grain, as I have said to many.”
The high priest turned away, but as he did so Cliff, surprised, his eyes bent on himself with a baleful glance. However, he simply stared straight and level at Huamachaco whose eyes shifted aside.
“You have heard,” said Bill. “Let the Feast of Raymi go on, and let it be a feast, indeed! When it is finished, all shall divide into bands, some to fetch the magical earth, some to mix the powerful liquid, others to fashion urns with which to make it fall like rain upon the corn, and so, very soon, all of your dying earth will live again and make the corn lift its tassels in joy to Raymi, whose humble messengers we are.”
Cliff had not dreamed that Bill could be so glowing in his speech, and he saw that not only the Inca, but his younger son and all of the nobles were impressed. The Inca evidently foresaw trouble between the two men, and rather eagerly he waved his hand toward them all in dismissal.
“Let the feast go on,” he said. Then, turning to Cliff, he added: “Think not, oh son of Venus, that I am ungrateful; when the feast to your superior Lord and Master is done with I will give you tokens of my grateful spirit.”
Cliff bowed, not quite sure what else to do. Bill, whose middle left finger had again been caressing his ear, until his friends all gave attentions, made a sign again for no speech, and they all allowed themselves to be conducted to places of honor at a special board table, rather crude but lavishly laden with gold and silver dishes, on which were spread a feast of native roast meats, vegetables, a sort of bread made of the maize—only rarely did the Incas make up bread; they used the corn more often in a sort of porridge, or dried and sometimes parched.
“I am glad you came when you did,” Cliff told the former history instructor. The others echoed his statement.
“We are not out of the frying pan yet,” Bill warned. “Or—if we are, it’s most likely because we’re about to be dipped into the fire.”
“Why?” asked Nicky, thrilling a little with fear and quite a deal more with anticipation of more adventure.
“You saw the priest and the noble glaring at each other?”
They all nodded.
“It was because of their enmity that the noble was so eager to help me,” Mr. Whitley stated. “Naturally the chief priest will not like us too well for showing that his judgment was so far wrong.”
“But the priest won’t dare do anything,” Tom volunteered. “The people think we are heroes, don’t they?” Bill nodded.
“Just now they do,” he agreed. “But—there is no telling—I saw Huamachaco talking to that mysterious stranger as we came—.” He paused and suddenly changed his tone, as he added, “Be careful!” and immediately raised his voice again. “Did you ever see so much gold on a table, Chasca, since we left the halls of the dwellers in the skies?”
They saw at once what caused his sudden change. The dark stranger was approaching. By his shifting gaze and the first words he spoke under his breath they knew him to be Sancho Pizzara, the Spaniard who had offered to join them and then had deserted them in the white pass, only to come to grief himself.
“Buenos di—Ah, senors!—and you, noble Chasca! Noble Cleeford Gray Chasca!” There was a curl to his lip and Nicky thrust a hand against the table to push himself erect, but Mr. Whitley put a foot against his ankle none too gently in warning as the Spaniard proceeded. “But that is fine, that you shall be Chasca! You can help me.”
“You weren’t ambushed?” demanded Tom. “We thought——”
“There was some—how you say?—some ‘ta-ra-boom-te-ay’ in the pass of snow. My men all run away back. Me, I am desert in snow to freeze. But I get here—late. You are already fix up very nice.”
“I warned you about the pass,” Bill reminded him.
“Si!” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and bent close and motioned to them to listen. “That we shall forget. Now it is to know—is there plenty of gold? But I see it.”
“What did you tell these people?” Mr. Whitley demanded. “We heard that you came with some message.”
“Tell—? Oh! I tell that I am send by other men of the hills to seek white faces of those who come this way.”
“You told them that?” Bill scowled.
“Si. But I have not yet tell that you are men I seek.”
“No, and you had better not!” said Tom sharply. Bill warned him with a look.
“Why shall I tell that when you can take me to the gold?”
“We are not here for gold,” Cliff said evenly. “We told you about my father.”
“Then there is that gold for me alone!” smiled Pizarra.
“Do you think we would help you steal it?” asked Cliff very quietly. “If you do, you are wrong. We won’t even take away any to pay back Mr. Whitley, because my father’s books will make enough to do that. We came here intending to take enough gold away for expenses, but that was before we knew that my father was alive and able to go with us.”
“If you go—” said Pizarra, softly, his eyes flashing.
“Do you mean to threaten that you will endanger the life of the man we came here to rescue?” asked Mr. Whitley coldly. “And put these young men in danger?”
“Oh, no,” Sancho Pizzara assured him with a shrug. “I am very kind man. Senor el Venus, here, he will guide me safe to the gold. I shall then not put danger to any.”
“And—if we refuse?” asked Bill. “Then—will you?”
“Then perhaps I find the white hombres hiding under red dye.”
“And of course we would sit right still and let him,” Nicky could not control his anger. “We wouldn’t say he was a disguised Spaniard trying to steal their treasure—” He stopped Cliff had nudged him sharply. But his statement daunted Pizarra. He turned thoughtful. Then he smiled. “There is for you too much danger,” he declared. “You will not dare!”
“As surely as you open your mouth—” began Bill.
“If you do, we do!” Tom snapped.
“Tit for tat!” That was Nicky.
“But it cost you nothing to show me where is the gold hide,” Pizarra said, rubbing his hands.
“These people have been kind to us,” Mr. Whitley said. “We do not like to help you rob them.”
“I am mak’ friends to his Huamachaco,” Pizarra said meaningly. “He is already suspect something.”
That was bad, Cliff reflected, then he brightened.
“He has just been discredited by the Inca’s son,” he stated. “If it came to a test of power——”
“You see what it come to!” Pizarra wheeled and stalked off.
“We ought to—” Mr. Whitley rose; he had in mind the danger to which their move exposed his charges.
“But we can’t—” began Cliff.
“He certainly has put us in a tight corner,” Bill admitted, “but we can’t let him dictate and threaten——”
They followed his staring eyes as he paused. The Inca, his two sons, the high priest and Pizzara were approaching.
“Sit tight,” whispered Bill. “Let me do the talking!”
“Certainly you may do the talking,” John Whitley agreed to Bill’s urgent hint as they all watched the arrival of the other party. “But I cannot understand how Pizzara can dare to risk his own safety——”
“The high priest hates the Inca’s older son,” Bill answered. “He will be discredited if the corn grows. He would rather see the crop ruined than to have that happen. The Spaniard must guess that. Probably he hinted enough to whet Huamachaco’s curiosity. I think the priest might even promise—promise, I said, not give!—him gold for his help in removing us from the scene.”
The rest of the party nodded; there was no time for more discussion. The Inca arrived and they all stood up respectfully and bowed to him.
“This man makes a strange story,” said the ruler. “He says you come here from across the great blue waters to steal our gold and to take away the white man who is sick.”
Bill bowed to the Inca, but his eyes watched the face of the priest; Cliff and his chums saw that the latter was smiling in a satisfied, triumphant way.
“Truly it is a strange tale, oh ruler,” Bill spoke without apparent surprise. “A tale that is the more strange because it comes from the lips of one of that race of Spaniards who tore the empire of the Incas to shreds and took much gold away!”
Pizzara snarled as the Inca turned toward him; but he swiftly composed his face to a smile.
“Royal son of the Sun,” Pizzara said to the Inca. “Which of us speaks the truth? It is easy to prove. Here come the men!”
Cliff, Nicky and Tom wheeled. There was a commotion among the crowds still mulling around in the great square, drawn by the feeling that something important was happening. Soldiers threw the people aside as they advanced toward the gardens in which the royal table and those for the nobles were set out.
Cliff felt a prickle of fear run along his spine; there was no mistaking the figure coming toward them. It was Huayca, or Whackey, their former mountain guide, the one who had deserted them on the same night that the Spaniard had slipped away. Behind him were two others. They later proved to be the Indian who had accompanied Pizzara to America and the other who had waited in the hills for the quipu from Cuzco.
Soldiers formed a cordon around the garden as though by a previous arrangement; it was as well, for the crowd, sensing one threat in the attitudes of the five strangers, began to murmur and to press in toward the gardens.
“Can you say who these men are?” the Inca demanded, turning to Huayca and signing for him to rise from his posture of kneeling with his face to the ground.
“They are five,” replied Huayca. “They have the same height as did five whom I guided toward our trap in the white pass. But their faces are red, the others were white.”
“And who, say you, does this man resemble?” Bill indicated Pizzara. “Is he not of the height of a Spaniard who followed us?”
“He is of that height, perhaps,” said the former guide. “But him I cannot recognize for I saw him only at a distance.”
“But these,” he indicated the chums, “they wear robes like those I saw in a pack carried by the men I guided—I could say they are the same robes, noble and great son of the Sun!”
At a word from the second of his associates, soldiers roughly drew Cliff to one side and pushed Nicky and Tom to either side of him.
“Thus they stood in a house in that strange land which I visited,” said the other man, and he added, “I recall the picture perfectly and they are of the same height and attitude.”
“What say you?” said the Inca, frowning.
“This!” replied Bill, while the chums stood watchful but realizing that he had urged them to let him handle the situation. “This, Inca!” No longer was he humble or quiet. Quipu Bill was stern, erect, his lank figure towering even above that of the tall ruler. “This I answer. White or red—messengers from the sky or visitors from across the blue water—these things do not matter.”
He slipped a hand quietly under his robe.
“What does matter is that we came here to save your corn——”
“That is so!” cried the elder son of the Inca, eagerly; he had evidently been waiting for an opportunity to help them.
“Ask this other man what he has come to do,” Bill whirled to scowl at Pizzara who cringed instinctively before he could regain his braggadocio pose. “And—further—” went on Bill, “—ask Huamachaco how much gold he has promised to this man for a story that will work against your older son and his friends who seek to save your grain!”
It proved to be a telling thrust; the high priest shifted his eyes and fidgeted under the Inca’s inquiring gaze.
“The man speaks wisely,” said the younger son, Challcuchima. “Whatever may be their past, my brother has said that his corn begins to thrive again under this servant of Chasca and his magic. And you have seen the high priest’s face. I can say truly that my brother has told me before of Huamachaco’s envy and fear of him.” He had paid Cliff back for sparing him the humiliation of defeat in the wrestling matches. Cliff smiled gratefully and Challcuchima smiled back.
“What magic has this other to match that?” asked the older son quickly using the advantage for his friend, John Whitley, who had shown him how to enrich the earth and help his crop.
Pizzara blustered.
“I do not fling magic about like water,” he boasted, “but I will make your corn grow when the fate of these men is settled.”
Bill fixed his eye on Pizzara and began to grin; Cliff and his chums relaxed a little. During his conversation Bill had very stealthily and gradually moved toward Cliff; middle finger touching his ear, he had signaled for attention. Cliff was ready, then, when, calling by signal for an answer to his sign-inquiry, “Is anybody coming?” which Bill asked by dropping his right hand to his side with two fingers loosely dangling, Bill stood behind him. Cliff knew that nobody was coming. He knew that Bill knew it. But he knew something else——
“The sign replying ‘No!’ to any signal is to clasp the two hands lightly behind the back,” Cliff thought. “Bill knows no one is coming; he wants my hands behind me.” He clasped them.
All that had gone on while Bill was talking and listening. As he turned to pass behind Cliff his hand slipped like lightning from under his robe and Cliff, feeling a cold object, found his hands clasped around a small automatic revolver.
“Keep it behind you,” muttered Bill, and then moved on and went close to the Inca. From where he had been standing, beside the other end of the rude table, his move to get closer to the ruler seemed quite natural. “Clever Bill,” thought Cliff, “to make me put my hands behind me to get this revolver, by using the Mystery Boys’ sign. I wonder why he gave me the weapon?”
“Oh, Senor Pizzara,” Bill threw over his shoulder. “So you have magic, have you?” He faced the ruler. “Inca,” he said, “noble Son of the Sun, this man says he has magic. Shall we have a test of his power compared to that of Chasca, Page of the Sun?”
That pleased the entire group. The Indians were always eager to see any marvels. Bill’s plan was clearer to Cliff but he held the revolver behind him, although several soldiers saw the glinting object and stepped forward, then hesitated and drew back at Bill’s words. They had not actually seen the weapon pass from Bill to Cliff, and they were not sure that it had done so. They waited to see what would happen.
“Let this man show his magic to Chasca!” snapped Bill.
They all chorused, “Let him show his magic!”
Pizzara grimaced at Bill and turned to the Inca.
“I fear to show my magic,” he said. “It is too powerful——”
“He has none,” Bill cried, then whirled toward Huamachaco. “Let your high priest show his magic, then.”
But apparently the high priest still had some fear that the young fellow with the bright and flowing locks might be truly a messenger from the skies. He backed away, frowning, shaking his head. “It is not good to show my magic to the ones who are not in the sacred order,” he muttered.
“What? No magic? Yet Chasca can show some! Chasca—oh, Inca, take from the youth of the skies that which he offers.”
The Inca turned, gazing in surprise as did all the Peruvians, as Cliff produced the revolver. “The safety catch is on,” Bill murmured. “Let him have it, Cliff.”
The Inca took the glittering steel object gingerly, awed by it. He examined it while the others stared, but kept at a safe distance. Pizzara began to skulk away but soldiers stopped him.
“Point it—so!” suggested Bill, showing the ruler how to direct the muzzle in the general direction of Pizzara’s stomach.
“No! No!” cried the man, groveling and pushing a soldier in front of his own person.
“Bring him back!” snapped the Inca and the soldiers pushed Pizzara forward.
“Pull on that little stick,” Bill suggested. The safety catch prevented the Inca from discharging the weapon but the effect of Bill’s words upon Pizzara was amusing; he fell on the ground and tried to crawl behind Challcuchima.
“Nothing happens and yet the man who can save your corn is a worm, crawling about, just because of our magic,” said Bill. He took the weapon which the Inca was very glad to relinquish.
“Get up!” Bill said curtly. Pizzara stood cringing.
“Say to the Inca—is what you told Huamachaco the truth?” The muzzle slipped upward along Pizzara’s buttons and he knew there was an expert hand releasing the safety catch.
“No! No!” he shouted. “Inca, it was not so.”
“Take him away!” the Inca signed to the soldiers and for the time the danger was past.
No one interfered as, leaving the table, the five friends went quickly to their retreat in the Star Temple.
“We must change our plans,” Bill said, swiftly when they were alone. “We must get together all our things that we will need—the things Cliff suggested bringing may come in handy after all!—and I will bring comrade Cliff’s pa tonight and we will make a try for that ledge where our rope is hidden.”
“What is it, Caya?” Cliff asked as the girl came to fall on her knees before him. He signed for her to rise.
“Use your magic to return to the skies,” she begged. “They talked after you went. I went near. I heard. They let you show them the magic for the corn and then the high priest says he can make greater magic to destroy you!”
Cliff whispered to Mr. Whitley and Bill, then in his slow quichua he said to the trembling girl: “We are not from the stars, Caya. We are here to save my father, the pale man who has been a prisoner for so long.”
The girl clasped her hands and stared. Slowly his words penetrated her understanding.
“Oh!” she gasped. “See then—! I can help! You saved my sister! I will help you—save you and your father also if it shall please Raymi that one so humble shall do so much!”
“How?” asked Tom, always practical.
“There is a secret way—it is not known to me, but I shall learn from one who knows!”
“We saved her sister and now she will save us,” Nicky exulted. “The Spaniard queered us”—he was so excited he used slang, but they did not notice. “We paid him back. Just as I said.”
“Yes,” said Cliff. “It’s ‘tit for tat’ all around!”
“How can you find out about the secret pass if you don’t know already?” asked Tom.
“Don’t be too inquisitive,” reproved Mr. Whitley. “If she can find out that is enough for us.”
“But in trying to find out she might blunder,” Tom urged. “Huamachaco, for example, might grow suspicious and watch us all.”
“I tell you my way,” she said eagerly. “I do not make danger. In the mountains are great herds of vicuna—small cattle—sheep.”
“And you know one of the shepherds?” Cliff saw the truth.
Caya looked down bashfully “Yes.” She was shy as she spoke. “One comes at night. We walk and talk. Late tonight I will come to you and I will know the way.”
They glanced at one another dubiously.
“‘Late tonight’ won’t be too late, will it?” Tom wondered.
“They won’t disturb us until they learn what I used on the corn field,” Mr. Whitley said. “We surely have the rest of the day and the coming night, because they must finish the feast.”
“That makes you safe,” Bill said. “I guess the rest of us can stay quiet and keep out of mischief.” If he said mischief they all knew that he meant “danger.”
Caya hurried away and the others busied themselves getting their few necessary belongings together. Caya’s plan was that when they went, late at night, she could lead them to the pass where she knew her influence over her young shepherd sweetheart would enable her to find the way. Then they could hide until she could bring enough food to sustain them after she said farewell in the mountains. Perhaps her shepherd might even be induced to feed them; she would see what he would do. She was sure he would come to see her that evening.
She slipped away to help serve at the feast which was still progressing, and to linger near the tables of the nobles to learn anything she could about their plans.
“If she doesn’t come back we can probably get to our ledge, and escape that way,” Nicky suggested.
“I think that way is closed,” Bill said. “Pizzara came that way: from the top of the ledge he probably discovered the twine and he may have used the same scheme to get down. But I don’t think he was brainy enough to hide the twine—and he could not get up high enough to do that. We had to make our human ladder, you remember, to get the twine end out of sight.”
“We will have to depend upon Caya,” said Mr. Whitley. “And I only hope one thing—that her shepherd friend keeps his regular tryst with her.”
“We won’t take these back, will we?” asked Nicky, holding up a handful of thin sticks about ten inches long, heavily crusted for most of their length with fat grayish stuff.
“We can slip them into our robes,” Mr. Whitley said. “They are only colored lights, red, blue and green, but they might be useful as torches and they burn a long time.”
“We were going to use them if we had to pretend to make a display of magic, weren’t we?” asked Nicky who had not been fully aware of the plan Cliff had originally made. That plan had been to come into the valley as strangers, wanderers, Indians from a distant place, and then, if necessary, to use simple colored lights and other things to impress the Inca’s subjects.
The plan had been changed by the fact that Cliff’s hair came out of his dye-bath a vivid golden red; he was posing as Chasca, the youth of the bright and flowing locks and the fireworks had not been needed since they burned red fire on the ledge.
“How about these?” asked Cliff, picking up some squat, stubby paper tubes. But no one answered. Huamachaco had entered the main temple and was approaching slowly. Cliff mechanically dropped his hand into an inside pocket sewed inside the robe by Bill. He forgot his question in the sudden suspicion brought into his mind by the arrival of their enemy.
But Huamachaco seemed to be no enemy; he was smiling. He was sorry that he had listened to the stranger’s false tale, he said, and the Inca wished to show them honor and to ask the noble Chasca to forgive his suspicion. Would they not join the Inca at the feast?
To refuse might bring on the Inca’s anger; it was not wise to slight him. They agreed to go and followed Huamachaco to the main door of the temple. He drew back and stepped aside, motioning to Cliff. “Hailli, Chasca!” cried someone from beyond the doorway and as Bill nudged him Cliff stepped out.
Then he stared, grew tense and his blood froze.
The Inca, Challcuchima and the others, as well as Pizzara, standing at one side, he scarcely noticed. His eyes flew to a group of soldiers. They were dragging a man’s limp figure! The man wore European clothes, though ragged ones; his face was white! With a scream Cliff sprang forward.
“Father!” he cried, and again, “Father!”
“You see!” cried Sancho Pizzara to Huamachaco, “I told truth!”
“Take him under guard!” growled the Inca. Cliff was trapped.
There was an instant of absolute silence. Cliff was hesitating over the chance of springing past the soldiers to get to his father. The friends behind were stunned. The soldiers still had enough awe of “Chasca” to delay.
Then Huamachaco caught one of Cliff’s arms and dragged him sharply down the steps and sideways so that he stumbled. Challcuchima caught him as he scuffled down the stone slabs, off his balance. In the same second Tom and Nicky had leaped past Bill. Nicky grappled with and tripped the Indian priest while Tom dragged down Challcuchima from behind. Bill and Mr. Whitley were out on the steps at once. Bill lifted the shining revolver which he had recovered from Cliff when they left the feast.
“Stop!” he shouted. But there was a grumble and murmur from the crowd pressed against the line of soldiers, with their tin-and-copper alloy swords out and ready. There was more danger than merely that of arrest and confinement. There was an ominous threat in the sound of that hoarsely guttural murmur.
Cliff had his arms free; a soldier, seeing that no harm came to those who had seized Chasca, himself advanced. Cliff backed toward the temple steps again, at Mr. Whitley’s swift order.
But Challcuchima had flung off Tom, had, in fact, given him a vicious punch that took Tom’s wind for the instant.
Challcuchima caught at Cliff again. Cliff’s hand shot out as Mr. Whitley leaped off the step and swung the Inca’s older brother aside before he could aid Challcuchima. Cliff’s blow struck true and the younger son went down.
“Get back into the temple!” cried Bill.
There was a sharp, startling bark from his revolver; he fired above the heads of the crowd.
That unusual sound arrested every motion for an instant. Nicky squirmed free from Huamachaco who had risen and grasped him. Cliff started backward but his foot caught on the lowest step. He lost his balance but Nicky caught and steadied him. Bill and Mr. Whitley rushed down to aid Tom, who had dropped, sick and weakened by Challcuchima’s unexpected blow.
Then there came an ominous sound—a laugh of triumph.
The Inca, with several soldiers, had gained the top step and escape into the temple was cut off!
The angry crowd surged forward, pushing the soldiers with them.
Cliff leaped forward and caught Tom, steadying him as he regained his breath. Bill swung and pointed his weapon straight at the Inca.
“You get back,” he said meaningly in quichua, “or this magic stick will speak and send you to your fathers!”
The Inca wavered uncertainly; but Challcuchima thrust between Cliff and Tom, Nicky raced to his assistance, Huamachaco cried out, “Capture the one who calls a white stranger his father!” and the entire crowd surged forward.
Bill and Mr. Whitley leaped up on the steps in concerted action and so sudden and unexpected was the rush that they upset one soldier who clutched at his comrade. Both fell. Bill gave the Inca a poke and he tottered down the side steps.
But others were ready to rush in.
Cliff spoke swiftly to his comrades, drew a paper of matches from his pocket; the crowd hesitated as he struck a match, backed to the cleared space behind them that offered a way to the temple steps. The soldiers had not yet closed in behind them.
Cliff did not speak; but his upflung hand caused curiosity in the minds of the simple natives.
Even the soldiers held quiet, an officer muttering some word to stay them. Methodically Cliff drew a squat, stubby paper tube from his robe. He handed it to Nicky; another to Tom.
“Light the fuses when I strike the match,” he whispered. “Then throw them down in front of us and all make for the doorway!”
He drew out a third tube, struck a match. Three fuses came together. But at the same instant a soldier leaped forward to jostle Cliff’s arm. But the fuses caught.
Their sputter heralded a trickle of pitchy, pungent black smoke; the tubes were such smoke-pots as are used by motion picture companies, and such as were used in the war, for fire scenes and smoke screens.
“Drop them—now!” cried Cliff. The three flung down their tubes and retreated; Bill and Mr. Whitley were at the door. Cliff lit another tube as Mr. Whitley reached to hasten the youths up the steps.
The crowd, seeing them move back a step, began to surge forward but the smoke began to pour up in a huge, spreading cloud. It spread in the slight breeze, blew into the eyes and throats of the soldiers and of the mob.
Coughing, choking, startled and awed, they fell back against those pressing forward. The smoke spread into a great fan, hiding the exit of the five; the only one who might have seen them was the Inca; but he was too busy picking himself up.
The smoke subsided. The crowd gasped.
Their quarry seemed to have disappeared as if by magic!
“You meant well,” Bill panted, as they retreated into their antechamber. “Cliff, it was a splendid idea that you had. But——”
“With no door to barricade, we are no better off,” Cliff admitted. “They will soon discover that we came in here.”
“We are like rats in a trap!” said Tom. “Bill, next time you shoot off that pistol you will have to aim lower—or we will have to give up.”
“If there was some place to hide,” said Nicky despairingly.
“But there isn’t,” said Cliff. “I forgot that the temple had no door.”
“There they come!” whispered Tom.
They heard cautious feet tramping up the temple steps and looked around desperately.
Cliff snatched up a golden platter and drew back his arm. But Mr. Whitley caught his hand, and turned to watch a huge tapestry swinging with a curious motion on the inner wall of the anteroom.
Cliff faced that way as did all of his companions. Were they to be attacked from behind that curtain?
The side of the hanging cloth shook and then they saw Caya! Swiftly, with one finger to her lip, she beckoned. In an instant, not even stopping for their belongings, the five moved on tip-toe to the place where she stood.
Wordlessly they trusted themselves behind that curtain, going into the unknown.
There was another doorway there, concealed by the hanging; they had never thought of looking behind that; there were so many decorative cloths hung upon the wall as backgrounds for ornaments and to soften the harsh appearance of rough stone that no other purpose had occurred to them.
Nevertheless, the tapestry screened a way out!
In darkness, following Caya with no more sound than they were compelled to make, they gave each other whispered directions as Cliff, in the lead, felt her steady him at the edge of a downward step.
“It’s stairs,” Cliff whispered.
“To the tunnels!” Tom guessed.
Slowly, carefully, down they went. Faintly through the opening, muffled by the hanging, they heard shouts of baffled rage; the soldiers and the people had forgotten their reverence for the supposedly sacred temple, for if the priests had come in alone they would have sought the way to the tunnels at once.
At the foot of the stairs, down about thirty steps, Caya whispered, her lips close to Cliff’s ear.
“I take you to your white father.”
In a time that seemed an age, feeling their way through the darkness, they came to a point where she urged them to wait for her. She would bring Cliff’s father if there was a chance.
In silence, shivering a little from sheer nervous strain, the five waited, not daring to light the several pocket flashlights they had, even for an instant. They listened with quaking forms to every tiny sound; was that a stealthy step—or the drip of water—or a rat? They did not know. They dared not try to see.
After a long wait a soft gliding sound reached them; they were alert, listening, straining their ears. Caya’s voice reassured them but her news instantly awakened fear again.
“They are coming!” she whispered to Bill. “I did find the white man alone while his guards take counsel with messengers. I stand where white man sees. I do so—” she made a beckoning motion. “He follow. But others are near. I must lead them away while you escape. Go, straight forward. Do not turn. You will come to a room full of gold and silver. At its side are steps. They go into the Temple of the Sun.”
She paused. Far away they could hear shouts.
“Go there,” she resumed. “None dares to enter the Temple of the Sun except the Inca, his Coya”—the queen—“and the high priest. They will not think to seek there. Go, quickly!”
“But where are you going?” asked Cliff.
“To lead the soldiers another way while you escape.”
“We can’t let you do that!” cried the boy; and his chums, with one accord, echoed it. But the brave girl had already turned and glided away.
“Nothing else for it,” whispered Bill. “Come on—to the Sun Temple!”