The Project Gutenberg eBook, Incaland, by Claude H. (Claude Hazeltine) Wetmore, Illustrated by H. Burgess

Incaland

“He ran forward, closely followed by the others.”

INCALAND
A Story of Adventure in the Interior of Peru
AND THE CLOSING CHAPTERS OF THE WAR WITH CHILE

BY

CLAUDE H. WETMORE

AUTHOR OF “FIGHTING UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS,” ETC.

With Illustrations by H. Burgess

BOSTON AND CHICAGO

W. A. WILDE COMPANY

Copyright, 1902,

By W. A. Wilde Company.

All rights reserved.

Incaland.

Preface.

Since the years of the Chile-Peruvian War—1879-1883—a great change has come over the land where the Incas once held power. Military rulers have yielded place to men chosen from the civil walks of life; the large standing army has been disbanded, and the pick, hoe, and shovel replace sword, bayonet, and rifle.

Peru’s decline, from the days of Pizarro until near the close of the nineteenth century, was due to the ease with which natural wealth could be acquired. The stages of the nation’s fall are marked by gold, guano, and nitrate of soda. Spaniards lived in opulence while Indian slaves unearthed the yellow metal. Later, Peruvians lived in idleness while coolies and peons shovelled the most productive of all fertilizers from the surface of the Chincha and Lobos Islands. Then in the south was found an equally rich and equally accessible source of revenue in the nitrate of soda.

All gold that lay in sight was exhausted by the Spaniard; all guano was stripped from the treasure islands; and finally, Chile wrested from Peru the nitrate provinces.

It is this period of time—when Peru’s last visible means of wealth was passing from her—that is covered in “Fighting under the Southern Cross” and “Incaland.”

Peru emerged from beneath the war cloud staggering under the burden of a foreign debt. To her relief came representatives of an Anglo-American syndicate. “Give us your railroads for sixty-nine years,” they said. “We will extend them into the fertile interior, and as compensation we will assume your obligations.” Peru acquiesced. The Grace-Donoughmore contract was signed. Bondholders were satisfied.

The shackles of debt cast one side, the men of Peru turned to work, guided by the rulers chosen from civil life who had been placed in power. They no longer depended upon the labor of a few to maintain the majority in indolence.

They tunnelled and dug in the Sierra region and brought to light a wealth of copper; they sank wells in the north and were rewarded with flowing oil; they constructed irrigation canals in Piura Province, and developed a cotton which, because of its lustre and resemblance to wool, is creating a furore in the New York and Liverpool markets.

Gold, guano, nitrate, are the tombstones of old Peru; agriculture and mining are the watchwords of the new.

The dawn of a brighter day for Incaland is glinting over the Andean chain.

Contents.

Illustrations.

INCALAND.

CHAPTER I.
IN THE ANDES.

Harvey held some of the white substance in both hands, examined it curiously, then let it filter through his benumbed fingers.

“This is snow, isn’t it?” he exclaimed.

Hope-Jones and Ferguson laughed.

“What! Have you never seen snow before?” asked the former.

“Of course not. Didn’t I tell you that I visited the States only once, when I was little more than a baby, and remained but a month or two? I’ve never been in these regions any more than have you. I can remember rainfall, but snow! this is the first I have seen,” and he stooped over again, scooping up a fresh handful of the white, fluffy flakes that had covered the ground to the depth of an inch.

“Look out!” screamed Hope-Jones.

Ferguson and Harvey jumped to one side, warned by the cry, not a second too soon, for a huge boulder, roaring with the sound of an express train, bounded down the mountain side, crashed over the place where they had stood, and disappeared below the ledge, reverberating as it fell into the chasm.

“Narrow escape that!”

“I should say so,” said Harvey, who had dropped his snow and stood looking at the two young men, his cheeks quite pale.

The three who thus had barely escaped death were explorers from Callao, Peru, in the year 1879, and this day they were eight hours’ walk beyond Chicla, the highest point to which the Oroya railroad had been built, and to which terminal they had journeyed by train from the main seacoast city of Peru.

Harvey Dartmoor was seventeen years of age, the birthday which marked his passage from sixteen having been celebrated a week before his departure from home. His father had been a wealthy iron merchant in Peru, but the reverses which that country had sustained in the few months of the war with Chile, and which are described in detail in “Fighting Under the Southern Cross,” had forced Mr. Dartmoor, as well as many others in Lima and Callao, to the brink of the financial precipice beneath which yawned the chasm, ruin.

Harvey had been more in the confidence of his father than Louis, who was a year older. This was perhaps due to the younger lad’s resemblance to his father, in face and in personal bearing; or, perhaps, to the fact that he was more studiously inclined and therefore passed more time at home than did Louis, who was fond of outdoor sports, and preferred a spin in Callao Bay, or a dash over the pampas on his pony, with his chum Carl Saunders as a companion, to poring over books in the library.

It was in this manner—by being frequently at home and in the office—that Harvey had learned of his father’s distress of mind, caused by financial difficulties, long before other members of the family had realized the true state of affairs; and this observance by the lad and his inquiries had as a sequel his appearance in the great Andes chain, or the Cordilleras of Peru.

His companions were an Englishman and an American, who had resigned clerkships in offices to undertake this journey. Horace Hope-Jones, the senior, had been five years on the Peruvian coast, coming to Callao from Liverpool, and John Ferguson had lived in Ohio until 1875, when he was offered a very good salary to enter the employ of a large American house which had branch establishments in several cities on the southwest coast. One was twenty-three, the other twenty-two.

They were well known in the cities, and were popular in amateur athletic circles, both having been members of a famous four of the Callao Rowing Club, that had wrested victory from fours sent from Valparaiso, Panama, and other cities. Harvey Dartmoor was a junior member of this club, and it was while serving as coxswain that he became acquainted with Hope-Jones and Ferguson.

It came about curiously that the three were in the Andes, at an altitude of 16,500 feet, this twenty-third day of August, 1879. Two days before they had stood on the beach at Callao, breakers of the Pacific Ocean dashing at their feet; now they were in a wilderness of granite, snow-capped peaks rising on every side, and behind, towering above these, were still others, stretching in a seemingly endless chain.

Their quest in this vastness was gold, and an Indian’s narrative caused their search for yellow metal in the interior, where the great Incas once ruled.

Hope-Jones and Ferguson had lived in bachelor apartments in Lima, which is eight miles from Callao, and for a year their wants had been attended to by an old native, named Huayno, who cooked their meals, made their beds and kept their rooms tidy.

He was singularly uncommunicative during the first eight months of his service, but later, falling ill and being treated kindly by the young men, he told them that he was of direct descent from the Incas; indeed, that there flowed through his veins blood of the royal Atahuallpa, and that he might have been a king had not the race been first betrayed by the white men from Spain and then gradually exterminated, until only a few were left; and these wandered in bands through the interior, turned from a once proud people to Philistines, because of the injustice done them.

Thus old Huayno would talk evenings for hour after hour, speaking in Spanish with a strange mixture of the Indian tongue, and they would listen intently, because he told wonderful things of life in that portion of the interior to the north of Cerro de Pasco, where the foot of white man had never trod.

The Indian became worse instead of better, and finally was bedridden. Hope-Jones and Ferguson had grown much attached to him. They recognized a person above the station in which circumstances had placed him, and, moreover, they felt sorry for one who was far away from his people and so lonely. Therefore, instead of sending him to a hospital, they called a doctor and engaged a nurse to be near his side during the day, while they were absent at their offices. The physician shook his head, after examining the old man, and said:—

“He cannot linger long; perhaps a week, possibly two, but no longer.”

Ten days later the end came, and a few hours before Huayno breathed his last, he beckoned Hope-Jones and Ferguson to his side.

“My masters, I know that I am about to die,” said he. “The sun of my life is setting in the hills and soon it will have disappeared. Before darkness comes I have much to tell you. In these weeks you have done much for me, as much as you would have done a brother; and so I, in turn, shall do for you. Give me, I pray you, from that bottle, so the strength may come to my voice.”

One of them handed him a glass, into which he had poured some cordial, and the Indian drank slowly, then raised himself partly in bed, leaning on pillows which had been placed behind his back.

He was a tall, well-formed man, his skin of light copper color, and he wore a beard that reached halfway to his waist. His cheeks were much sunken and shrivelled, and resembled stained pieces of chamois skin that had been wet, then dried without stretching. His luminous black eyes glistened from deep cavities under shiny brows.

“I am of the tribe of Ayulis,” he continued, his voice much firmer. “They now inhabit the country round about the river Marañon, where they cultivate yacas, plantains, maize, and cotton, and from the latter the women weave gay cloths, so that their attire is of more splendid color than that of any tribe. Eighty-five years ago it was not thus; then we were not compelled to cultivate the fields, for having gold in abundance we employed others to work. That gold proved our curse, for the white men came from Spain and levied tribute upon us, more and more each year, until we knew that soon all would be taken away. They levied tribute which we were compelled to pay, but they never learned from where we secured the metal, although they searched in parties large and small and put many of our leading men to the torture, in effort to force the secret from them. An Ayulis has no fear of pain, and they laughed when burned with hot irons and when boiling oil was poured upon them.

“When at last the Spaniards drove them too far, they choked the approaches to the mine with the trunks of huge trees, and all voiced a pledge that the place should never be opened again, nor would the location be made known to these unwelcome visitors from Spain. I am one hundred years old now; I was twenty then, and I remember well the great meeting of our tribe. Later we were revenged. Six months from that day we joined forces with the Jivaros, and at night we entered the town of Logroño, where a terrible butchery befell. Every white man was beheaded and every woman was carried away. Then other white men came and we were hunted through the forests for years, until at last we settled on the banks of the Marañon and there turned our attention to farming.

“We thought no more of gold, my masters, for that had been our curse; but well I remember the days when the yellow metal was in plenty, and with these eyes I have seen a nugget of gold taken from the mine of which I speak, that was as large as a horse’s head and weighed four arrobas.[^[1]] Silver was so plentiful and iron so scarce that horses were shod with the white metal.

[1]. One hundred pounds.

“Now I come to a time later by twenty years, when, by accident, I killed a man of our tribe. They would not believe me that I had meant him no harm, and that the arrow was not sped by design, but they declared that I should die. Had I been guilty I would have awaited the punishment; but I was innocent, and so I fled, and for a time I joined the savages on the Ucalayli, but in a few years I pushed on, over the mountains, to this coast where I have since been.”

Hope-Jones and Ferguson had listened breathlessly, bending forward, for the old Indian’s voice had grown weaker and weaker. Soon he added:—

“I will tell you where the gold mine lies, for you have been kind to me. Take paper and pencil, that you may write down what I may say and not forget.”

They did so, and he went on:—

“Cross the mountains to Oroya, go north even to Huari, all that way it is easy. From Huari go further north, three days on foot, to the great forest of cinchona trees, which commence at the sources of the upper Marañon. Enter this forest at Mirgoso, a village of few huts in my day, probably larger now. It is here that the Marañon properly commences. Follow the river, keeping in sight the right bank all the way. Travel six days by foot and you will suddenly see a great white rock. Beyond this once was a path, leading further north a half mile. Along it trees have been felled; they are rotted now. Push on and you will find the mine. Another—another—”

They bent closer, for his breath was coming in spasms.

“Another white rock marks—”

They sprang to his side; a strange rattle sounded in his throat.

“Lift me that I may see the setting sun.”

They did so and he looked out the window, toward Callao, where the ball of red was sinking. Then he fell back, dead.

For several days the young men said little concerning the Indian’s story. They gave his body fitting burial in the little cemetery at Bella Vista, and returned to their work at office desks. It all seemed a dream to them; either they had dreamed or they had listened to the ravings of Huayno. But after a week they commenced to discuss the narrative, first curiously, as one might talk of a fairy tale, then earnestly, as if their minds were becoming convinced that it had foundation in fact.

Why was it impossible? Were not legends heard from every tongue of the fabulous wealth of the Incas? Was it not said that they had secret mines, from which gold and silver had been taken, and which mines were closed and their bearings lost after the advent of the white man? Had there not been wonderful wealth in Cuzco?—a temple covered with sheets of gold and heaps of treasure? At Cajamaráca, did not Atahuallpa offer Pizarro, as a ransom, sufficient gold to fill the apartment in which he was confined and twice that amount of silver?

There could be no reason for the Indian to deceive them; there was every reason why he should have told them the truth. Would it not be wise to go into the interior and investigate?

Nothing stood in the way. They had youth and strength, the journey would be of advantage physically; each had a small sum of money in bank and a portion of this would furnish everything they might need on the trip, leaving sufficient for emergencies upon their return, should they prove unsuccessful.

These arguments, advanced by one, then by the other, determined them, and one evening Ferguson jumped up from his seat at table and exclaimed:—

“Let’s go!”

“Say we do,” answered Hope-Jones.

“Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Shake on it.”

They clasped hands, and it was settled.

The very next afternoon they were discussing their plans in the dressing room of the Callao Rowing Club, when they were overheard by Harvey Dartmoor. He was not eavesdropping. Such was not his nature. They had not noticed his presence, and finally, when he attracted their attention, they were rather glad than otherwise that he had heard, and soon asked if he would like to join in the search.

Harvey was known in Callao as a student, and the young men believed that he would be of assistance when knowledge of geology and chemistry should be needed. Besides, he was a pleasant companion, and although their junior, he was in many things far advanced for one of his years. So it was decided that Harvey should accompany them, provided his father should give consent, and in the evening Hope-Jones visited John Dartmoor at his home in Chucuito and unfolded to him the strange sayings of the Indian, Huayno.

Mr. Dartmoor was at first reluctant to permit Harvey’s departure. There was considerable danger in the trip—from avalanches, wild animals, and perhaps from savages, occasional bands of which were known at times to approach the Marañon River.

But in Hope-Jones and Ferguson he recognized young men of courage and determination; he knew Harvey to have a similar nature, and beyond all that he looked at the possibility of finding this treasure.

John Dartmoor had seen nothing but darkness on all sides, and here was a glimmer of light. The depreciation of paper money and the stagnation of trade, because of war, had checked all business. He was confronted with obligations which he could not meet, and each night he dreaded the dawning of another day, lest it bring failure before darkness could come again. So at last he gave his consent, and Harvey, delighted, made his preparations for the journey.

The three decided to make no secret of the fact that they were going inland to seek gold, but to no one except John Dartmoor did they say aught concerning the Indian’s revelations.

Having once interested himself in the venture, Mr. Dartmoor proved of valuable assistance to the travellers. Hope-Jones and Ferguson having shared their information with his son, he in turn furnished outfits complete for all three, and as his hardware store was the largest on the coast, he was able to find nearly everything in stock. But the travellers, after frequent discussions, left behind far more than they first had planned to carry, for they appreciated the fact that before them lay mile after mile of mountain climbing.

When equipped for the journey, each was clad in a suit of heavy tweed, the trousers to the knee, gray woollen stockings, and walking shoes. Each carried a knapsack, surmounted by two thin blankets, shaped in a roll, and in each knapsack were the following articles: One light rubber coat, one pair of shoes, two pairs of stockings, one suit of underclothing, three pocket-handkerchiefs, one tin plate, one tin cup, knife and fork of steel, one pound of salt, one large box of matches, one tooth brush, one comb, needles, pins, and thread, one iron hammer, and one box containing two dozen quinine pills.

Ferguson and Hope-Jones each carried a pick, slung by cords over their shoulders, but Harvey was deemed too young to bear a similar burden; besides, two picks were plenty. Hope-Jones carried a shot-gun, Ferguson a rifle, and Harvey a weapon similar to that borne by the Englishman, but of less weight. They all wore two ammunition belts, one around the waist, the other over the shoulder. In pockets were jack-knives, pieces of twine and lead pencils and paper, for they hoped to send letters from the interior to the coast by making use of native runners, although once away from the railroad they could receive none.

Thus equipped, the departure was made from Lima on the morning of August 20, and the three adventurers were accompanied as far as Chosica by Harvey’s brother Louis and by Carl Saunders, their chum, who stood on the railway platform in the little mountain town and waved a God-speed until the train pulled out of sight.

The Oroya railroad is one of the seven wonders of Peru, and no work by civil engineers in all the world so challenges admiration. It rises from the sea and threads the gorges of the Rimac, creeping on ledges that have been blasted from out the solid rock, crossing bridges that seem suspended in air, and boring through tunnels over which rest giant mountains. In places the cliffs on which rails are laid so overhang the river far below that a stone let fall from a car window will drop on the opposite side of the stream. From the coast to the summit there is not an inch of down grade, and in seventy-eight miles an altitude of 12,178 feet is attained. Sixty-three tunnels are passed through. Placed end to end they would be 21,000 feet in length, so that for four miles of this wonderful journey one is burrowing in the bowels of mountains.

At one point the travellers stood on the car platform and saw ahead of them the mouth of a tunnel, then, looking up the face of the precipice they saw another black opening that seemed the size of a barrel; higher still was a third, no larger in appearance than a silver dollar; yet higher, as high as a bird would fly, a fourth, resembling the eye of a needle. Four tunnels, one above the other!

They would enter the first, wind around on ledges, pass through the second, wind again, the third, wind again, and before entering the fourth, look down from the train platform along the face of the precipice and see the entrances to the three holes through which they had passed. They were threading mountains, and always moving toward the summit.

In this wild journey they passed over thirty bridges that spanned chasms, the most remarkable of them all being the iron bridge of Verrugas, which crosses a chasm 580 feet wide and rests on three piers, the central one being 252 feet high.

The noonday meal was taken at Matucana, in the railway station house, and a half hour later they were on the way again, and all three stood on the platform of the rear car, watching the scenery, which every moment grew in grandeur. As the train wound around a ledge, like a huge iron snake, they saw far beneath a little lake of blue, bordered by willows. Even as they looked, clouds rolled out and hid the water and the willows. So they were above the clouds! Yet above them were other clouds, of fleecy white, drifting and breaking against the gray masses of stone that rose ever and ever at the sides of them and in front of them!

For a long time they were silent, looking down into chasms so deep they could not in places see the bottom; at other points appeared a silver thread which they knew to be a river; or, they gazed up at smooth cliffs, towering as if to shut out the sun, and again at huge overhanging boulders that seemed to need but a touch to drop and obliterate train and passengers. While thus watching, Hope-Jones suddenly exclaimed:—

“Where Andes, giant of the Western star,

Looks from his throne of clouds o’er half the world.”

“Who wrote those lines?” asked Harvey.

“Campbell, I believe. I never appreciated them as I do now,” he replied.

They were soon joined by the conductor, who was much interested in the three adventurers. The road not having been constructed its entire length, it was seldom that passengers for the interior were on trains, and rarely indeed were met persons who intended journeying as far as did these three companions. Those who rode up the Oroya railroad were mainly tourists. So, in those years, the railway was operated at a loss; but it was government property, and the purpose was in time to connect the great interior with the seaboard.

The conductor was an American who had been five years in Peru, and he was always glad to meet any one from the States; so at once he fell into conversation with Ferguson.

“How often do you go over the road?” he was asked.

“Three times a week.”

“Do you not tire of the solitude?”

“No. Each time I see new grandeur. Look over there. What is on that cliff?”

The three gazed in the direction he pointed.

“It seems to be a little animal about the size of a lamb,” said Ferguson.

“It’s an Andean bull.”

“But, surely, how can that be?”

“Because the cliff, which seems only a few hundred feet away, is thousands. In this rarefied air all distances and sizes are misleading.”

“What did this road cost?” Harvey asked.

“In money, no one knows exactly, unless it be the superintendent of public construction at Lima. Henry Meiggs took the contract in 1868 for $27,000,000, but the government has added many million dollars since then.”

“You say in money. What other cost has there been?”

“Lives of men, my son. The line is not completed, yet seven thousand men have perished during its construction. They say that for every tie on the railroad across the Isthmus of Panama a man gave his life, but even that road has no such death list on the dark side of its ledger as has this.”

“That is more than double the number of the killed on both sides at the battle of Shiloh!” exclaimed Harvey.

“Yes; if I remember my history aright,” assented the conductor.

“What caused this frightful mortality?” asked Hope-Jones.

“There have been many causes, sir. Extremes of climate have affected those with weak constitutions and rendered them easy victims to disease, pestilences have raged in the camps, and there have been hundreds of fatal accidents, due to blasting and to the fall of boulders. I dare say that if one could find a passage along the Rimac below,” and he pointed to the chasm, “he would see whitened bones between every mile post.”

That evening they reached Chicla, 15,645 feet above sea level, and were entertained at the home of the railroad superintendent, who had charge of the upper division of the line. Chicla is a little town of huts nestling in a small valley and surrounded by mountain peaks. The nights are always cold, and for only a few hours during the day does the sun’s face escape from behind the towering peaks and shine upon the village.

At the supper table Harvey complained of a drumming in his ears, and a few minutes later he hastily left the table because of a severe nosebleed. Ferguson felt something damp on his cheek not long after, and using a handkerchief he noticed that it bore a crimson streak. Blood was flowing from his right ear.

The superintendent assured them that there was no cause for alarm, and that every one suffered from the effects of rarefied air when coming into a high altitude.

“The pressure is less on the body up here,” he explained, “but within your veins and cells is air at the pressure received at sea level. This overpressure air, in endeavoring to escape, forces the blood with it. In a few hours the symptoms will have passed away. None of you has heart trouble, I trust?”

“No,” they answered.

“Then you will soon be all right.”

They passed a restless night, but in the morning felt much better, and viewed from the veranda of the house the coming of the day without a rising sun in sight, for, the superintendent explained, it would be ten o’clock before the rays would shine from over the mountain peaks in the east. The valley was soon filled with a mellow light, and on the western hills rested a shadow that slowly crept downwards.

After breakfast they watched from the veranda a train of llamas coming down the mountain side, bearing panniers filled with silver ore.

“Those are wonderful beasts,” said the superintendent.

“Yes,” remarked Hope-Jones; then he added: “Until recently, I believed they belonged to the same family as the domestic sheep of Europe and North America, but I ascertained by reading that they are more closely allied to the camel.”

“So I have heard, and so examination would convince even one not versed in natural history. They are much larger than sheep, are powerful and more intelligent; besides, they can go for a long time without water and endure as heavy burdens as a mule.”

“I understand that their flesh is good to eat.”

“Yes, it is quite palatable. So the llama is valuable for three purposes—as a beast of burden, for its long, silken wool, and for its flesh.”

An hour later Hope-Jones, Ferguson, and Harvey bade the superintendent good-by, after thanking him for his hospitality, and started on their journey to the northeast. While in Chicla they had secured canvas for a shelter-tent. It was unnecessary to carry poles, because these could be cut each evening; and the additional burden, divided among the three, was not heavy.

The first day’s travel was uneventful until toward sundown, when snow commenced to fall, and Harvey for the first time saw the crystal flakes beneath his feet, and swirling through the air. They had attained quite an altitude above Chicla, how much higher they did not know, not having brought instruments. But in the morning they would commence to descend again to the region of the Montaña, the great table-land valley of Peru which lies between two parallel spurs of the Andes at an altitude of six thousand to eight thousand feet—a valley rich with forests and with smaller vegetation, a valley through which flows the river Marañon, and is inhabited by the Ayulis Indians; and in this valley somewhere on the river Marañon, was a great white rock that marked a nature’s storehouse of gold.

They pitched their shelter-tent, lighted a fire, and ate a hearty supper of food they had carried from Chicla; then, after talking for an hour, they went to sleep, lying close together, wrapped in both blankets, for the night was cold.

CHAPTER II.
THE MONTAÑA OF PERU.

Early next morning the three adventurers were awakened by a mournful cry. A long, shrill note sounded near the shelter-tent and was followed by three others, each deepening in tone. They sat up and rubbed their eyes, then looked at one another, as if to ask, “What is that?”

Again the long, shrill note, and again the three mournful echoes, each deeper than the one preceding.

“What a ghostly noise!” said Hope-Jones.

“Oh, I know what it is!” exclaimed Harvey, rising, his face brighter. “It’s the alma perdida.”

“Alma perdida! That’s the Spanish for ‘lost soul.’”

“Exactly. That’s why the bird has such a name, because of its cry. It’s an alma perdida—a bird, that is piping so dolefully. Come, see if I am not correct.”

He pushed aside the flap of the shelter-tent, sprang without, and was followed by the young men. In the light of early day they saw a little brown bird, a tuft of red on its head, perched on a scrub bush, not a hundred yards away. Even as they looked the shrill note was repeated, and then the doleful ones of deeper sound.

“Shoo!” said Ferguson; and as the bird remained perched on the bush, he threw a stone. The red-tufted body of brown rose from the branch and disappeared.

“’Good riddance to bad rubbish,’” said Ferguson. “We don’t want any such croakers at our feast; which, by the way, reminds me of breakfast.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Harvey. “It’s cold!”

Indeed it was cold for these travellers from the warm coast-belt, the mercury standing at about thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

“Let’s run and get wood for a fire, then we’ll feel warmer,” said Hope-Jones. “There’s a dwarf tree over there. Surely some dry branches are beneath it. Now for a two hundred yards’ dash! One! two! three!”

Ferguson won, Hope-Jones second, and Harvey a close third. The run started their blood well in circulation, and they fell to gathering chips of bark and dried twigs with a will, returning to the tent each with an armful. They placed four stones equidistant from a centre, so that a few inches were between them, and in the spaces piled the wood.

“Be careful with the matches!” said Ferguson. “Only one for a fire. Harvey, take from your box first.”

The boy stooped over and the two young men stood to the windward of him, forming a shield. In a few seconds a crackle was heard, then a thin line of blue smoke rose from between the stones, and tongues of flame licked the pieces of granite.

“More wood!”

It was added, and in a minute a merry blaze was burning briskly.

They held their hands over the flames, and they stood on the leeward side, not minding the smoke which blew in their eyes, for the heat was carried to their bodies, dispelling the chill that had come after the run. Although the morning was somewhat warmer than had been the evening before, it was still very cold for these residents of the sandy coast-line. Here and there patches of snow still lay on the ground, but the white crystals were fast melting under the glow of coming day. The sun was not so tardy here as at Chicla, for no high peaks were in the east, and even as they stood around the fire a shaft of light was thrown across the valley in which they had rested during the night.

“What shall we have for breakfast?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Fried bacon and corn bread,” promptly answered Ferguson.

“But how shall we cook the bacon?” asked Harvey.

“I’ll show you;” and the Ohioan unstrapped his knapsack and took therefrom his tin plate, which he placed on the four stones.

“How’s that for a frying pan!”

They had taken certain provisions from Chicla, because the superintendent said it might be a couple of days before they could reach that part of the Montaña where game abounded, and the carrying of these edibles had devolved upon Harvey, his companions having burdened themselves with the canvas of the shelter-tent. Another minute, and a fragrant odor came from the dish that was resting over the flame.

“I wish the corn bread could be made hot,” said Harvey, as he proceeded with the further opening of his knapsack.

“It will be—in a jiffy,” was the reply. “Just clear away some of the fire on the other side.”

This was done, the sticks and embers being pushed back, and Ferguson commenced with his jack-knife, hollowing out a space in the thin soil. Taking Hope-Jones’s and Harvey’s tin plates, he placed the bread between them, then laying them in the shallow excavation, rims together, he raked over some earth and on top of this a layer of hot coals.

“By the time the bacon is cooked our bread will be ready,” he added.

While this was being done Hope-Jones had visited a little spring near by and had filled their cups with sparkling water. Ten minutes later they were seated around the fire, enjoying the breakfast, and all agreed that they had never tasted a more appetizing meal.

By half-past seven dishes were washed, the tent taken down, knapsacks and bundles packed, and they started, with a compass as a guide, toward the northeast, between two mountain peaks—for in that direction lay the Montaña. It was easy walking, llama trains having made a pathway, and the country soon became more regular, for they had passed the region of gorges, precipices, and chasms; although still among the mountains, the high peaks towered behind, those in front becoming lower as they progressed.

They were travelling a down grade, and as they pushed on there were continual signs of change in the vegetable world. At the point where they had encamped for the night grew only a few shrubs and dwarf trees, whose gnarled branches told of a rigorous climate. But soon cacti thrust their ungainly shapes above ground, the trees became of larger size, and a long grass commenced to appear. And as above they had walked upon a gravel, which had crumbled from the rocky mountain side, so further down appeared a soil richer in alluvium as they proceeded. By eleven o’clock all the towering mountain peaks were behind them. They were nearing the table-land country and were among the foothills of the first spurs of the eastern slope.

“O for a luncheon with potato salad!” exclaimed Harvey.

“Sighing for potatoes in Peru is like sighing for coals in Newcastle,” said Hope-Jones.

“Why so?”

“Because Peru is the home of the potato. It was first discovered here. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yes, but I had forgotten it for the moment. One is so accustomed to terming them ‘Irish potatoes.’”

“Who discovered the vegetable in Peru?” asked Ferguson.

“The Spaniards, in the seventeenth century. Large tracts of land in the Montaña country were covered with potato fields, and the Indians could not recall when they had not formed a staple of diet.”

“How did the term Irish potato originate?”

“Sir Walter Raleigh is responsible for that, I believe. The potato was planted on his estate near Cork and flourished better in that soil than in any other of Europe.”

The noon hour having arrived and the conversation tending to increase their hunger, the three adventurers looked about for a spring, and in the distance seeing a clump of willows and verdure of unusual brightness, they hastened to the spot and found a little mountain stream rippling over pebbles. As they approached a number of parakeets flew away, chattering, their brilliant plumage causing them to appear as rainbow darts above their heads.

“An ideal spot!” said Hope-Jones.

“And here’s shade. We didn’t want shade this morning, did we?”

“Hardly. But the day has grown warm.”

While speaking they cast knapsacks and burdens one side and threw themselves down on the grass for a brief rest before preparing the noonday meal. The murmur of the brook had as an accompaniment the hum of insects and the piping of finches—for they were nearing the table-land, which pulsated with life; far different from the drear of the early morning, which was punctuated only by the doleful notes of the alma perdida.

“I can almost think myself in an American harvest field,” said Ferguson, rolling on his back and clasping his hands over his head.

Hope-Jones placed a blade of coarse grass between his thumbs, held parallel, then blew upon the green strand with all his might.

“What on earth is that?” exclaimed Ferguson, jumping to his feet, and Harvey came running from the stream.

“You said something about a harvest field, so I stood in the kitchen door and sounded the horn for dinner,” was the laughing response.

“What shall it be?”

“The same as this morning, with the addition of hard-boiled eggs; that is, providing Harvey hasn’t broken the eggs.”

“Indeed, I haven’t,” protested the boy, and he commenced to unstrap his knapsack.

A fire was soon started and the eggs were placed over the flame in a large tin cup. After being thoroughly boiled, they were put in the stream to cool, and bacon was fried as in the morning; but the corn bread was eaten cold, “by way of a variety,” so Ferguson said.

“I hope we may find some game this afternoon,” said Harvey, as he cracked an egg-shell on his heel.

“We undoubtedly shall, for it cannot be far to the Montaña proper.”

An hour later they resumed their burdens, and with swinging steps continued on down the hillside. The grass became more profuse, and soon formed a velvet carpet under the feet. It was dotted with the chilca plant, which bears a bright yellow flower, of the same color as the North American dandelion; and in places could be seen the mutisia acuminata, with beautiful orange and red flowers, and bushes that bore clusters of red berries.

“The landscape is becoming gorgeous,” said Hope-Jones.

Trees were now larger, and vines of the semi-tropics clung to the trunks and to the branches. Little streams were of frequency, all running toward the east instead of to the west, as had been observed when on the other side of the cordillera; and so, late in the afternoon, the sun commenced to go down behind the hills, which seemed strange to those who were accustomed to see it sink in the ocean.

“Sh!” exclaimed Hope-Jones, suddenly, then—“Drop down, fellows!”

They sank into the grass.

“What is it?” asked Harvey.

“Look over there, in that clump of trees.”

They saw something moving under the branches, then a form stood still.

“It’s a deer. I suppose it’s the Peruvian taruco. Can you bring it down at this distance, Ferguson? If we go nearer, we shall probably see our supper bound away.”

“I’ll try, but it’s a good range; almost six hundred yards, don’t you think?”

“All of that.”

“Then I’ll adjust the sights for seven hundred.”

He threw himself flat on the grass, pushed his rifle before him, resting the barrel on a stone, took aim for a minute, then fired. The deer sprang into the open, gave a second bound, rising from all four hoofs, and, twisting convulsively, fell dead.

“Bravo! At the first shot!” yelled Hope-Jones, and jumping up, he ran forward, closely followed by the others.

“What shall we do now?” asked Harvey.

“Fortunately I hunted quite a little when a lad in the States,” said Ferguson, whipping out a long knife and cutting the animal’s throat. “In a half hour we can skin it,” he added.

“Say, fellows, I have an idea. What better place can we camp than here?” asked Hope-Jones.

They were near a grove of tall trees, the bark of which was white, and in marked contrast with the dense green foliage. These were the palo de sangre, or blood-wood of the upper Marañon, from which is taken timber of a red color that is fine-grained, hard, and receives a good polish. The trees were not many in number, but they arched over a little brook, and tall grass grew between the trunks.

“It’s a splendid spot,” replied Ferguson, “and I have another plan to add as an amendment to yours.”

“What’s that?”

“To remain here all to-morrow.”

“And lose a day?”

“No; I think we should gain thereby. I confess that I’m dead tired. The first day’s tramp always tells the most. Besides, we had a wearisome trip on the railroad, and for a week before leaving Callao we were continually on the jump. So a day’s rest from tramping will do us all good; but I don’t mean to idle away the time, for we can find plenty to do.”

“What, for instance?”

“Cut up that deer and smoke some strips of the flesh to carry with us. We may not always be so lucky, and smoked venison isn’t at all bad when one’s hungry.”

The amendment was accepted, and they at once went into camp.

It lacked two hours of sundown. The air was pleasant and warm, and the sweet odor from flowers was carried to their nostrils by a light breeze. Hope-Jones cleared a space for the tent and cut props for the canvas. Harvey fetched water from the brook and gathered firewood; and Ferguson, rolling up his sleeves, commenced to skin the deer, then cut a large steak from the loin. In an hour a bed of live coals was glowing, and, using a ramrod for a spit, the Ohioan commenced to broil the venison. Soon savory odors rose, and Hope-Jones and Harvey stood quite near, smacking their lips.

“This is the best dinner I ever ate in my life,” said the boy fifteen minutes later, as he sat on the log of a tree, his tin dish between his knees.

They crawled into the shelter-tent early that evening, right glad to rest, and the two young men were soon in dreamland. But Harvey tossed about uneasily and his eyes refused to close; he was too tired to sleep. For a long time he lay awake, listening to the monotonous notes of the yucahualpa, which sings only at night, and at last, the tent becoming oppressive, he took his blankets and stole quietly without. It was bright with starlight, but there was no moon. A breeze from the west moved the broad leaves of the blood-wood trees, and the sound of their rustling was like the roar of breakers on a distant beach.

The boy stepped to a fallen tree, from the trunk of which branches protruded, but the leaves were gone. Wrapping one blanket completely around him, he lay down, his head resting in a fork several inches above the ground; then he drew the other blanket over him and the next minute was asleep.

CHAPTER III.
A SNAKE AND A PUMA.

“Where’s Harvey?”

Hope-Jones, aroused by Ferguson, rose to an upright position and looked around. The flap of the shelter-tent had been thrown back, and the gray light of early morning was stealing in.

“Not here? Perhaps he has gone to the brook.”

“Yes; probably for a bath. I guess I’ll follow him.”

They lazily drew on their knickerbockers, laced their shoes, and went outside, yawning as they stepped on the grass, for the sleep was still in their eyes. The next instant their attitude changed—from heavy with drowsiness every sense became alert, every muscle contracted and their nerves throbbed, their cheeks from red turned ashen pale. For Ferguson had clutched Hope-Jones’s arm and had whispered, “Look!”

A hundred yards from where they stood lay Harvey, sound asleep, his head resting in the fork of a fallen tree and his face upturned. Two feet above this upturned face—a handsome, manly face—something was waving to and fro like a naked branch throbbed by the wind; only this something moved with a more undulating motion. It was a snake. The body was coiled around the limb of the tree that rose from the fork, and the flat head and neck waved at right angles.

“Sh! It may strike if alarmed!”

Both men sank to their knees.

“What’s it waiting for?” whispered Hope-Jones.

“I don’t know.”

“What can we do? Shall I risk a shot?”

“No. Your gun would scatter and perhaps hit Harvey. We must try the rifle.”

“You do it, then. I never could hit that target.”

“I’ll try,” said Ferguson, clenching his teeth; and he crawled quickly into the tent, and, returning with the weapon, threw himself flat on the grass in the position he had taken the evening before while aiming at the deer.

The light had grown, so that twigs on trees stood out plainly. They could see that the snake was of a brown-green, the head very flat, and in and out between the jaws moved a thin tongue, vibrating as does a tightly stretched string that has been pulled with the fingers.

“Why don’t you fire?” whispered Hope-Jones, who had thrown himself down beside Ferguson.

“Wait. I can’t hit that. No one could.”

The day was growing fast. Harvey slept without moving, and above his face, no nearer and no farther away, moved the flat head with pendulum-like regularity.

All at once, a ray of light glanced from the rising sun through the trees and fell on the face of the sleeping boy—a line of golden light, reaching from forehead to chin. Harvey moved. That instant, the flat head ceased swaying, the portion of the body free from the tree arched itself like the neck of a swan and the snake was immovable, poised to strike. But before the fangs could be plunged into the victim, a rifle rang out, and the snake fell forward, writhing, upon the neck and shoulders of the boy, and he, at a bound, freed himself from the blankets and started for the woods on a run, yelling: “I’m shot! I’m shot!”

Hope-Jones and Ferguson followed and caught up with him at the edge of the brook. Beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead, and his face was pale.

“Where are you hurt, Harvey?” asked Ferguson, anxiously.

He looked at them in amazement, for as a fact he had just awakened. The yell and the exclamation were only part of a nightmare, which had been caused by the discharge of the firearm.

Meanwhile Hope-Jones was feeling of him carefully, his arms, his body, and examining his head and neck.

“He’s as sound as a dollar,” he finally said.

“Of course I am,” Harvey replied rather sheepishly. “What’s all the row about, anyway?”

“Come, we’ll show you,” and the young men led him back to the tree and pointed to the dead snake.

Harvey did not understand even then what the scene meant. He saw his blankets lying to one side, where he had tossed them, and he saw the reptile in the place where he had slept. Then Hope-Jones related what had happened, and the lad turned pale again when the Englishman ended by saying:—

“Had not Ferguson’s aim been true you would be a dead boy, because I can recognize this snake as of a poisonous species, although I do not know the name.”

He turned the broad head over, and it was seen that the rifle bullet had entered the mouth and shattered the upper fang.

Harvey was silent for several minutes while Ferguson stooped over and measured the reptile, announcing that it was seven feet two inches long; then the boy said:—

“I can never, never find words to thank you.”

“Don’t mention that, Harvey,” was the reply, “but remember and keep with us at night. We’re in a strange land now, and there’s no telling what we may meet.”

“I suppose we have all been careless,” said Hope-Jones. “Back in the sierra there was no animal life, except the llama and a few goats; we are in the Montaña now and it’s different. However, let’s change the subject and have breakfast.”

The fire was lighted, another venison steak was cooked, and with it they ate the last of the corn bread. After breakfast Ferguson set to work on the deer, cutting the flesh into strips, and while he was doing this Hope-Jones and Harvey, following his direction, built a little smoke-house with three boughs and started a slow fire within. Later the strips of flesh were hung on pieces of twine that had been stretched across the top, and the place was closed, except for a small opening, through which the fire could be replenished during the day. After this the three went to the brook side and washed such clothing as was necessary, which was hung on bushes to dry.

The noonday meal consisted of fried eggs and cold venison; then, after tending the fire in the smoke-house once more, the three lay down for a siesta. The afternoon was quite warm, the drone of insects could be heard, and they had a refreshing sleep for two hours.

But the sun was not to set without further adventure, which, like that of the morning, brought in its train a lesson to the three who were unaccustomed to the wilds of the Peruvian interior. Harvey, who was the first to awaken, believed that he might find some wild fruit in a clump of trees which grew about a quarter of a mile to the east, and so he left the camp at three o’clock and soon crossed the open space. He found himself in a little grove, the size of that in which the tent was pitched. But the trees, which had appeared different at a distance, were the same, and, disappointed, he was about to return, when his attention was attracted by a purring sound, like that made by kittens when their backs are stroked; and looking down he saw, almost beneath his feet, three little animals that were at play, catching each other with their paws by the tails and ears, and rolling over and over. They were not much taller than kittens, but were more plump, and their bodies were broader. The hair was a brownish yellow, spotted with brown of a deeper tint, and their little tails were ringed with the same color.

The boy watched them a few minutes, then thinking what a surprise he could give Hope-Jones and Ferguson, he lifted one in his arms. It was quite heavy and gave forth a peculiar whine when taken from its companions. Harvey held it close and started back to the camp, walking briskly.

He had gone about a hundred yards when there came from behind him a hideous howl that made his heart jump into his throat and his hair stand on end, while chill after chill passed down his spinal column. Glancing over his shoulder he saw an animal bounding after him, mouth wide open and foam dropping from yellow fangs. It was the size of a lion. Giving a scream, the boy started toward camp at a speed he had never equalled. For a few seconds he was so dizzy from fright that he seemed to be floating in air. Every muscle was stretched to its utmost, and he bent far forward, calling at the top of his voice, in the hope that his companions might hear.

Another awful howl sounded, this time nearer, and he could hear the footfalls of the animal close behind; the next second he could hear it panting, and then, just as he felt that the next breath would be his last, reason came to him, and he dropped the little animal which, without thinking, he had held tight in his arms.

The instant he did so the footfalls ceased and the panting grew less distinct. He cast a swift glance over his shoulder and saw that the animal had stopped beside her cub and was walking round and round the little yellow creature and licking it. The sight gave him hope, and he ran on toward the camp, ran as he had not even when that terrible breathing was so close, for then fear had partly benumbed him and at times he had staggered.

He was halfway between the groves when the animal’s cry sounded again and acted on him like the spur on a horse. He glanced back. The creature had left her cub.

“Perhaps she thinks I have another one of her pups,” was the thought that flashed through Harvey’s mind, and the inspiration came to dash his hat to the ground, which he did, and a few seconds later he looked back over his shoulder once more. Yes, the animal had stopped, but only for an instant, to sniff the piece of woollen, and then had bounded forward.

The boy plainly saw the tent ahead, but he could not make out the figure of a person near the canvas. Where were Hope-Jones and Ferguson? Could he reach the grove? But of what use to do so, unless they were there to aid him? His heart beat wildly; perspiration flooded his face and stood out in cold beads; he felt cold all over, although he was running at a speed that should have given him fever heat, and the day was very warm.

At that instant a man appeared near the tent, and Harvey gave a yell such as he had never uttered. The man stood out plainly in the afternoon light, and Harvey saw him turn. Simultaneously he heard the footfalls of the animal and the hoarse panting. The grove was near, the tent was near, the man was near, and he was immediately joined by another. They were waving to him. What could they mean?

It was a signal, but he did not understand. The heavy breathing came nearer and nearer. The men were running toward him, throwing their hands out to the left. All at once he understood, and he darted to one side. The second after he did so the crash of a rifle rang out, then the deeper sound of a shot-gun.

When Harvey looked up again Hope-Jones was pouring water on his head and Ferguson was saying:—

“It’s a puma and of the largest size!”

“Well, young man, have you had enough adventures for one day?” asked the Englishman, when the boy sat upright.

“I guess I have,” he replied in a somewhat dazed voice.

“You tackled quite a contract over there,” said Ferguson. “How did it happen?”

Harvey told them, stopping now and then during the narrative, for he was not yet wholly over his fear, nor had he quite recovered his breath.

“I guess you will keep close to us in the daytime as well as at night,” said Ferguson, when he had finished.

“Yes, I think I shall,” the lad said somewhat dismally. “What was it you said chased me?”

“A puma of the largest species. Do you wish to see it?” and Ferguson led the way a few steps to the right where the carcass of the animal lay in the long grass.

Its legs were drawn up close to the body, proof that it had died in a convulsion, and Harvey shuddered as he looked at the long, sharp claws that protruded from soft, spongelike feet. These were the feet he had heard striking the ground in pursuit. The puma somewhat resembled a leopard, and measured forty-five inches from the nose to the root of the tail, and the tail was as long as the body. The head was rather small, the ears large and rounded. The skin was a tawny, yellowish brown, and the lower part of the body a dirty white.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Harvey, shuddering.

They walked back to camp. After supper Ferguson said:—

“I move we adopt a couple of rules, to apply for the remainder of the journey.”

“What are they?” asked Hope-Jones.

“First, that we keep within hailing distance of one another.

“Second, that one of us always has a gun in hand.”

“Agreed,” said the Englishman, and Harvey nodded his head in approval.

CHAPTER IV.
IN THE COILS OF A BOA.

“Cross the mountains to Oroya, then go north to Huari, and in three days you will reach the great forest of cinchona trees,” repeated Hope-Jones, quoting old Huayno.

“Yes, but we have gone around Oroya, as advised by the superintendent,” said Ferguson.

“That’s why we have kept a northeast instead of a north course.”

“We should sight Huari to-morrow.”

“Yes. We should.”

It was the fifth day of their journey from Chicla, and they were plodding along in a rain, rubber coats buttoned close to the chin. The llama path was very narrow and wound in and out among tropic verdure. Everything was dripping with moisture, large drops rolling from palm leaves, bushes throwing spray as they were released after being pushed one side by the pedestrians, and the long grass wound around their stockings until they became wringing wet. It had been impossible to light a fire at noon, and so they had dined on strips of smoked venison.

“We must find some dry wood to-night and hang our clothing near a blaze,” said Harvey. The next minute he had darted ahead, then to one side.

“Remember rule number one!” called out Ferguson.

“All right,” came back the answer.

They caught up with the lad in a minute, and found him standing under a clump of trees that were about fifteen feet in height and which had broad, flat tops. As they neared the spot a fragrance as of incense was borne to their nostrils through the rain.

“Here’s a feast after all the dried deer meat!” called the boy, who had hung his knapsack on a branch, placed his shot-gun against the trunk of the tree, and was already climbing.

“What is he after?” asked Hope-Jones.

“I’m sure I don’t know. What have you found, Harvey?” called Ferguson.

“Chirimoyas.”

“Then we’re in luck. My mouth waters at the very thought of the fruit. But I never saw the tree before,” he said, looking up at their young companion.

“The trees grow in plenty of places near Lima,” Harvey replied. “I recognized them at once from a distance. Here, catch!”

The fruit he dropped down was heart-shaped, green, and covered with black knobs and scales, much as is a pineapple, and was about two-thirds the size of the latter.

When Harvey had detached a half dozen he descended, and despite the inclement weather they sat down for a feast, this being the first of fruit or fresh vegetable they had tasted since leaving Chicla.

Although it was damp no rain fell on the place where they rested, for the broad leaves of the trees were so interlaced as to form a natural umbrella that made a perfect watershed.

The skin of the chirimoya is thick and tough, and their jack-knives were called into use, but once within the shell a treat indeed was found. Internally the fruit is snowy white and juicy, and embedded within the pulp are many seeds, but these are as easily removed as are the seeds of a watermelon.

“My, this is delicious!” said Harvey, smacking his lips.

“Picking chirimoyas from trees is better sport than picking up puma cubs from beneath them, is it not?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Somewhat,” said the lad, as he buried his face in the fruit and took so large a mouthful that his cheeks were distended.

“Be careful lest you choke,” warned Hope-Jones; then turning to Ferguson he asked:—

“How would you describe the flavor should you wish to do so to a person at home?”

“I couldn’t. It is finer than the pineapple, more luscious than the best strawberry, and richer than the peach. There is no fruit with which I could make comparison. Can you think of any?”

“No.”

They enjoyed the repast with which nature had provided them, then Ferguson urged that they take up their march again.

“What’s the matter with remaining here?” Harvey asked.

“It’s too damp. We all would have colds in the morning. No, we must find a dry spot, even if we have to keep going till late at night. As it is, perhaps we had better each take a couple of quinine pills. Here, I will stand treat,” and he commenced to unstrap his knapsack.

“Chirimoyas for the first course and quinine for the second,” remarked Harvey. “Who wouldn’t call that a genuine Peruvian meal?”

Then they resumed their way in the rain, which continued falling heavily, dripping from the trees overhead.

Since morning they had been descending into a valley that was lower than any part of the Montaña which they had as yet traversed; indeed, they were at an altitude of only five thousand feet above sea level; and as they were on the eastern slope, where there is no trade wind to cool the air, the temperature had become tropical.

Soon the path would mount again, and a climb of three thousand feet was in front before Huari could be reached; but for the time being they were threading a region that was as dense with vegetation as that which borders the Amazon. Huge vines and creepers almost hid the trees from view, and green moss hung in long festoons. In places were groves of palms, in others trees of wondrous growth that were completely covered with brilliant scarlet flowers. Occasionally, between branches, they saw rare orchids.

In the jungle at the sides of the path could be heard the croaking of frogs, and on the bark of trees sounded the sharp notes of woodpeckers. At times a brilliant-colored snake crawled across the path. But they saw little else of animal life, although the occasional rustle of leaves ahead told that something savage had slunk away.

“Probably a puma,” said Hope-Jones once, when they had stopped to listen, and had brought their guns into position. “But there is no cause for alarm. A puma rarely attacks a man unless brought to bay, or unless,” and he cast a side glance at Harvey, “some enterprising person endeavors to kidnap a cub.”

“Will you ever forget that?” asked the boy, and they laughed.

Since the day of the lad’s dual adventures little of moment had befallen the travellers. They had remained in company, and at night had selected spots in scant groves, which they had inspected thoroughly before pitching the shelter-tent. They were cautious during the day as well. As for human beings, two or three Indians had been met, but they were stupid specimens, who did not speak Spanish, and who manifested little curiosity at meeting a white man.

“They are a sneaky lot,” Ferguson had said. “Notice how low their brows are and how narrow the forehead.”

At times they saw a hut perched on a hill above the roadway, but they did not care to investigate, and passed them by. These places of habitation were constructed somewhat like the North American Indian’s tepee, of boughs wound with animal hides.

But this all had been at a higher altitude. In the valley which they now trod, and which was a tropic jungle, there was no sign of man save the narrow path—and the path at times was almost lost to sight in the dense growth—which told that occasionally llama trains passed that way.

Toward four o’clock in the afternoon they reached the lowest part of the valley, and at that hour the clouds cleared away and the sun came out, causing the leaves to glisten as if studded with diamonds, and the air became heavy with the perfume of flowers and the exudations from plants and vines.

Coaxed by the sun, hundreds of butterflies drifted lazily from the sides of the jungle and moved as if borne by light currents of air from flower to flower. Some were white, their large wings dotted with golden yellow; others were purple, fringed with black; others the color of the dandelion, and still others were crimson. In and out, between these slow-moving seekers of perfume, darted hummingbirds like dashes of many-colored lightning, and the torn air sounded a faint note as they passed. This sunlight also brought lizards of many hues into its warmth, and chameleons which when prodded changed color, from green to red or to purple, depending upon the stage of anger. Meanwhile the atmosphere grew heavier with the tropic odors which the warm rain had coaxed from the vegetation.

“My, but I’m sleepy!” said Hope-Jones.

“So am I,” answered Harvey, who was bending over his knapsack and placing therein the rubber coat, of which he stood no longer in need. “Can’t we camp hereabout?”

“Ran ... to the side of his friend, whom he seized by the collar.”

“Miasma! chills! fever!”

“What’s that, Mr. Ferguson?”

“I said miasma, chills, and fever. That’s what would befall us should we remain here for a night. Beyond,” and he pointed to the hill that rose on the other side of the valley, “we shall doubtless find a place for the tent. However, we may as well rest here a bit, and I spy a seat over there which I propose to occupy.”

Saying this he cast aside his knapsack and rifle, then walked ahead a few yards and to one side, where he dropped upon what appeared to be a mass of twisted vine, as large as the limbs of the average tree.

The instant that Ferguson sank into the seat, Hope-Jones, who had been looking ahead curiously, let fall everything that he had in hand or on his back, and springing from Harvey’s side with a bound, ran as if on a race-course to the side of his friend, whom he seized by the collar and not only lifted to an upright position, but threw with all the strength he possessed to the ground, by the path side, and ended by catching him by the legs and dragging him some distance.

Ferguson was very quick-tempered, and the moment he jumped to his feet he darted at his companion with his fist clenched, roaring out at the top of his voice:—

“I’ll fix you! What do you mean? That wasn’t any joke.”

Harvey had run up, and he sprang between the young men, wondering what had caused this; and a glance at Hope-Jones’s face surprised him the more, for it was pale as that of a corpse, whereas Ferguson’s was red, and he was blowing with indignation.

“I’ll teach you!” he repeated. “Get out of the way, Harvey.”

But Hope-Jones had found his voice by this time, and instead of resenting his friend’s language he gasped: “It’s a boa! It’s a boa!”

“What’s a boa?” and Ferguson glanced around.

“You sat down on a boa! It’s coiled up over there!”

Then the young man who had been dragged along the path so ruthlessly turned as pale as had his companion, and so did the lad who had endeavored to act as peacemaker. Meanwhile the three were retreating rapidly to the point where they had dropped their knapsacks and rifles.

“A boa!” repeated Ferguson. “I can hardly believe it!”

“Yes. I once saw one coiled up like that in a menagerie, and the thought that your seat was alive came to me the instant you sat down. As I drew near I made out the scales, which resemble the bark on a tree, and I also saw the head. Its eyes are closed, and it’s evidently in a torpor after gorging. You sat right down in the coils, and it’s a wonder it didn’t wake and squeeze the life out of you.”

Ferguson shuddered, then throwing an arm around his chum’s shoulder, he said:—

“Forgive me, old man.”

“Why, of course. I don’t blame you in the least. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had struck me. In which case we would have fought and afterward would have discussed matters. I expected as much the moment I laid a hand on you, but there wasn’t time for explanations at that stage of the game.”

“I should say not.”

They resumed their burdens and walked forward again along the footpath, but they kept at a respectful distance from his majesty the snake, which remained as when first spied by Ferguson, motionless.

“I don’t wonder that I was fooled,” said he, halting for a look at the enormous reptile. “It looks exactly like branches or a huge vine coiled; now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” assented Harvey, “but down below I can see the head. What enormous jaws!”

“Like a shark’s.”

“And they say that the jaws will stretch still wider, for they are fastened together by ligaments that are as elastic as rubber.”

“Yes, they will stretch so that it can swallow a young deer.”

“Perhaps that’s what it’s gorging on now.”

“Perhaps. You notice that hump below the neck? That’s as far as the prey has moved down toward the creature’s stomach.”

“Are you going to try a shot?”

“No, Harvey. Why should I? The boa hasn’t harmed us, and should I only wound it, one of us might suffer, for it’s said they move with wonderful rapidity for a short distance.”

“Would it not be a good plan to hasten and climb the hill yonder?” suggested Hope-Jones. “It won’t be safe to sleep in this valley to-night, and goodness only knows what we’ll stumble over next.”

The others evidently thought so also, for they quickened their pace, and giving the boa a wide berth they pushed ahead. An hour later they were threading their way by the side of a little stream up the hillside. After walking some distance Harvey said:—

“Mr. Ferguson?”

“Yes, my lad.”

“Are you going to quiz me any more about that puma cub?”

“No, Harvey. I’ll call the account square, if you will.”

Hope-Jones laughed. “It looks very much as though I should have plenty of amusement with both——”

Ferguson and Harvey stood stock still. Hope-Jones had vanished from sight.

CHAPTER V.
HUARI, AND THE STORY OF THE BEAUTIFUL COUNTESS.

“B-r-r-r-r!” came a voice.

“What on earth has happened?” asked Ferguson, in amazement, bending over a large hole that had suddenly yawned at their feet.

“B-r-r-r! Help me out, fellows! I’m stifling!”

They threw themselves face down at the edge of the cavity, and reached their hands below, but could not feel anything.

“Quick, Harvey! Give me the pick! Catch that, old man!” he called, pushing the iron arms into the opening. A pressure was felt and a hoarse voice replied:—

“That’ll help. I can crawl up the side that slopes.”

The next minute Hope-Jones was with them again, blowing dirt from his mouth and saying unpleasant things about the animal that had dug the hole at the path side. His ears were filled with loam, black earth had sifted back of his shirt collar, and such hair as projected beneath his cap was tangled with the soil. As for his clothing, it was streaked. Fortunately, his shot-gun, knapsack, and pick remained fastened to his back, and although dirty, he was none the loser because of his drop below the surface. Ferguson and Harvey brushed him off as best they could, then the three resumed their way up the hill.

“I didn’t see any hole,” remarked the Englishman, a few minutes later.

“It was at the side of the path; most of it in the jungle, and leaves had fallen over the edge,” Ferguson replied.

“Mr. Hope-Jones?”

“Yes, Harvey.”

“Will you cry quits on the puma cub?”

“Certainly, my lad.”

“Hope-Jones!”

“Yes, Ferguson, I know what you are about to say. Boa, puma cub, and holes are barred subjects evermore.”

And they shook hands in a chain.

The path ascended rapidly and the vegetation became less tangled as the travellers proceeded; so too the atmosphere grew somewhat more bracing, for the heavy odor of the valley did not mount to any height. With the setting of the sun the new moon shone for several hours above the horizon, and the silvery rays from the crescent, together with the starlight, illumined their way so they were able to make rapid progress until about ten o’clock, when the ground becoming quite dry—for the rain of the valley had not extended this far—they pitched the shelter-tent and built a rousing fire, near which they placed their damp clothing. Toward midnight they turned in “tired to the bone,” as Harvey expressed it, and none awakened until the sun was two hours’ high. Then, looking down into the valley, they saw a billowy mist, which completely hid even the tallest trees.

“There’s miasma for you!” exclaimed Ferguson, pointing to the vapor. “As we passed through it, perhaps we should take some more quinine.”

They acted on the suggestion, then, after a hurried breakfast, set off on the road again, for they were anxious to reach Huari that day, and the morning start had been late. The road was up grade until the noon hour, then became level again, and the vegetation was the same as on the other side of the valley, before they had plunged into the riot of undergrowth. Toward three o’clock they saw smoke rising lazily ahead and concluded they must be nearing a town. A half hour later they came upon a number of huts on the outskirts. Fields of maize and cotton were under cultivation, and brown men, half naked, were at work in them with primitive tools—ploughs that were but sharpened boughs of the ironwood tree, trimmed wedge-shaped, and drawn by small oxen; shovels made from the same wood; and other agricultural implements with which they were strangers, fashioned from stones that had been worn to sharp edges. All the men wore beards, some quite long.

The huts became more numerous, and naked little children, standing in the doorways or running about in the narrow streets, stared at the travellers, while the older boys and girls, who wore loin cloths or skins of animals fastened as tunics, called in the Indian tongue to persons who were within the dwellings. They met few men and fewer women; the better class of the former wore trousers and a poncho (a blanket with a hole cut in the middle, through which the head is thrust, and which falls over the shoulders); whereas the poorer class were content with the upper dress that came to the ankles: but the women wore gowns of gorgeous color, though they were ill-shapen and no attempt was made to fit the figure.

The travellers neared the centre of the town before they met a “white man,” or one who did not belong to the Indian race. His features were proof that he or his ancestors had come from a foreign land, being in marked contrast with the thick, stubby nose, narrow forehead, and broad lips of the Ayulis. Hope-Jones doffed his cap and addressed him in Spanish.

The Peruvian, who had been staring at them since they had come in sight, at once joined them, and not only shook hands, but placed his right arm around the shoulders of each in turn, patting him on the back, meanwhile speaking rapidly, with much sibilation of the s’s and rolling of the r’s, conveying in the most flowery language his delight at their visit.

So they had journeyed all the way from Lima! How tired they must be! But what matter? He had comfortable beds at his house and they must rest for a week, or a month if necessary, and be his guest the while. What, could only remain one night? Surely, they would be courting illness by thus hurrying along. No matter, he would speak of that later. They must accompany him now.

He placed his hand in Hope-Jones’s arm, and gathering his poncho, which was quite long, much as a woman would her skirts, he turned in the direction from which he had come and led the way, explaining as they walked that there were few white men in Huari, “and,” he added, “some of them you would not wish to meet.”

At the word “bed” Harvey had become very much interested, so, for that matter, had Ferguson and Hope-Jones, and they were not at all loath to accept the invitation which had been so insistently given.

After travelling five minutes and entering what was evidently the better section of the Montaña town, they stopped before a one-story building, bordered by verandas, that was spread out over much ground and was surrounded by fruit trees. It was the most imposing structure they had yet seen in the village, though, like others, it was built of adobe, reënforced with bamboo.

The host and his companions were met by an Indian woman, who appeared to be of better class than those the travellers had seen on the streets, and she was presented to them as Señora Cisneros. Her greeting was spoken in excellent Spanish, and although not quite as demonstrative as her husband’s, it was none the less sincere. The travellers were led to two connecting rooms, and after discarding their burdens and returning to the cool veranda, they were asked if they would not like to drink some cold coffee.

“We have learned the art of coffee-making from the Brazilians,” said Señor Cisneros, “and, believe me, the beverage is better cold than hot. Would you like to observe our arrangement? But perhaps you are tired?”

Hope-Jones confessed that he was tired, but Ferguson and Harvey manifested interest in the Brazilians’ teachings; so while the Englishman remained on the veranda, chatting with the señora, the two young Americans accompanied the host to the rear of the house and into an arbor that was covered with trailing vines. It was a cool spot, far enough from buildings to be affected by all breezes, and in the centre stood an immense earthen vessel, the height of a man and at least four feet in circumference. A foot and a half from the bottom was a spigot.

“This jar is made of porous clay,” said the señor, tapping the vessel, “and as a slight amount of the liquid filters through, evaporation cools its contents. Once every three months we boil coffee by the barrel. It is poured in here, permitted to settle for a week, and all sediment goes to the bottom. You will notice that I draw the liquid from some distance above,” and he placed a pitcher beneath the spigot, turning which, a dark, clear liquid flowed.

“Taste it?” and he filled a small cup, then another. “Is it not cold?” he added.

Ferguson and Harvey found the beverage delicious, and expressed wonder that it could be coffee.

“Wait until some sugar is added,” said the Peruvian, as pitcher in hand he led the way back to the house.

For a half hour they rested on the veranda, sipping cold coffee sweetened with brown sugar, and eating paltas, which Señora Cisneros had placed on a little table. They related their adventures to host and hostess, and, without revealing their reason for visiting the interior, told that they were in search of gold.

Señor Cisneros shook his head. “Perhaps there is gold,” he said, “but I have found no trace of any.”

Then he told that for years he had been engaged in silver-mining, and that his llama trains passed over the road which they had travelled.

“When the railroad pierces the interior,” he continued, “there will be much profit made by those who extract metals from the ground, but with the present method of transportation one does well to gain a livelihood.”

The señora was very anxious to hear about Lima. She had been there once, but only for a few days, soon after her marriage.

After a time the host ordered hammocks swung on the veranda, and in these Hope-Jones, Ferguson, and Harvey rested until a few minutes before dinner. It seemed good to sit down in chairs, at a table, and to taste other food than the game and fruits of the woods, to say nothing of having crockery dishes to eat from instead of the tin plates. They were early in bed, and after a refreshing night’s sleep between sheets, which, though coarse, were cool and clean, they awoke with renewed determination to continue their journey.

But while they were enjoying more of the señor’s delicious coffee—heated this time—rain commenced to fall; huge drops came in sheets and leaden clouds hung low; so they were nothing loath to accept an urgent invitation to remain another day and night. Señora Cisneros, learning of the scant stock of clothing they had taken with them, insisted upon overhauling their knapsacks, and she passed several hours of the morning with needle and thread, darning and mending. In the afternoon she packed them some food from her well-stocked larder, sufficient to last and add variation to their mountain bill of fare for several days.

The next morning dawned warm and bright, and the adventurers started early, after thanking host and hostess time and again; and they promised themselves the pleasure of a longer visit on their return. They were passing from the town and were waving their caps to Señor Cisneros, who had accompanied them to the outskirts, when Ferguson said:—

“He’s a splendid fellow. I wish he were going with us.”

“So do I,” said Hope-Jones. “He would be a jolly companion.”

Harvey came suddenly to a halt.

“What’s the matter,” the young men asked.

“I happened to think of something. Cisneros is a miner.”

“Yes.”

“And he knows this country.”

“Yes.”

“He’s honest.”

“He has every appearance of being so. What are you driving at?”

“And he told us that his silver mines were not paying very well,” persisted the boy.

“Yes.”

“If we find gold we’re going to find a great deal, are we not?”

“So old Huayno said. But why are you wasting time standing here and asking all these questions?”

“Because I move we turn back.”

“Turn back! Why?”

“And ask Señor Cisneros to join us.”

“Tell him the secret?”

“Yes, and take him in on shares. One quarter for each.”

Ferguson slapped his hand on his thigh. “Bully for you, Harvey! That’s a splendid idea. I wonder it never came to me.”

“It never entered my mind until the last time he waved his hat,” said the boy, looking pleased at the approval he had been given, for Hope-Jones had spoken as warmly in favor of the project as had the American; and the three at once commenced to retrace their footsteps. They found their erstwhile host on the veranda of his home, bidding adieu to his wife, for he had planned a trip to a neighboring village.

“Take him one side and explain, Ferguson,” whispered Hope-Jones.

“I am delighted that you are returning,” he called out when they appeared. “Thought you would rest a little longer?”

“No, señor; thank you. We wished to consult with you regarding a certain matter. Will you go for a short walk with me?” asked the elder American.

“With pleasure,” and he led the way back of the house, to the arbor, while Hope-Jones and Harvey remained on the veranda with the señora, who looked at them curiously, wondering of course what it meant, but she politely refrained from asking questions.

The two were absent about a half hour, and when they came in sight again Ferguson nodded his head, as if to say, “He will go,” and the señor grasped each of them by a hand.

“Pardon me, but I must immediately tell my wife of this extraordinary news,” said he. “You need have no fear. My secrets are safe with her,” and the two passed into the house.

“So he’ll go?”

“I should say so. You should have seen his eyes glisten. He believes that every word old Huayno uttered is true; says he’s heard legends of this sort, but no one was ever able to locate the mine. All stories agree, however, that it is beyond the cinchona trees.”

“It was a capital thought, that of Harvey’s! I wonder how long it will be before he can accompany us?”

The señor answered the question in person, reappearing just then and saying, “I shall be able to leave in an hour, if you wish to start that soon.”

“In an hour?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “I am accustomed to long journeys and am always ready for departure. The señora is even now placing my things in order.”

So it happened that at nine o’clock they again departed from Huari, but this time they were four in number, instead of three. When beyond the confines of the village the travellers from the coast were surprised at being addressed by their new friend in the English tongue.

“I did not know you could speak our language,” exclaimed Ferguson.

“It has been long since I have used it,” was the reply, “or I should have a better accent and vocabulary. For ten years, until I was seventeen, I lived in New York City; but that was thirty-five years ago, and since then I have only met Englishmen and Americans occasionally.”

“Why didn’t you let us know before that you could speak English?”

“Because you are excellent Spanish scholars; and as my wife has not enjoyed the same advantages that I have, I prefer to converse in the tongue with which she is familiar. Now that we are away from Huari, however, and by ourselves, I should be very glad to use only the English and learn from you that which I have forgotten.”

They found the señor a most pleasant companion and also a valuable addition to the party. On the trip from Chicla to Huari, after the edibles which were stored in their knapsacks had been exhausted, they were compelled to live on game, and the diet became monotonous. But Señor Cisneros added to the daily bill of fare materially by his knowledge of the Peruvian vegetable world. He cut tender shoots from a certain palm tree, which, when boiled, tasted something like the northern cauliflower; from a vine that grew in and out the long grass, he made an excellent substitute for spinach: before he joined them they had feared to eat berries, not knowing which were poisonous; now they were able to enjoy a dessert of fruit after every meal. Their cooking utensils had also been added to at Huari, a pot among other articles, and in this the novel vegetables were cooked.

In lieu of a knapsack the Peruvian was provided with two commodious bags made of llama skins, which were fastened together by a broad strip of hide by which they depended from his shoulders. He carried a rifle of the muzzle-loading description, an old-time powder horn and bullet-pouch. He proved himself as good a shot as Ferguson, and a pleasant rivalry soon sprang up between the two.

Old Huayno had told them to push ahead for three days from Huari, to the forest of cinchona trees, and find the head waters of the Marañon, one of the rivers that are tributary to the Amazon.

At its source this stream is very small, and the travellers from Callao had wondered how they might recognize it from others, and had regarded this stage of the journey with some apprehension, lest they might fail in reaching the river on which the great white rock was located. But Señor Cisneros knew exactly the course to take, and without aid of compass he directed their steps.

“We shall be longer than three days on this journey,” he said. “Your Indian friend reckoned the distance as it was covered by those of his tribe who were able to move much more swiftly than we can with our numerous burdens. We shall be five days, rather than three.”

“Then from the river’s source to the great white rock it will perhaps be two weeks’ journey?”

“Yes; I should think it probable.”

He was correct concerning the distance from Huari; it was evening of the fifth day when they pitched the shelter-tent on the edge of a dense, dark forest.

“My, but there’s sufficient quinine in there to cure a world of giants!” exclaimed Harvey.

“Those are not cinchona trees, my son,” said the Peruvian.

“No? But I thought this was the forest of cinchona trees.”

“So it is; for the reason that the valuable growth appears frequently in these woods. We will doubtless see many specimens during our journey, but none is in sight from here.”

“What does the tree look like, señor?”

“It resembles the beech, with the flowing branches of the lilac, and has smooth wood, susceptible of a high polish. The leaves resemble those of the coffee plant.”

“Are you versed in the method of preparing quinine from the bark, señor?”

“It happens that I have made the subject quite a study,” he replied. “Several years ago a representative of the British government was my guest in Huari. He had been sent to Peru for the purpose of deciding whether it would be possible to transplant young cinchona trees from these forests to India and other tropical countries. With him I made several expeditions.”

“What was the result, señor?”

“He recommended that transplanting be attempted. It was done, and I understand that cinchona groves are thriving in many places.”

“Is that possible!” said Ferguson. “I was of the opinion that Peruvian bark only grew in Peru. But as I think of it, I really am very ignorant on the subject. Perhaps you will tell us more concerning the enemy of chills and fever.”

“I will be glad to, but suppose we have supper first.”

To this all agreed. They had made the tent ready for the night while thus conversing, and had gathered fuel for the evening fire, so that soon the pot was surrounded by a bright blaze.

“The water in which our food is cooking should have a peculiar charm for us all,” said the señor.

“Why so?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Because it comes from the Marañon, which flows past the white rock and the gold mine.”

“Do you mean to say that the little stream from which I fetched water is the Marañon, señor?” Harvey asked.

“Yes, or one of the small branches that form the head. A day’s journey from here it broadens considerably. How it is beyond I do not know, for I have never gone further.”

After supper, when they had drawn up logs for seats near the fire, because the night was chill and a damp breeze came from out the forest, Señor Cisneros commenced his promised narrative of the white powder that occupies such a prominent place in the medical world.

“Once upon a time, in fact in the year 1638, there lived in Cuzco a most beautiful woman who was loved by all who knew her.”

“Why, you are starting out as if telling a fairy story!” said Harvey, laughing.

“The facts are something like one of those charming tales,” replied the señor, who resumed:—

“This woman, renowned for her beauty and her grace of manner, was the wife of the ruler of Peru. One day she became grievously ill, and the doctors of that time were unable to remedy her condition. Her flesh burned with great heat, her cheeks were flushed with red, her eyes were unusually bright, and the blood pulsed rapidly through her veins. She soon became delirious, failed to recognize her husband and children, and all those in the palace were in despair.

“At that time a most learned man was the corregidor, or chief magistrate, of Loxa. He was not only versed in the study of the law, but he had familiarized himself more than any other man with the vegetable life of Peru; he was a botanist, self-taught. This man learned that the countess was at death’s door; and hastening to the palace he asked permission to see her. It was granted, and after looking for a few minutes upon the woman, who was tossing about on the silken couch, he abruptly left the apartment, saying that he would soon return.

“Within the half hour he was back, carrying a shallow dish, in which were pieces of bark steeped in water. He gave the countess some of the liquid to drink and urged that the dose be repeated at intervals during two days. His instructions were followed; she became restful, slept sweetly, and the fever left her body. In a week she was up and about, and in a fortnight was out in the palace grounds.”

“And that story is true?” asked Harvey.

“Yes, true in every detail. It is vouched for in the public records of Peru.”

“Of course the drug he gave her was the essence of Peruvian bark.”

“Yes, extracted in a primitive form.”

“What was her name?” asked Hope-Jones.

“The Countess of Chinchon.”

“That is why the tree is called cinchona?”

“It is, and to be more correct one should spell it ‘chinchona’ instead of ‘cinchona.’”

“How did the term quinine originate?”

“From the Indian compound word ‘Quina-Quina,’ meaning ‘bark of barks.’”

“You say the trees are isolated, señor?”

“Yes. They seldom grow in clumps, and the task of finding them is often great; the native searchers, or cascarilleros, undergo great hardships in penetrating the jungle-like forests.”

“How is the white powder prepared?”

“There are several processes, the most popular, I believe, being that of mixing pulverized bark thoroughly with milk of lime, then treating the substance to the action of certain chemicals, and ultimately the sulphate of quinine is produced. Different manufacturers have different processes; many of them are kept a secret. The object is to extract the maximum amount of quinine from the bark and leave as little of other ingredients in the powder as possible.”

From the subject of Peruvian bark they changed to that of the journey on the morrow, and a half hour later, with knapsacks and bags as pillows, they went to sleep in the shelter-tent. Harvey, as he closed his eyes, thought of the beautiful Countess of Chinchon, and wondered if she could have been as pretty as Señorita Bella Caceras, a girl in Callao whom he had met under most peculiar circumstances while adrift one night in the bay of that name.

CHAPTER VI.
A DISCOVERY AND AN ALARM.

They entered the forest the next day, and for a week were in its confines, threading the right bank of the Marañon and following its current.

The way along the river was easy to travel, when compared with the seemingly impassable jungle to the right and the left of the stream, but it was not without its difficulties, and many times they were compelled to stop and cut the heavy growth of vines with the small axe which Señor Cisneros had added to the outfit. At night they were bothered by mosquitoes, and the insect plague became so great one evening that they kept watch and watch, the one on duty throwing on the embers of the fire a bark which emitted a light yellow smoke which drove the pests away.

Game was plentiful in this forest, and what with the flesh of four-footed animals and birds, reënforced at times by fish caught in the stream and the vegetables harvested by the Peruvian, they managed to fare very well. But in other respects they were not treated so kindly. Thorns tore their trousers and their coats, their shoes were wearing out, and faces and hands became covered with scratches and bruises, the latter caused by many falls, which it was impossible to avoid because of the insecure footing.

In spite of this they were in the best of health; and as for their clothing, they made good use each night of the needles and thread which they had brought; and although some of the darns and patches were curiosities to look upon, they served their purpose. Hope-Jones and Ferguson had both been smooth-shaven while in the city, but by the time they were a week from Huari, mustaches covered their upper lips and light growths of beard were dependent from their chins.

“Nobody in Callao would know you,” said Harvey, one morning. “I never saw such a change in persons.”

“How about yourself?” retorted Ferguson. “If you could but glance at your own face in a mirror you would not say much.”

Somewhat later in the day the boy made use of a deep pool of water for that purpose, and was surprised to see, peering up at him, features that were copper-colored from sunburn and exposure to the elements. The outdoor life at home had tanned him somewhat, but nothing in comparison with this.

The weather, while they were in the forest, was dry and pleasant, but the very day they emerged from its confines, a rain poured down that was even heavier than that which had detained them twenty-four hours at Huari. It commenced to fall as they were awakening, and descended in such torrents that any thought of trying to pursue their way while it lasted had to be abandoned. Their shelter-tent was fortunately pitched on a slight elevation, beneath the branches of a large ironwood tree which broke the force of the drops, or rather of the rain-sheets.

Señor Cisneros and Hope-Jones put on rubber coats and dug a shallow trench around the canvas, making a channel toward the river, and for the remainder of the day they sat in the little enclosure, except for a few minutes when one or the other ventured forth for a “breath of fresh air.” All wood in the vicinity was too wet for use as fuel; indeed, there was no spot where they could build a fire, had they had dry timber; so they were compelled to subsist upon smoked meat.

“This is Monday, is it not?” Harvey asked.

“Yes, and a decidedly blue Monday,” was the reply.

Toward evening they voted it the most miserable day of the journey, and their only comfort came from the Peruvian, who assured them that the heavy rains in that season seldom lasted for more than one day.

The rule held in this instance, and soon after dark the clouds were driven away, the moon silvered the dripping trees and bushes, and the travellers were able to emerge from under the canvas. By digging beneath some leaves, they found dried, decayed wood, that served admirably for fuel, and soon had a roaring blaze started, over which they cooked some fish that Harvey had caught during the afternoon.

After leaving the dense forest behind, they followed the Marañon through a much more open country. There were many trees, but they were not so close together, nor were they so tangled with vines, and the undergrowth also became thinner. This was due to a change in the soil, they having passed from the region of black earth to a land that contained more sand. It became quite rocky close to the river, and they were compelled to make frequent detours from the bank because of the boulders through which the stream passed.

One morning all became very much interested in witnessing a body of foraging ants, to which their attention was called by Señor Cisneros.

“These little creatures can be seen only in South and Central America,” he said, “and they have the reputation of being the wisest of all antdom. Look how they are marching in regular phalanxes, with officers in command!”

The diminutive black and gray army covered a space about three yards square, and was moving from the river across the path.

“I will interrupt their progress,” said the Peruvian, “and we shall have plenty of opportunity to observe them. Fetch me that pot full of water, Harvey.”

While the lad was hastening to the river, he dug with one of the picks until he had made a narrow channel about ten feet long, into which he poured the water as soon as it was brought him, and just as the vanguard of the ant army approached. The little soldiers halted on the edge of this ditch, and from the sides and rear hurried ants that evidently were officers.

“Now I shall give them a small bridge,” the señor said, “and if they have the intelligence of a body that I observed about a month ago, they will quickly make the footway broader and in a novel manner.”

Saying which, he cut a rather long twig, one that was narrow, but would reach across the little trench, and this he placed in position.

Two of the ants hurried on the little span, then returned to the army. They evidently gave some instructions, for two or three score of the main body left the ranks, and hurrying on to the twig, swung themselves from the sides in perfect line, until the passageway had been made three times as broad as before. Then, at an order, the army commenced moving over.

“Isn’t that wonderful!” exclaimed Hope-Jones.

“Indeed, yes. Many students of the ant rank him in intelligence next to man. You will observe that the little fellows who are offering their bodies as planks for the bridge are of a different color, and evidently different species from the marchers, and that others of both kinds constitute the main body.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“The little fellows are slaves.”

“Slaves?” echoed all three.

“Yes, slaves captured in battle, and made to do the masters’ bidding.”

“Do they always obey?”

“I have watched them many times and have never seen any sign of rebellion. Frequently the superior ant, or the one who owns the slaves, will remain perfectly still and direct the little servants. In that way I saw a score of the slaves tug away at a dead bee, one day, and it was perfectly plain that a larger ant that stood near by was giving orders.”

“You say they are called foraging ants?”

“Yes. They roam about in bands like this in search of food. They are carnivorous and eat such insects as are unfortunate enough to be in their path.”

The army was fully fifteen minutes crossing the living bridge, and when the last company had passed, the slave ants detached themselves and followed. But two or three, evidently exhausted by the strain, fell from the twig into the river. No attention was given them; they were left to drown.

“Did you notice that?” said the señor. “Now watch how differently members of the superior class of ants are treated when in distress.”

He stepped ahead a few feet and drawing some of the larger species from the main body with a stick, he covered them partly with gravel, until only a leg or two were visible. At once several ants of the same species stopped their march, and summoning a small body of slave ants, went to the rescue. By butting with their heads and tugging away at the small stones the slaves soon rescued the imprisoned masters, and all rejoined the army, bringing up the rear.

“Bravo!” shouted Harvey, as if the little fellows could understand.

That afternoon the travellers fell to conversing of the old mine which they expected to find. Not that it was an unusual subject for conversation, for it was the topic most frequently broached; but the talk this day was of special interest, because Señor Cisneros told them minutely of the mining laws of Peru. Hope-Jones had expressed worry lest foreigners would not be permitted to enjoy the results of discovery, but his fears were set at rest by the Peruvian, who said:—

“Our mining laws have been greatly misunderstood in other countries, and exaggerated reports concerning them have been sent broadcast. The foreigner’s right to own what he finds, providing no one else has a prior claim, has never been disputed. Recently it was made the subject of special legislation. During the last session Congress passed a law which, among other provisions, states that ‘Strangers can acquire and work mines in all the territory of the Republic, enjoying all the rights and remaining subject to all the obligations of the natives respecting the property and the workings of the mines; but they cannot exercise judicial functions in the government of the mines.’”

“What does that last clause mean, señor?” asked Hope-Jones.

“It has been interpreted to mean that the foreigner cannot hold the position of mine superintendent, the object plainly being to prevent his having active control of the natives who, of course, would be called in to do the manual labor.”

“It is fortunate then that we have taken you with us,” said Ferguson. “You will be able to act as superintendent, and we shall not have to employ an outsider.”

“I should like nothing better; that is, providing we find the mine. But are we not, as you say in the States, counting our chickens before they are born?”

“Before they are hatched,” corrected Harvey, but not in a manner which the señor could possibly take exception to—for that matter, he had asked them many times to speak of his mistakes during the trip. “Oh, it’s fun to do that,” continued the lad. “So I move that we have an election of officers, and I place Mr. Hope-Jones in nomination for president.”

“I vote ay,” said Ferguson.

“And I also,” said the Peruvian.

“Of course I do,” Harvey said. “And I nominate Mr. Ferguson for treasurer.”

The others agreed as before.

“Let me propose Harvey Dartmoor for secretary,” said the señor, entering into the spirit of the moment.

The choice was unanimous.

“And now,” Hope-Jones said, “we will name Señor Anton Cisneros vice-president and general superintendent of all our properties.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the Peruvian, doffing his hat. “I only hope the stockholders of the corporation will be of your mind.”

“The stockholders! How can they change our election?”

“You will have to sell stock in order to work the property, and those who buy shares will have a right to vote.”

“Certainly. But cannot we hold the majority of shares?”

“I am glad to hear you say that. If we find anything nearly as valuable as the old Indian claimed, it would be a pity to let the property pass out of our control.”

“Tell us something more of the mining laws, won’t you?” asked Ferguson. “In speaking of the recent enactment, you stated that ‘strangers should be subject to all the obligations of natives.’ What does that mean? Is the taxation heavy?”

“On the contrary, it is very light, just sufficient to meet the expenses of the government mining bureau. The tax is fifteen dollars a year for every mine,—gold, silver, nitrate of soda, salt, petroleum,—no matter what it may be.”

“And how would we ‘prove a claim,’ as they say in the States?”

“Did you inquire in Lima whether any mines had been reserved in the locality where we intend prospecting?”

“No, señor, for we did not wish to attract attention to that section of the state.”

“You were doubtless right. It was perhaps unnecessary. In all probability no one has sought treasure in that region. Still, that point must first be definitely settled. The government issues a quarterly statement, called the ‘padron,’ in which are given the boundaries of all new claims. These padrons are indexed, and it is possible to learn the location of all mines in a given region. If we discover valuable properties where old Huayno said they were located, or anywhere else, we will at once stake off the land, just as is done in the United States, then return to Lima, examine the padron index, and if no one else has a claim we will notify the Deputy Commissioner of Mining that we desire title.

“He will issue us a document, upon our payment of the first year’s tax, which will be similar to the ‘patent applied for’ paper given in the United States. Within ninety days after receiving this, it will be necessary to return to the mine with one of the officials of the mining department and an official surveyor, whose expenses for the trip we shall be compelled to meet. These will fix the actual boundaries, and upon their return to Lima a document will be issued giving us the right to mine the property, and guaranteeing our sole possession so long as we pay the annual tax.”

“That all seems very simple,” said Harvey.

They had few adventures during this stage of the journey. Several times wild animals crossed their paths, but the young men had learned wisdom on the trip from Chicla to Huari, and Señor Cisneros was an old woodsman, so they were always on the lookout. Game continued plentiful, although the country grew more open each day.

The Marañon changed from a slow-running stream to a broad, rapid-coursing river; in places were cataracts, and the shore line became uneven, boulders being piled so high that the way between them was difficult to find. In this rough country they were once all day going three miles and were exhausted when night came. Harvey and Ferguson had large blisters on their feet, and the other two proposed that they rest for the twenty-four hours following; but the Americans were too anxious to proceed, being so near the journey’s end, and the next morning, binding pieces of a handkerchief around the bruised places, they announced themselves able to push ahead.

This was the twelfth day from Huari, and all agreed that at any time they might come upon the great rock that marked the way to the mine. They were certain they had not passed it unobserved, for since the fifth day from the village they had not moved a step forward after dusk or until morning was well advanced. When compelled to make detours, one or more of them had ascended every half hour to some eminence, like a tree or a high mound, and had carefully surveyed the right bank to the water’s edge.

Toward four o’clock on this day Hope-Jones and Harvey were walking somewhat in advance of the others. The boy was limping slightly and was in more pain than he would admit to his companion, who had urged him not to go any further, to which Harvey had replied, “One more mile and then I’ll give in.”

The lad was singing, to keep up his courage, and the words were those of the familiar Sunday-school hymn:—

“Onward, Christian soldiers,

Marching as to war.”

Suddenly he stopped, gave a yell, and his face turned pale.

“What is it?” exclaimed Hope-Jones. “Are you hurt?”

“Look! Look! Look!” and the boy pointed straight ahead, between two trees. There, bathed in sunlight, the Englishman saw that which made his heart beat like a trip-hammer—a high boulder that shone as purest marble.

“Hurrah!” he shouted, throwing his cap in the air. “Come on, everybody! There’s the rock! There’s the great white rock!”

Ferguson and Señor Cisneros came up at a run.

“What? The rock?” they called.

“Yes. Look!” and the man pointed in the direction they had gazed.

That instant the Peruvian exclaimed excitedly: “Down with you! Drop down, everybody! Down, flat on your stomachs!”

Startled by his commanding tones they obeyed.

“What is it?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Sh! In a whisper! Indians! A score of them! And they look like the Majeronas!”

CHAPTER VII.
THE CANNIBALS OF PERU.

“The Majeronas!” echoed Ferguson, but in the whisper which he had been cautioned to use. “Are they not a savage tribe?”

“They are.”

“I didn’t know they came this far, not within three or four hundred miles of here. So I was told in Lima.”

“It is only recently that they have visited this region. Within the last year several reports have come to Huari of their depredations.”

“They are said to be cannibals, are they not?”

“Yes.”

Harvey shivered and drew his gun closer.

“What are we going to do?” Hope-Jones asked. He was thinking, and so were the others, how lucky it was that they had induced the experienced miner and woodsman to accompany them.

“For a time we will wait here,” was the reply. “They may go away. Again, I am not certain they are the Majeronas. I didn’t spend any great amount of time examining them, I can assure you. They may be friendly Ayulis, but just at present we do not care to meet even friendly Ayulis.”

“What is the difference between the tribes, señor?” Harvey asked, gaining control of himself and preventing his teeth chattering.

“The Majeronas are much lighter and their beards are thinner. The Indians yonder certainly answer the description, but the light may have deceived me.”

“I think the light of a setting sun would darken a face, don’t you?” suggested Ferguson. “It certainly gave a red tinge to that white rock.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

They were lying very close together, and words spoken in a whisper were heard by all. Each had drawn his weapon to his side, and those with modern guns threw open the breech-locks and made certain that loaded shells were in the chambers, while the Peruvian examined the cap on his rifle and swung loose his powder-horn and shot pouch. They remained in this position for nearly an hour, and not hearing a sound from the direction where the Indians had been seen, hope came that the redmen had gone.

But this was dispelled toward five o’clock by Señor Cisneros, who pointed to above the rock behind which they were hiding, and called attention to a thin line of blue smoke in the distance.

“They are making a fire,” he said, “and have undoubtedly chosen that place for a camp.”

Neither Hope-Jones, Ferguson, nor Harvey said a word. The Peruvian waited a minute, then whispered:—

“Do you want to retreat? We can crawl for a short distance and then take to our feet.”

“And the white rock in view! No, I don’t want to retreat,” said the Englishman.

“Nor I,” said Ferguson.

“What do you say, Harvey?”

“I’d rather die first,” and he clenched his fists in a manner that showed he meant all that he said.

“That’s right,” whispered the señor. “You have courage; that’s the main thing. It would indeed be a pity to leave the spot now, for I am convinced that old Huayno told the truth in everything. If they are Majeronas, it is only a wandering band. The main tribe is far away, and we shall have only these to settle with, should the worst come to pass. But the probabilities are that they will go away in the morning. Should they stay in this neighborhood for a time, we might be able to remain in hiding. I think we have three or four days’ supply of dried meat, and it will be easy to crawl down to the river for water. If it comes to a fight, we have these,” and he tapped his rifle.

“What are they armed with?” asked Ferguson.

“Arrows and bludgeons, I have been told.”

They remained in the prostrate position for some time, in fact until night fell, then following the direction of Señor Cisneros they moved nearer the river, arriving at last at a shallow basin, surrounded on three sides by boulders, between each of which was a space of about a half foot, giving a view of the surrounding country, and which would make excellent openings for their guns, should it prove necessary to use them.

“How’s this for a natural fort?” said the Peruvian. “We’re near the water supply, and I think we can hold the position for a time.”

“What about supper?” asked Harvey, who, after the first minute’s fright, had shown as much unconcern as any of them and was now feeling quite hungry.

“Dried meat and water,” promptly said the señor. “No fire must be lighted to-night. I will get the water.”

He took a skin bag, which he had brought from Huari, and slowly crawled in the direction of the river. He moved so cautiously that they did not hear a sound, and when he returned to the camp, in a quarter of an hour, his appearance was so sudden and without warning that all three were startled.

They ate sparingly of the dried meat, for Señor Cisneros, who had taken command at the urgent solicitation of the others, had divided the food supply into rations sufficient to last three days.

“We must call you captain now,” said Harvey, as he munched his share, “for these are war times.”

After supper they made preparation for the night, moving cautiously, so that metal might not ring out, nor anything fall. They had no poles for the shelter-tent; it was deemed unwise to try to secure any, so they disposed the canvas as a bed and spread a blanket. This done, the señor said he would go out and reconnoitre.

“I must ascertain whether they are Majeronas or Ayulis,” he explained, “and I must also learn their number.”

He took everything out of his pockets and divested himself of such clothing as would impede his progress—removed his poncho, his shoes and stockings, and soon was ready, barefooted and clad only in a woollen shirt and trousers. Sounds now came distinctly from down the river. These noises, first heard faintly while they were eating their frugal supper, grew in volume and became long wails, rising and falling.

“They are singing,” whispered the señor. “That is a chant.”

He placed a hunting-knife in his belt, laying aside his rifle, and announced himself ready to leave.

“What if they should see you and should attack? How are we to know it?” asked Ferguson.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “I think you would not know until I failed to return.”

“That will never do, sir,” protested the American. “Take your revolver,” and he picked up the small weapon, which had been discarded with the rifle. “If you are attacked, fire a shot, and we will hurry to the rescue. We all stand together in this. Don’t we, fellows?”

“Of course we do,” said Hope-Jones and Harvey.

He looked at them gratefully and started to leave, but stopped a minute to say: “While I am gone keep a close watch. Don’t worry, even should I be absent two hours, for it will be slow work. I will fire the pistol should anything happen. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” they said, and each grasped him by the hand.

It was quite lonely when he had gone, and they then appreciated how much they depended upon him. From down the river the sound of the chant came louder, evidence that more voices were joining in the evening song. It was a night with no clouds in the sky, and the full moon shone direct upon their camp and the surrounding country, silvering the broad leaves of trees, throwing the trunks into blackness more deep by the contrast, and causing strange shadows to appear on all sides. As a gentle wind stirred the branches, the shadows moved from side to side. Once or twice Harvey, who was stationed at the opening near the wooded country, was certain that he saw the figure of an Indian, and whispered a warning, but each time it proved to be only the obscuration of the moonlight by a branch or a rock.

From the river bank came the croaking of frogs, tree-toads sounded among the growth of vegetation; in the blackness where stood the trees, flitted fireflies, and occasionally a glow-worm crawled along the ground. They were startled now and then by a faint splash in the river and made ready for an attack, but as nothing followed, they concluded that a fish had risen and in diving again had flipped the water with its tail—a sound they would not have ordinarily noticed, but which seemed loud to their sense of hearing, more acute than usual because of the nerve strain under which they rested.

After a time that seemed to him interminable Harvey whispered to Hope-Jones, “I wonder if anything has happened to the captain. Has he not been gone longer than he expected?”

The Englishman looked at his watch. The moonlight was so bright that he could distinctly see the dial and the hands.

“No, he has been absent only an hour,” was the reply.

From the woods came the hoot of an owl. A few minutes later a low growl was heard in the distance.

“That’s a puma,” said Ferguson. “If it should come this way we would have to fire, and then those redskins would be attracted.”

But it did not come near them, nor did the growl sound again. The owl continued to hoot dismally, and the call of a night bird was also heard. Of a sudden Hope-Jones exclaimed “Sh!” and pushed his rifle through the opening at the side of the river.

A dry branch had crackled. His warning was followed by a voice outside the camp, saying in low tones, “It’s I, boys,” and the next second the captain had rejoined them. He was considerably out of breath, and they noticed that his clothing was more torn than when he had left the camp.

“It’s pretty tough work crawling nearly a mile on the hands and knees,” he finally found voice to say. “But I saw them and had a good view, lying on a rock that overlooked their camp. I was so close that I could have picked off a half dozen with my revolver.”

“Are they Ayulis?” asked Ferguson.

“No, Majeronas.”

“The savages?”

He nodded his head.

None of them asked any more questions for a full minute, then Harvey said rather hoarsely, “How many of them are there?”

“It’s a large band, my boy. More by far than I would wish for. I counted forty.”

Forty—and they were four! No wonder their cheeks blanched.

“They have eaten a deer and other animals that I could make out,” the captain continued, “and are lying around on the ground, resting after their feast. It would be an easy matter for us to creep up to them and pick off a score and probably put to flight the remainder, but I don’t like to have the blood of even a Majerona on my hands, unless to save our lives. What do you say?”

They agreed with him, then inquired what would be best to do.

“There’s nothing to do, but to wait developments. We are in no danger to-night, so long as we keep still. The probabilities are that they will move in the morning, and I think they are going down stream. However, should they come this way, we shall have to face the music.”

“Could we not confer with the chief and promise him presents if they will let us alone?”

“Confer with a Majerona! Never, my boy. They are the Philistines of Peru and are cannibals. Why, that fire over there was not to cook their food. They pulled the deer apart and ate strips of meat raw. I don’t wish to frighten you, only to make it plain that we are near an enemy that doesn’t even know what it is to spare a man of a different tribe or race. To change the subject, I will suggest that as we have to prepare for a siege, our best plan is to get some sleep. It will be necessary to keep a close watch all night. I am very tired and I will ask Mr. Hope-Jones to stand the first, Mr. Ferguson the second, and I will take the third.”

“What about me?” asked Harvey. “I should do my share.”

“Very well. I thought you might be lonely on guard. You may take that last watch, the one near daybreak. That will make four watches of two hours each. Come, those who can get rest had better improve the opportunity.”

Saying which the Peruvian rolled himself under a blanket and lay down in the shadow of one of the boulders. Ferguson followed his example, and Harvey, drawing his cover close, took a position in the centre of the camp.

“Tell the lad to come out of the moonlight,” said the captain to Ferguson, who was between them. The American did so, and Harvey crept closer to Señor Cisneros. “Why was that?” he asked.

“Because moonlight falling on one’s face in this latitude sometimes causes insanity.”

“I have heard that,” the boy said, “but I thought science had exploded the theory.”

“Science or no science, no Indian will ever lie down in the open without covering his head. And now good night. Try to sleep.”

But as for sleep, nothing was farther from Harvey’s mind. He lay quite still, however, so as not to disturb the others, and watched Hope-Jones, who stood at the opening near the river, his rifle resting on the little ledge of rock, gazing steadily in the direction of the Indian camp. The owl continued to hoot, the night bird to call, the tree-toads chirped merrily, and the frogs kept up their doleful croaking. But the mournful chant had ceased, and it was evident that slumber had stolen over the camp of the Indians. The boy, in earnest endeavor to sleep, resorted to all those expedients which are recommended, and finally counted up to one thousand. After that he yawned and wondered if it was possible, if he was really losing consciousness under such circumstances; if——Some one tapped him on the shoulder, and he sprang to an upright position.

“It’s your watch, Harvey,” the captain said. “But never mind, I will stand it for you.”

“No, sir,” said the boy, stoutly, as he rubbed his eyes and picked up Ferguson’s rifle. The captain rolled himself in his blanket without further words and was soon breathing heavily.

Could it be possible, thought the lad, that it was really his turn? Why, it seemed that only the minute before he had watched Hope-Jones standing at the opening, and now the Englishman was lying down. Why, not only the captain but Ferguson had stood watch in the meanwhile! And there was no moonlight! Of course not; it was four o’clock in the morning. He yawned; then shook himself and muttered, “This will never do!” and, all at once, he was wide awake and fit for his duty as sentry.

It was chill and damp. From the river a light mist was creeping. He could not see it, but he felt the wet on his cheeks. The bird had ceased crying, and so had the tree-toads and the frogs. It was indescribably lonely; but his great comfort came from the fact that three trusted companions were so near that he could almost touch them with his foot, and he knew they would awaken at his slightest call.

While standing there, his rifle resting on the ledge, he thought of the dear ones at home and wondered what they would say, could they know the plight he was in. “My, but Louis and Carl would give their boots to be here, I know!” was a sentence that passed through his mind. And the other members of the Callao Rowing Club—what adventures he could relate to them upon his return! He thought of the regattas, when as coxswain he had steered to victory the eight-oared shells in which Hope-Jones had pulled stroke and Ferguson bow; and now here they were, far in the interior of Peru, near a camp of cannibals.

At the thought of cannibals, Harvey’s heart gave a quick jump. But it was soon steady again, and he commenced thinking of the dreary night he had passed in Callao Bay, while afloat on a torpedo, which strange adventure of the younger Dartmoor brother is related in detail in “Fighting Under the Southern Cross.” He had come out of that safely, and why not out of this? Then the lad remembered that for several nights he had neglected to say those words which he had learned when a little child at his mother’s knee, so he fervently repeated the prayers she had taught him. After this he felt more courage than ever, and when a fish rose in the river, it did not cause him to start as had the sounds earlier in the night. Thus communing with himself and with his God, time passed quickly for the boy, and soon he began to make out the shadowy forms of the mist that rose from the water.

In this latitude, near the equator, there are only a few minutes of twilight, so it was soon bright enough for him to look at the watch that had been left on the stone ledge. Ten minutes to six! He could soon call the others. The generous impulse came to let them sleep for another hour, but it was followed by the thought that the Indians were undoubtedly awakening, and as they might at once march up the river, it would be well for all to be on the alert. So when the long hand pointed at twelve and the short hand at the dot which on clocks and watches is the sign for six, he touched the captain lightly on the arm. Señor Cisneros sprang up. It was broad day. He awakened Hope-Jones and Ferguson.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE FORT ON THE MARAÑON.

For several minutes after the camp was astir the Peruvian stood near one of the openings, and placing a hand partly back of an ear, so that more sound waves might reach that organ, he listened intently, in hopes that he might determine whether the Majeronas were on the move or still in camp. But in early day they are not given to making as much noise as at night, when that wild chant, considered part of a religious ceremony, rolls out, and the captain turned to his companions, disappointed.

Then, as all were hungry, another ration was consumed by each, and as there was plenty of cool water in the skin no one was called upon to risk a trip to the river. They continued conversing in whispers and observed the same caution as on the evening before. Unless they gave thought to the cause, their low tones seemed very strange and unnecessary, for nothing was in evidence to remind them of the presence in the vicinity of savages; not even did smoke rise from the place where they were encamped. Soon after breakfast Harvey said to Señor Cisneros:—

“If you will permit me, captain, I will crawl over to that tree,” and he pointed to one whose lower branches were near the ground, yet whose trunk rose to quite a height, “and by climbing I can see what the Indians are doing. The leaves are thick so that I shall be well hidden, and my suit is about the color of the bark.”

The plan was approved and the boy left the camp, imitating the manner in which Señor Cisneros had made his journeys of the evening before. The three within the enclosure looked at him approvingly, and the Peruvian said: “He worms his way along as well as an experienced woodsman. That’s a very clever lad.”

“Indeed, he is,” said Hope-Jones, “and a more truthful, honest youngster I never met.”

They watched the tree which Harvey had spoken of as his goal, and before long they saw something moving in the branches, but very slowly, for the boy was observing even more caution than when on the ground. After ten minutes’ careful climbing he reached a spot halfway to the top, where the branches were fewer, and there he stopped, evidently at a sufficient altitude to look over the intervening boulders and see the camp of the Majeronas. He was stationary for a few seconds, then they saw him commence to descend, but no longer slowly and with caution; he came down hand below hand, and when he reached the ground he ran to the camp, not attempting to observe the quiet which had marked his departure.

Knowing that he must have good cause for alarm and feeling that an attack was possibly imminent, the three men stood at a “ready” in the openings, their weapons poised. When Harvey joined them he said quickly, but in low tones:—

“A half dozen of the savages are coming this way. They were not far off when I left the tree and were moving slowly, looking closely at the ground, as if in search of something. The others are still in camp.”

Saying this, Harvey picked up his shot-gun.

“You say they are walking slowly and looking down, as if in search of something?”

“Yes, captain. They were bent low, and at first I thought they were crawling; then I saw that they appeared to be examining the ground as they passed.”

“Hum! I suppose they found my trail. The copper-colored rascals have a scent as keen as a dog. But I think that I fooled them.”

“How so?” asked Ferguson.

“I took to the water when halfway between the camps and waded for a couple of hundred yards.”

“Then you don’t think that they will be able to track you?”

“No. But they may search the neighborhood before they leave.”

“Harvey reports the main body still at the white rock. How do you account for that?”

“The band is undoubtedly resting for the day. It is probable that the savages have travelled some distance and have called a forty-eight hours’ halt. I can think of no other reason, for surely there could be no game to attract them in this vicinity, and there is no hostile tribe near for them to attack.”

“You don’t suppose they are in search of the gold, do you?” asked Harvey.

“Gold! They don’t know what gold is. They are the most ignorant Indians in all Peru.”

This whispered conversation was suddenly brought to an end by Ferguson, who placed his fingers on his lips, to enjoin silence, and pointed through the opening nearest the river. They looked in the direction, and saw a head projecting beyond a rock. It was the head of a Majerona, long black hair, and skin a light copper color. The savage looked up and down stream, then was lost to sight for a moment, and soon stood out in the open, where he was joined by several others.

They were naked, save for strips of hide that served as loin cloths. They were tall, well-formed men, straight and muscular: each held a long bow, and dependent from the belt of hide, instead of swung over the shoulder, was a quiver filled with arrows. The cannibal who had first thrust out his head had done so cautiously, as if to survey the country, but they soon became bold, evidently convinced that they were alone. First, they took a few steps up stream, at which the white men tightened their grips on the weapons, and then, for some reason, they turned about and hurried away.

“Whew! that was a narrow escape!” muttered Ferguson.

“Yes; and I fear it will prove no escape after all. They were sent out to scout, and another band undoubtedly will be despatched in a little while. The chances are against our not being seen, and as the probability is that we will have to fight, I propose that we make our fort better suited for defence. Harvey, fill every pot, pan, and cup we have with water. Don’t try to crawl; only step as softly as possible so as not to cause stones to roll and dry branches to break. Hope-Jones and Ferguson, I wish you would go to that drift pile over there, and bring me all the branches and wood possible. You cannot bring too much.”

They at once commenced their allotted tasks, and the señor remained behind the boulders, keeping an eye down stream, and at the same time directing where the wood should be placed as it was brought in. First, he had the openings between the rocks carefully filled, to the height of his shoulders, the pieces of wood interlaced in the same manner that log fences are built in the American farming country. This done, he gave orders for wood to be piled at the rear of their position. It will be remembered that the boulders formed a shelter on three sides, and Ferguson and Hope-Jones, seeing at once that the Peruvian’s idea was to close the fourth, redoubled their efforts, and within a half hour they had brought in what they deemed sufficient material to erect the barricade.

“More!” the captain said, when they asked him if that would do. “Bring all of that pile if you can.”

Harvey had finished his task by this time, and placing him on guard, Señor Cisneros turned his attention to shaping the rear defence. He constructed the wall V-shaped, the angle outward, explaining to the boy that in this form it could better withstand the force of an attack, should the Indians try to rush the position. But the longest boughs he placed slanting against the high boulders, so that they formed a roof over half the space. These he wove in and out with a tough young vine that he had directed Ferguson to bring from a tree near by, and which had fallen in a mass when a slight pull had been given.

An hour after they had commenced their task, the captain said there was sufficient wood on hand, and Hope-Jones and Ferguson, tired, red of face, and perspiring profusely, pushed in through the narrow opening that had been left for their entrance, which the Peruvian at once closed with some branches that he had placed to one side for that purpose.

Ferguson had cut his left hand, and the handkerchief which he had wound around the injured member was blood stained. When he was asked if the cut was a deep one, he replied by saying that it was lucky it had not happened to the other, or he would have trouble holding his rifle. Then he questioned Señor Cisneros why he had formed a roof over part of the enclosure.

“To be sure it’s nice to have shade,” he said, “but I should have thought you too tired to attend to that.”

“And might have had mercy on you two and not have asked you to carry in more boughs than absolutely necessary, eh?” responded the captain, smiling.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No; but I wouldn’t blame you for thinking it. However, this little roof will probably prove more valuable than any defence we have constructed.”

“How so?”

“Did you ever see a Peruvian Indian shoot an arrow? an Ayuli, or a man of any other tribe?”

No. They had not.

“I have watched them many times; and I have seen them kill a deer and not aim at it at all; only shoot up in the air.”

“And the arrow would describe a parabola and fall on the animal?”

“Its flight would rather be the sides of a triangle, and it would turn in mid air at the apex, then falling at the same angle on the other side, would strike the deer in the back.”

“Have you seen this done?”

“Yes; and not once, but several times.”

“Then I can understand why you built the covering!” exclaimed Hope-Jones; and so did the others.

As the three men were quite tired, the captain let Harvey stand guard, and they lay down in the shade. Thus another hour passed, and not a sight of an Indian was had, nor did a sound come from down the river.

Toward noon the rations of dried meat were passed around, and so was water, sparingly. After that they talked and waited, relieving each other at the opening near the river every half hour, in order that all might be in good condition should an attack occur.

One o’clock came, two, then three, and the little garrison commenced to speculate on the probability of danger having passed. Perhaps the band had gone away; it might be that the savages they had seen in the morning had been recalled to camp in order to resume the march; or, perhaps all were resting, and no further attempt was being made to reconnoitre the surrounding country. In that event they would undoubtedly leave early the next morning. But even after the Majeronas had departed, how long would they have to remain quiet and on the defensive before they dared approach the location of the mine?

“I would almost rather have a fight with them; that is, if we could give them such a taste of modern firearms that they would leave the country,” said Señor Cisneros, rising from the place where he had been resting in the shade.

He approached the opening that faced the thinly grown forest, and gazed over the brushwood that was piled as a protection, in the direction of the trees. They saw him bend forward, as one is apt to do when looking intently at something, and then, turning, he beckoned Ferguson to his side.

“Look,” he whispered. “Do you see that long grass waving over there, under that ironwood tree?”

“Yes. I guess it is wind blown.”

“But there isn’t a particle of wind. Wet your finger and hold your hand up high.”

The American did so. “No,” he said. “There’s no breeze. What makes the grass wave, then?”

“One of those copper-skinned rascals is crawling through it,” said the captain.

“Shall I pick him off?” and Ferguson reached for his rifle.

“By no means.” The señor reached out his hand and caught the barrel. “We are not sure that they have seen us, although such is probably the case. Aside from that, I would rather not be the first to engage. But a better reason than all is that we should reserve our fire, if firing be necessary, until we can let go a volley into their midst. It might stampede them.

“Ah! see!” he exclaimed a moment later. “My first surmise was correct.”

The Indian had risen suddenly from the grass and had bent his bow. But the arrow was not aimed in their direction; it was pointed toward the woods, away from the river bank, and that moment Ferguson saw a young deer near a dwarf palm. Sharp and clear they heard the twang of the hide-string and the whistle of the dart, so near was the savage to them; and the animal fell dead in its tracks. The Majerona walked leisurely over to where his prey had dropped, and lifting it on his broad shoulders, he started back to camp.

“He is a hunter for the band,” said the captain. “There are probably others out. His actions are proof that they do not even suspect we are in the vicinity. I suppose they think that my trail, which they followed for a short distance this morning, was that of a wild animal. Now I believe that we are going to get out of this without even a brush with them.”

All breathed easier at these reassuring words; all except Harvey, who said, “But there is a chance they may come, is there not?”

“Why, from your tone, I really believe you wish they would,” said the señor. “But,” he added, “that chance and a remark which I made to Mr. Ferguson have reminded me of something. I believe I said that a volley might have a demoralizing effect, did I not?”

“Yes; I think you did.”

“Then I shall endeavor to increase the effect. Didn’t I see a gourd in camp?”

“Harvey has one which Señora Cisneros gave him.”

“Let me have it, Harvey. I can’t promise to return it, but I may make it of use.”

He emptied some powder into the receptacle, then asked for a contribution of loaded shells, which he put with the black grains. With some shreds of cotton, which he twisted into shape, and some dampened powder he made a fuse and placed it in the opening of the gourd, then sealed it with moist clay made from the soil underfoot, dampened with water.

“There!” he exclaimed, “there’s a bomb! It may fail to ignite, and it will have to be handled quickly, but if it ever does go off in the midst of the copper-skins there will be a foot-race down the river that will prove interesting.”

He had been an hour making this weapon of defence. The hands of their watches pointed to four o’clock, and the shadows to the east of them commenced to grow long. Ferguson was on watch. The others were lolling about on the ground, thinking more of other matters than they had at any time since the evening before, when they were suddenly startled by a rifle shot.

An answering scream came from above their heads, and a wounded Majerona, who had crawled to the top of the lowest boulder and was peering into the camp, came rolling down upon them.

CHAPTER IX.
ATTACKED BY CANNIBALS.

In his descent the savage struck Harvey, who was crawling from under the shelter, and the lad was sent sprawling to the other side of the little enclosure.

“Hold him! Keep him down!” called the señor to Hope-Jones, who with great presence of mind had fallen upon the struggling Majerona. But there was little use for the Peruvian to urge, or the Englishman to use his strength, for the Indian was mortally wounded; his struggles were death throes, not efforts to give combat, and in a few seconds he rolled over, dead. The rifle ball had pierced his brain. Two shots had rung out from the opening while this was going on, and howls and cries answered them. Ferguson was busily pumping lead into others of the cannibals, and when his companions hurried to his side, they saw one man stretched out not fifty feet from the enclosure, and another, evidently wounded, was being assisted away in the direction of the encampment by a half dozen fellow-tribesmen.

“Now we are in for it!” said Señor Cisneros. “But first, my friend,” he said warmly, offering his hand to Ferguson, “I want to tell you that you have saved our lives. Another minute and all those reptiles would have been in here, and we should have been massacred. How did you happen to see him?” pointing to the dead savage, lying against the brush heap—“and how did you happen to act so promptly?”

Ferguson’s cheeks were red and his eyes were snapping in a manner they had, when he was excited. He was also breathing quickly.

“It was only good fortune; that’s all,” he replied. “I grew tired standing stock still while you were loafing in the shade, and to amuse myself I had lifted my rifle to my shoulder and was taking aim around at different objects. I suppose that while doing this I neglected to watch the opening as closely as I should, and one of the Indians sneaked up in the grass, like that fellow did this morning. But it happened that when he put his head over the rock, I was aiming at a spot near where his black hair appeared; so all I had to do was to pull the trigger.”

They all congratulated him—all, including Harvey, who had picked himself up and was rubbing his head where a lump the size of a hickory nut testified to his having struck against a stone after being given momentum by the wounded savage; then they hastened to make such preparations as were necessary before the attack which they now knew must come.

“First, let’s get rid of this body,” said the captain, and taking down some of the brush at the rear, they dragged the corpse out and toward the river. Returning, they made everything snug again, and the captain disposed of the forces for the fray.

“My plan of reserving the fire for a volley has been spoiled,” he said, “so the next best thing will have to be done. Ferguson, you’re a splendid shot. Do you think that with a boost you can get up on the rock, in about the place where your friend, the Majerona, was lying?”

“Yes, I guess so,” replied the American, surveying the steep boulder.

“Then it would be well for you to do so and commence picking them off with your rifle as soon as they come in sight. We have only two openings down here that command their approach, and there won’t be an opportunity for us all. We must kill and wound as many as possible before they get near. That’s our only hope.”

“What am I going to do?” asked Harvey. “There are only two openings, and I suppose you and Mr. Hope-Jones will want to cover those.”

“You can alternate with me, my boy. My rifle, unfortunately, is a muzzle-loader, and while I am ramming in a charge you can step to the peep-hole and use your shot-gun. Of course,” he continued, “the shot-guns will not carry as far as the rifles and will not be serviceable as soon, but we have plenty of ammunition, and I think it would be wise to blaze away with all pieces as often as possible during the first five minutes and make plenty of noise.” Then turning to Ferguson again he said:—

“Don’t stay up there a second after it seems dangerous. You can slide down, can you not, without assistance?”

“Of course.”

“How many cartridges does your rifle carry in the chamber?”

“Eight.”

“Then don’t take any more with you. They will be sufficient until the arrows commence to fly, and then I want you with us here. That reminds me, I told Hope-Jones and Harvey to blaze away, regardless of aim, with their shot-guns for a time, but I suppose you understand the same does not apply to the rifles. We must make every shot count.”

“Never fear for that. Will you give me a boost now, sir? They will be coming any minute.”

“Yes. Help me, Hope-Jones. Steady me a bit,” and the Peruvian stood upright against the rock and told the Englishman to press against his back. “Leave your rifle, Ferguson, and we will pass it up to you.”

By stepping on a stone the American obtained a foothold on the señor’s shoulders, then reaching up, he caught a ledge of rock and bringing into practice an exercise he had learned on the horizontal bars, he drew himself with ease to the ledge, from which he scrambled to the surface.

“Quick!” he exclaimed, the moment he looked around. “Pass me my rifle. They are coming! I can see them down the river! Gracious, what a band of them!”

At the captain’s direction, Harvey jumped on his shoulders as Ferguson had done and passed the repeating rifle to his companion, then the Peruvian and the Englishman took positions at the peep-holes, while the lad stood back, waiting.

If the truth be told his heart was beating like it had on days after a boat race, and he felt the blood surging to his temples. There was an instant after Ferguson said that the Indians were coming that he felt dizzy. But it passed almost as soon as it had come, and he bit his lip until it bled, for he was angry that any alarm should have seized him. The moment this feeling of anger came, he was surprised to note that his heart commenced to beat normally, that the fever left his cheeks, and that he became self-possessed. And from that moment he became as cool and collected as any one in the little fort.

“How far are they off?” called out Señor Cisneros.

“A half mile, sir,” answered the voice from above.

“Do you think there are more than forty?”

“I dare say not; but they seemed to number two or three hundred when they first came in sight.”

“I counted forty when I reconnoitred their camp last night, and they must have all been within the vicinity of the fire, for there would have been no object in their scattering at that hour. Therefore, with two dead and one wounded we have thirty-seven to fight. How are they coming? In a body?”

“Yes; close together; all in a bunch.”

“So much the better.”

This conversation had been carried on in loud tones, that Ferguson might hear and be heard, for he was lying on the far side of the boulder. It seemed strange to speak in this manner after the enforced whispers that had been the rule for twenty-four hours.

“Now I can see them,” said the captain, and he rested his rifle on the ledge. A sharp report sounded above.

“Did you bring another down?”

“No,” called back Ferguson. “I missed.”

“You’re honest, that’s sure. Most persons would have said they didn’t know, but thought so. Better reserve your fire a few minutes.”

The American did as he was advised, but before any of them below had an opportunity to take effective aim, his rifle spoke again and the captain called: “How now?”

“I saw a copper-colored rascal whirl ‘round and ‘round and then drop.”

“Bravo! That makes thirty-six!”

A minute later the Peruvian’s weapon sounded, and without waiting to notice the result, he darted back and commenced to reload, saying:—

“Now blaze away, my lad!” and Harvey rushed to the opening. Hope-Jones in the meantime had discharged one barrel, then another, of his shot-gun and had thrown back the breech to press in fresh shells, while the sharp report of Ferguson’s rifle came from above, once, twice, thrice, and the American was heard to call above the din:—

“They’re getting it! You struck one, Cisneros, and I have fetched two more.”

“Thirty-three,” said the Peruvian, and he crowded Harvey one side as the boy was loading his double-barrelled gun, and taking aim once more, he sent another bullet into the dark throng that was rapidly approaching, for the Indians were running.

After that there was no opportunity to keep count. Ferguson came sliding down from his altitudinous perch, having exhausted all the cartridges in his rifle; and ejecting the worthless shells, he loaded again, then stood behind Hope-Jones, to alternate with him at the peep-hole, and after the Englishman had fired both barrels point-blank, the American jumped to the opening and pumped eight shots in the direction of the enemy, as fast as the mechanism of the modern arm would work.

Harvey, the while, had been loading with feverish haste, running toward his peep-hole the moment it was left by the Peruvian and discharging his weapon. He took aim, and after the third discharge, he saw an Indian fall, evidently from shot he had sent speeding, for the man was somewhat detached from the others and the boy had tried to bring him down. The little enclosure became filled with smoke, and their faces and arms were streaked with dirt. All were more or less powder-burned, but of this they did not know till afterwards.

“What now?” suddenly said the captain, for the Majeronas had halted. “They are bending their bows! Watch out, all! Down on your faces!”

The warning was not a second too soon. Whistling like a wind that scurries around the gable of a house in winter, a flight of arrows poured into and over the little fort, and others could be heard striking against the front boulder. Several of the darts came through the openings and rattled against the stones, and one transfixed Ferguson’s knapsack, which was in a corner.

“Now, at them once more!”

And the men and boy jumped to their places as before.

The target was not nearly so good. The Indians had separated and were spreading out. They could be seen running in different directions, evidently carrying out some command of their chief, and a few minutes later a dozen commenced climbing trees, keeping their bodies on the side opposite the fort.

“This is different,” exclaimed the señor. “Pick off all you can while you have the opportunity, for we shall soon be compelled to seek shelter.”

The guns were kept busy until the barrels were so hot that they burned the hands, but only one Majerona fell—a bold fellow who had run forward of the others, and whom it was Harvey’s lot to make bite the dust, at which the captain patted the boy on the shoulder and said:—

“I wish I had a lad like you. If God spares me, I am going to make it my business to tell Señor Dartmoor what a son he has.”

A little later he called, “Under cover, all of you!” and they darted beneath the thick mass of boughs that he had placed against the side of the boulder. Then they knew with what wisdom he had constructed this protection, for arrows commenced to rain into the enclosure from all sides, some whistling low over the boulders, others dropping as if from the skies. They came with such force that those which fell without stood upright in the ground, and although others penetrated the protecting branches, they lost their force and none of the defenders of the fort was harmed. However, as a further protection, they lay flat on their faces. This lasted for full five minutes; then there was a lull, and Señor Cisneros, creeping to an opening, said:—

“They are forming again. No, don’t fire,” and he restrained Hope-Jones. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“If we withhold our fire, they will think we are all dead or so grievously wounded as not to be able to resist. You see, they don’t know anything about our roof. The fellow who got a view inside was placed in a position where he could not relate the result of his observations. Yes, they are forming in a body for a rush. Now wait, everybody, until I give the word!”

He darted under the boughs to the furthermost corner and at once reappeared with the gourd which, earlier in the afternoon, he had fashioned into a bomb.

“Who has a match?”

Harvey gave him some.

“Angry copper-colored faces showed at the opening.”

“Here, Hope-Jones, take my rifle! You can use it and your shot-gun as well, for I shall be busy with this thing. Harvey, don’t try to fire, but have your gun handy. When I give the word, pull away as fast as you can at the brush in the opening nearest the Indians, so that I may have room in which to throw.”

These directions were no sooner given than the band of Majeronas, yelling, sprang toward the stone fort. The four defenders bent down low, that they might not be seen. The Indians ran with great speed, brandishing bludgeons; they had cast their bows one side, evidently believing the victory won. Señor Cisneros let them come to within a stone’s throw, then he called:—

“Now let drive!” and Ferguson and Hope-Jones, jumping to the opening, discharged three shots simultaneously, and the repeating-rifle of the former was worked as it never had been worked before.

“Pull down the brush! Use both hands! Quick now!”

Harvey sprang to his task and tore away the small branches. The crackle of a match was heard, and, just as angry, copper-colored faces showed at the opening, the captain called out:—

“Duck down, everybody!”

The next instant a report as of a cannon was heard, followed by screeches and howls; and a cloud of white smoke drifted away before a light breeze that had sprung up, while a crackle as of giant fire-crackers told of the exploding cartridges with which the gourd had been loaded.

“Out and after them!” screamed the señor, seizing his rifle and pushing his way through the opening, in which act he was followed by the three companions.

But they met none in combat. The Indians were fleeing, running in a confused mass along the river bank, shrieking in their fear. Two or three picked up their bows as they sped, and turning, let fly each an arrow, then joined the others; but the majority never turned. The defenders of the little fort followed for several hundred yards, firing as they went, not in endeavor to kill more, for they did not stop to take aim, but to spread the alarm; until at last loss of breath caused a halt. But the Majeronas, greatly reduced in numbers, kept on, their howls growing fainter and fainter, until they were heard no more, and the last of the savages disappeared down the river.

“Do you think they will come back?” panted Hope-Jones.

“No. They believe they attacked a band of devils. There is no longer danger.”

“Where’s Harvey?” It was Ferguson who asked.

They looked around, and their cheeks blanched. The boy was not with them.

CHAPTER X.
NEAR TO DEATH’S DOOR.

For a minute none of the three said a word, then Señor Cisneros suggested that perhaps the lad had remained behind.

“No. That’s not his way. He would be with us unless hurt, or——”

Hope-Jones could not find the word for the alternative; his voice choked. “Let’s hurry back,” he added.

They did so, going as fast as when in pursuit of the enemy, and not stopping until they had reached the fort. Outside they saw their boy companion lying beside a large stone not a hundred yards from the opening. An arrow was fastened in his breast.

Hope-Jones dropped on his knees. Ferguson reached over to pull out the arrow, but was restrained by the captain.

“Don’t,” he said. “It might cause a fatal hemorrhage if there is not one already. Wait until we see how far it has entered;” and he commenced unfastening Harvey’s coat, which had been buttoned close, that it might not impede his action.

“I fear it has reached his heart,” said the Englishman, in a whisper. “See, it penetrated the left side.”

“His hands are cold,” Ferguson added. “I cannot feel the pulse.”

All three were quite pale and were trembling. It seemed probable that life had left the boy’s body.

“Bring some water, quickly,” said the captain. “I will do the best I can.”

Ferguson darted off to the fort and returned at once with the skin bag filled.

“Help me turn him over. There, that’s right; not too much,” and the captain loosened another button, then carefully inserted his hand beneath the coat. He felt in the region where the arrow had penetrated, and touching the shaft moved his fingers cautiously downward. Then a puzzled expression came over his face, and he muttered: “Something hard. I don’t quite understand. There isn’t any blood.”

He withdrew his hand, looked at it, then inserted it again and caught the shaft firmly. The dart turned to one side, but did not come out. The captain jumped to his feet.

“That arrow isn’t in Harvey’s body!” he exclaimed. “It’s fast in something that he has in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He’s fainted; got a knock on his head or something. Throw some water on his face!”

Ferguson did as directed, and Harvey immediately sat upright, then began pawing the air, as if warding off a blow, and tried to rise to his feet. Desisting suddenly from this effort he exclaimed: “What’s all the rumpus about? And—and—where are the Majeronas?”

Ferguson and Hope-Jones were too overjoyed to speak. They clapped the boy on the back, rubbed his arms, and asked him where he was hurt. For reply he put his hand to his head, and they found there another lump.

“I stumbled, I guess, and struck my head,” he said. “I can remember falling, and I saw a lot of stars and—but say, where are the savages?”

“Yes; and when you were falling, this was shot into you.” The captain pointed to the arrow, which was drooping, but still was held firmly.

Harvey looked at it in surprise, then reached under his coat. As he touched the shaft his cheeks turned a fiery red. He endeavored to withdraw the dart by pulling at it from the outside, but it would not come, so Ferguson bent down and helped him unfasten the remaining buttons of his coat and remove the garment. But even with the weight of that on the shaft, the arrow held firmly to the something that was in Harvey’s pocket, and he was at last compelled to cut the flannel. Then all saw that the point was embedded firmly in a pincushion, no larger than a plum, a pincushion well stuffed with cotton and which had barred the way to the boy’s heart.

“How on earth did you happen to be carrying such a thing in your pocket?” asked Hope-Jones.

He did not answer. He was looking at the little article, and his face turned pale as he thought of his narrow escape from death; and at the same time he thought of those he had left behind and of the giver of that which had so strangely saved his life, Señorita Bella Caceras, niece of the famous Captain Grau, who, the evening before the departure of the three from Callao, had made this little present to the lad, that he might have some token to carry with him into the wilds of Peru. Thus a girl’s thoughtful gift and a boy’s romantic manner of carrying the keepsake had resulted in the arrest of a Majerona arrow, aimed at the heart.

He did not explain all this to his companions, who pressed closer, congratulating him and patting him on the back, for every moment they realized more and more what a narrow escape he had had; no, he kept his secret and later he sewed up the pocket, replaced the little pincushion, and vowed that he would carry it with him so long as he lived. He also saved the arrow, so that when he returned to Callao he could present it to the señorita.

The men attempted to assist him into the fort, but Harvey protested that he was as well and as able to be about as ever in his life.

“Then let’s start for the white rock,” said Ferguson.

“No, indeed,” was Señor Cisneros’s rejoinder. “I for one favor a good rest.”

“Perhaps that would be a better plan.”

“Indeed it would,” assented Hope-Jones. “I confess that I am played out.”

“First, let’s give these bodies some sort of burial,” said the Peruvian, and he pointed to the corpses that were strewn over the ground.

They dug a trench with their picks, and gathering the dead Majeronas from near the fort and from several hundred yards away, they placed them in the shallow opening and covered them with earth. Fourteen were thus interred. How many savages had been wounded they never knew. A few of those who had been struck by bullets and not killed during the battle, had been helped away by their comrades; others, who were mortally wounded, had been killed, as was the custom of the tribe.

CHAPTER XI.
BEYOND THE WHITE ROCK.

The grewsome work of burial completed, they reëntered the little fort and made preparations for the night. First, they went to the river bank and enjoyed a bath in the cool, crystal waters; and there for the first time they discovered many bruises on their bodies, caused by bumps and knocks received during the quick action of the afternoon.

Ferguson had scraped one of his shins while sliding down the rock after emptying his rifle at the approaching Majeronas, and the cut on his left hand pained him greatly. Hope-Jones found a black and blue spot on his right shoulder, which he could not account for until he remembered that in his excitement he had several times neglected to press his shot-gun close when firing; and a little later he discovered that the lobe of his right ear was torn.

“An arrow struck there,” said the captain, after examining the wound. “You had as narrow an escape as had Harvey.”

Then the captain looked at his own physical condition and reported that the tendons of his left ankle had been strained, and that a long powder burn on his right cheek marked where a flash had sprung upward from an imperfect cap on his old-fashioned rifle.

But of them all Harvey showed more marks of battle. A very painful black and blue spot on his side told where the foot of the Majerona had struck him after the drop from the rock, and two bruises on the back of the head marked his contact with stones on the occasions of his falling. His hands were scratched and torn in several places, but he could not tell how these minor wounds had been received until the captain remarked that he had never seen a brush-heap disappear so rapidly as when the boy pulled away branches from the opening, to make room for the bomb; and then the lad recalled that at the time he had felt the sharp prick of thorns.

Although they were refreshed after the bath, they limped more or less on their return to camp.

“Is that due to the fact that we have just seen where we have been hurt?”

“Partly that and partly because the excitement is over,” said the captain.

“It will be good to have a hot supper,” the elder American remarked, changing the subject; “but I’ll be switched if I feel much like making a fire and cooking.”

“What have we to cook, anyway? There’s not a bit of fresh meat in the camp, and I’d rather go to bed hungry than hunt for anything,” interposed Harvey.

“Go to bed?” queried Hope-Jones.

“Well, turn in, lie down, go to sleep, or whatever you call it; but it’s going to be ‘go to bed’ for me, because I shall pile up some of that dried moss over there and make a couch.”

“A good idea,” said the señor. “We will all do it. As for supper, I for one propose to eat my last ration of dried meat and not try for any game to-night.”

The others did not demur, and although the sun was not yet set, they proceeded to bring in the moss and distribute it under the boughs that had sheltered them from dropping arrows. But as the three adventurers from Callao were spreading their blankets and kicking off their shoes, Señor Cisneros interrupted them with, “Not so fast there! What about a watch?”

“A watch to-night? Is one necessary?”

“Certainly, and every night, so long as we are in this region. The Majeronas are probably gone for good, but some of them might return. Yes, sirs, we will take our turns, above and below, as they say on shipboard.”

“Who first?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Suppose we draw lots. Better still, let Harvey choose which watch he will stand, as he is the one most used up, and we men will draw straws!”

Harvey decided that he would prefer to be sentinel from six till eight o’clock, then have a night’s rest through, so the others lay down under the shelter, and he stationed himself in the opening, near the river, with Ferguson’s rifle in hand.

A heavy rain fell on the following day, and they were only too glad to remain under the shelter of the boughs which, reënforced with the canvas of the shelter-tent, made an almost perfect watershed. Harvey was somewhat feverish in the morning, and the others felt even more wearied than on the night before, so all were rather pleased than vexed that the elements had conspired to delay their journey.

Lest the younger member of the party should fall ill, Señor Cisneros early set about administering the remedies which were at hand, the first of which was quinine, and he gave Harvey ten grains. Then, believing that a hot foot-bath would prove beneficial, he cast about for a utensil that could be improvised as a tub, and finding none, he dug a hole, two feet deep and about two feet square, into which he poured water heated by Hope-Jones over a brisk fire built in a corner of the fort, where a ledge of rock sheltered the crackling wood from the rain. This novel bath was at the edge of the lean-to of boughs, and when Harvey, following the captain’s directions, plunged his lower limbs into it, raindrops fell on his knees, but these and his body to the waist were covered with moss, and the lad was compelled to stay in that posture for ten minutes and “steam,” while the captain added hot water until the patient yelled out that he was being scalded.

“I dare say you think you are,” said the Peruvian, as he desisted, “but I can bear my hand in here.”

Notwithstanding a demonstration to this effect, Harvey protested against the temperature being increased, and at last was permitted again to roll over on his moss couch, where, covered with blankets, he soon fell asleep.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when he awakened. The fever had passed, the aches had disappeared from the muscles, and he said that he felt somewhat better, though a trifle weak. To prove there was at hand a remedy for this condition, Señor Cisneros pointed to Ferguson, who was busy in the far corner, turning ‘round and ‘round, over the glowing heat of embers, the ramrod of the captain’s rifle, on which were spitted a dozen little birds; and from the broilers came a savory odor that caused Harvey to smack his lips in expectation.

“They are plovers,” said the señor. “Hope-Jones went out about ten o’clock to find you a delicacy, and he succeeded in bagging enough for us all.”

The wild birds, reënforced by one of the captain’s palm-shoot vegetables, furnished a most edible repast, and it was not long thereafter before Hope-Jones, Ferguson, and the youngest member of the party turned in, the captain taking the first watch.

When Harvey awoke in the morning, he reported himself fit for any task, and the others, having recovered from strains and bruises, agreed to start as soon after breakfast as the packing of the camp equipment would permit. Before the departure, Señor Cisneros fastened a pole firmly between two of the rocks and attached thereto a handkerchief.

“It’s possible, though not probable, that hostile Indians may appear again,” he said. “In that event it would be well for us to retreat to this position, which is naturally fitted for defence, and which we have rendered even more impregnable. As the boulders do not show their peculiar form from down stream, we might pass the place by in our haste to seek shelter, but with that flagstaff set I don’t believe we could miss it.”

“Hadn’t we better give our little fort a name?” asked Harvey.

“To be sure we had,” said Ferguson. “Victory do?”

“I would suggest Majerona Hill,” said Hope-Jones.

“Would not Fort Pincushion be more appropriate?” asked the captain.

“Capital! Capital!” exclaimed the two men, and the boy blushed as he had done on the occasion when he felt the object in his pocket which had been pierced by the arrow.

Although the white rock, which had been their goal since leaving Callao, had seemed only a short distance from the fort, yet they were nearly half an hour reaching a point beneath its strange formation, and all four expressed astonishment at the brilliant, pearly white lustre. Ferguson was the first to touch the stone, and in passing his hand over the surface, he noticed that his finger nail left a mark.

“My, how soft it is! Almost as soft as soapstone! Can you tell us, Mr. Geologist, what manner of outcropping the Earth has given us here?”

Harvey, thus appealed to, took from his knapsack the little hammer which he had brought for such purpose, and knocking off a fragment, he examined it critically, then said:—

“It looks very much like alabaster.”

“Alabaster in these regions?”

“Yes, and it is not unusual. The stone is found near Cuzco, and it abounds in the Cordilleras of Chile. To be sure, the best quality comes from Tuscany, but excellent specimens abound in this interior region, and we have found an unusually large deposit.”

“It seems to me that I perceive a faint odor of lime,” said Hope-Jones.

“Then I am correct in saying that this is alabaster,” the boy answered; “for alabaster is a compact variety of sulphate of lime.”

“Now for the mine!” exclaimed Ferguson, and they at once turned from the shaft and made ready to continue the journey.

“Old Huayno directed you to proceed farther north for a half mile, until you should see another white rock, did he not?” asked the captain.

“Yes.”

“Then put your compass on something level, Hope-Jones, and give us the bearings.”

The Englishman did so, and the needle pointed in a direction that took them away from the stream, into the light growth of woods. They tightened their belts and started, pushing forward rapidly and eagerly. Months afterward Harvey said that no stage or event of the journey, not even the encounter with the savages, was so firmly impressed on his mind as was this period after they swung to the left from the bank of the river Marañon.

“I had a stuffy feeling,” he explained; “all choked up, and didn’t know whether I should cry like a baby when I reached the mine, or shout like a man. I thought all the time of mother, father, Rosita, and Louis, of what riches would do for them. Yes, to be sure, I thought of myself as well, but to tell the honest truth, it was not so much with the idea of having great riches at hand, as it was to be able to purchase some books that I wanted, and a sail-boat.”

These thoughts of the boy were shared in their intensity by the other members of the party. Hope-Jones had left an aged mother in England, who, though not in want, would be none the less a sharer in any good fortune that might come to her son; Ferguson built air-castles for his sister, who was studying music in Boston, and who had written him only by the last mail that she would be perfectly happy, could she but go abroad. As for the captain, he had long wished that six months might be passed in Lima and the remaining period of the year in their home in Huari. Thus busied they said little or nothing during the first ten minutes after leaving the Marañon, but kept on diligently, making as much speed as was possible over the rough country.

Their speculating reveries were interrupted by the captain, who called a halt for a conference.

“Your old Indian friend said something about trees having been felled across the path from the river to the mine, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is about time for us to meet with them in quantity. There are a few here and there, but not enough as yet to indicate that we have reached the region where the Ayulis placed obstructions. Another matter to consider is that a white rock hereabouts, although the timber is sparse, would not be so readily seen as the pile of alabaster on the river bank. And again, it must be remembered that the Ayulis did not use a compass in determining the course of their journeys; they judged such a direction to be north, and another south, by the relative bearing of the sun. Therefore, although Huayno said to go north from the river, yet his ‘north’ might have been northeast or northwest.”

“What then do you propose to do, sir?”

“I believe it would be wise to spread out. You, Hope-Jones and Harvey, walk over to the right until you are within easy calling distance of one another, and Ferguson and I will do the same on the left. We will then move forward in a fan-shape and cover the country closely, watching out for a white rock and for fallen trees that seem to have been felled systematically. Everybody move slowly,” he added. “About like this,” and he took several paces, to give them an example.

Fifteen minutes later not one was in sight of the other, and then they commenced the slow forward journey, “beating the country,” one might say, not for animals or birds, but for signs that a century before had marked for the aborigines of Peru the place where great treasure lay buried.

Harvey, between the captain and Hope-Jones, could hear the swish of the latter’s walking-stick as he cut the plants through which he moved, but not a sound came from his left. Occasionally a little animal darted from a decayed log; or, with a whir, a bird, startled from the undergrowth, would fly ahead, slanting upwards. But he saw nothing else. The trees were not much nearer together than in an orchard. Of course they were large of trunk and branch, and the shade was almost continual. Here and there one had fallen, but the boy saw no signs of a number having been felled by man. After fifteen minutes had passed he heard Hope-Jones call: “Anything in sight, Harvey?”

“Nothing.” Then he repeated the question, turning to the left.

“Not a sight that is cheering, my boy,” was the captain’s answer.

The Peruvian’s voice was quite indistinct, and Harvey, believing he had borne too far to the right, altered his direction somewhat. Then time commenced to hang heavy, and the minutes dragged like hours as he moved on, but ahead he saw an interminable succession of giant trees, interspersed here and there with immense heliotrope bushes, but never a rock of prominence or a number of trees felled as if to offer a bar to progress. Finally there came a call that set his blood tingling.

“Come on, Harvey, and bring Hope-Jones with you!” shouted the captain.

The lad repeated the cheerful words, and soon the crackling of underbrush announced the approach of the Englishman, who, panting from his exertions, joined the boy, and then the two made equal haste to the side of the Peruvian, who guided them by frequent shouts.

“What is it?” both asked.

“Ferguson has seen something and is waiting,” he answered, then called out: “Give us a word, over there!”

A shout came in reply, and going in the direction of the sound, the three made the most haste possible.

They found the elder American standing near a mass that resembled a mound, and in every direction ahead of him were similar curious shapes.

“Don’t you think these have been formed by heaps of fallen trees, covered in time with vegetation?” he inquired.

“You may be right. Here, lend me your pick-axe, Hope-Jones;” and taking the tool the captain commenced vigorously to make an opening. The mound yielded beneath the blows and proved to be little more than a mass of foliage supported by soil that had been formed of dead timber. Within were gray, shrivelled pieces of wood, some of which Harvey drew forth and eagerly examined.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “these are pieces of trees, almost fossilized.”

“Then we are in the right path,” said Hope-Jones. “But where is the white rock?”

“That remains to be found. Let’s push onward,” said the captain.

As all the mounds seemed to be within reach of the eye on both sides, and to extend in a line straight ahead, they continued their way together and travelled through the strange land that spoke of the Ayulis’ anger and the efforts of the aborigines to prevent their treasure falling into the intruders’ hands.

Captain Cisneros remarked that the trees were not so tall as those they had left behind, which, he said, was conclusive evidence that the primeval growth had been cut down, and that this thin forest had sprung into being since that day. It was noticed that the ground sloped somewhat from both right and left; they were, in fact, in a little valley, through which, as Ferguson remarked, a stream once flowed and probably still flowed during the rainy season.

For nearly fifteen minutes they kept on, and then as suddenly as the mounds had commenced, they came to an end, and beyond them the trees were of ancient growth once more. They looked at one another quizzically, as if to say: “We have passed the obstructions. Where is the white rock that marks the mine?”

“We’ve missed it somehow,” said the captain. “Perhaps it’s to the right, or the left. Hope-Jones, you and Harvey go around the mounds on one side, and Ferguson and I will go on the other.”

They separated, as proposed, and carefully surveyed the country for the landmark which meant fortunes to them. The two parties were an hour making the detour, and when they met again at the point where Ferguson had first called their attention to the curious earth formations, neither had any encouraging report to make. All were puzzled. What could it mean? Had old Huayno hoaxed them, and thus vented his wrath against white men? The captain asked this question and was assured by both Hope-Jones and Ferguson that they, who had known the old Indian, could not entertain the thought for a minute. Could he have been mistaken concerning the location of the second white rock? That was possible, but where could they search for it, if not among these mounds? Huayno’s estimate of distances had proved different from theirs; still the general direction had been correct, and they had found all the landmarks that he had named—all save the last and the most important.

While discussing what had better be done, they unstrapped their knapsacks and ate the noonday meal, for the morning had passed. This done, the captain said that he would keep on some distance in the general direction they had followed since leaving the river, and while he was gone the others could explore the mound region more thoroughly.

It was four o’clock when they met again, weary and discouraged, for not one had seen aught that led him to believe they had located the mine.

“I thought I had the rock in sight once, boys, but it turned out to be a tree with white blossoms,” said the captain.

As the shades were lengthening in the woods, the explorers turned back to the river, and once arrived at the white rock on the bank, they decided to camp there for the night and not walk to Fort Pincushion. So they pitched the shelter-tent, built a fire and cooked some game which they had killed on the return trip. Then, after arranging for the watch, those who could “turn in” went to sleep immediately, for their brains were fatigued by the disappointment, even as their bodies were by the physical exertion.

CHAPTER XII.
HARVEY AS A SENTRY.

Harvey was called at two o’clock in the morning, and he posted himself as sentinel under a small tree that grew near the shelter-tent. He had become somewhat accustomed to being rudely awakened and to being alone while the others slept, and now that an attack by Indians was improbable, and it was no longer necessary to strain his sense of hearing that he might note the slightest sound, the novelty of the situation appealed to him.

This night the moon in its third quarter shone from out a cloudless sky, and at the altitude of the great intermontane valley in which they rested, the rays were brighter than at points nearer the sea level, so the river bank and the open country were visible with nearly the distinctness of day.

As the boy walked a few times back and forth, a rifle on his shoulder, then paused for a short rest under the tree, he puzzled his brain to account for their not having found the second white rock. He believed implicitly in the truth of all that Huayno had said, and was confident that not far from where he stood great riches were stored in the ground.

But could they ever locate the mine? It would be a task of years to demolish all those mounds and ascertain which hid the entrance to the old workings; and should it be attempted, others must learn what they were doing on the banks of the Marañon, others would flock to the place with picks and shovels, and among these others some one or two might first find the store of yellow metal.

Thus cogitating he walked closer to the river and stood beneath the great white rock, which shone resplendent in the moonlight, glistening and seeming to be translucent. Studying the strange geological formation attentively, he noticed for the first time that only the side facing up stream and the side facing the woods were white; those facing down stream and the opposite shore were much darker, almost a slate color. This peculiarity had not been remarked, because no member of the party had gone farther down stream. The boy also saw that the rock was several feet from the river and that its lower portion, where the water washed, had turned this same slate color.

He paced slowly back to the tree, meditating on these observations, and endeavoring to solve the reason for the varying of the physical features of the unique landmark. In the midst of this his mind strangely reverted to the time of a dinner party that had been given at his father’s home in Chucuito about six months before, and try as he might he could think of nothing else than this entertainment and the people who were present; then of the conversation that had occurred—and the moment the mind cell that contained the impression left by that conversation opened, he had the solution of the problem which confronted them.

At this dinner Don Isaac Lawton, editor of the South Pacific Times, had been asked to explain the absence of rain on the Peruvian coast-line. He had done so in these words:—

“The absence of rain on the coast is caused by the action of the lofty uplands of the Andes on the trade-wind. The southeast trade-wind blows obliquely across the Atlantic Ocean until it reaches Brazil. By this time it is heavily laden with vapor, which it continues to bear along across the continent, depositing it and supplying the sources of the Amazon and the La Plata. Finally, the trade-wind arrives at the snow-capped Andes, and here the last particle of moisture is wrung from it that the very low temperature can extract. Coming to the summit of that range, it rushes down as a cool and dry wind on the Pacific slopes below. Meeting with no evaporating surface, and with no temperature colder than that to which it is subjected on the mountain tops, this wind joins the south trades and reaches the ocean before it becomes charged with fresh moisture.”

Harvey, recalling this conversation, for it had been imprinted upon his mind, because it was the first explanation he had heard of this Pacific coast phenomenon, began to reason that if the trade-winds blew in a certain direction over Brazil and in a certain direction on the coast, there was undoubtedly a regularity of the wind currents in this intermontane valley. He had noticed since leaving Huari that what breeze stirred, blew in their faces; therefore the general direction of the wind was up stream, or toward the southwest.

That being true, the reason why a portion of the great white rock had turned a slate color was evident—it was weather-stained, and the remaining portion, sheltered from the winds, retained its lustre. At this stage in his reflections he recalled a sentence from his geology: “Alabaster is soluble to a certain extent in water.”

This white rock was high above the river and had not been dissolved by the stream. Its northern portion had undoubtedly been worn by rains, and it was probably not so high as when old Huayno was a young man; still it had been better preserved than if the full force of the stream had been brought to bear upon it.

“What if conditions had been different and the rock had been wave-washed all these years?” Harvey asked, and then answered himself: “It would have been worn down and all sides would have been weather-stained, even as the more exposed portions are.”

In the region of the peculiar mounds they had noticed a depression, and all had agreed that it probably formed the course of a stream during the rainy season. Perhaps the second white rock had stood in this depression; it was undoubtedly not so high as that which was nearer the river, even in old Huayno’s day. What then would have been the natural result of a low rock of alabaster, washed five and six months in the year by swiftly running waters?

Again he answered himself, to the effect that under such circumstances a rock of this description would have been worn down in the eighty years, perhaps almost to a level with the country, and its entire surface would be slate-colored, like the weather-beaten sides of the landmark on the Marañon.

Five minutes later Harvey entered the shelter-tent and awakened Ferguson.

“My turn to stand guard, eh?” said the elder American, as he threw off the blankets and commenced putting on his clothing.

The boy made no answer until he was joined on the outside by the young man; then he said:—

“No, it isn’t your turn, and it won’t be for an hour, but I would like to go into the woods for a little while and don’t wish to leave the camp unguarded.”

“Go into the woods! Are you crazy, lad? Has the moon affected you?”

“I have an idea that I can find the second rock.”

“You have, have you?”

“Yes.” And then he explained his chain of reasoning.

“Now I call that clever,” said Ferguson, “and I believe you have hit the nail on the head. Don’t you want somebody to go with you?”

“No. There’s no danger. I shall carry my shot-gun. Besides, the camp must be guarded, and I don’t want to awaken the other two.”

“Why not?”

“They’ve had their watch; and besides, if I fail, there won’t be so many persons disappointed.”

“Sensible precaution, that.”

“I wish I had Mr. Hope-Jones’s compass.”

“Here it is. He gave it to me in the woods because his pocket is torn.”

“Let me have it, please. Mr. Ferguson, 5280 feet make a mile, do they not?”

“Yes.”

“And one-half of 5280 is 2640?”

“Certainly.”

“I cover about two feet at every step through this broken country, do I not?”

“About that. But what are you driving at? You are the greatest boy to fire questions at one that I ever met.”

“Why, I want to go in the direction old Huayno gave for exactly a half mile, or as near that as possible, and then investigate.”

“Well, take care of yourself, and if anything happens fire a shot and I will hurry to your aid.”

“Good-by.”

“Good luck.”

And the boy disappeared in the timber. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” Harvey counted, and then into the twenties and into the hundreds, thus numbering the steps as he took them in a north direction, guided by the compass needle. He soon lost sight of the camp and of the white rock and was well in the region of the tall trees. He had carried only his shot-gun, the little iron hammer, and the compass. The early morning was cool, the air bracing, and as the moon’s rays gave plenty of light, he made quick progress; but from the start he so regulated his steps that they would not be much over two feet each in length. Whatever addition there might be to that measure he thought would in the total correspond with old Huayno’s idea of a half mile, for the Indian’s estimate had invariably been less than the actual distance.

He had counted one thousand before he stopped to rest; and then the halt was but momentary, more to tighten his belt and shift his shot-gun from one shoulder to the other, than because he was tired. Soon after starting again, he noticed to his satisfaction that he had entered the slight depression which they had observed in the afternoon, and through which it was believed a river ran during the rainy season. Its course there was north to south, where it entered the Marañon. Thus the strength of one link in his theoretical chain had been proven; if the second white rock was directly north from the main river, it undoubtedly stood in the bed of this periodical waterway.

About this time he entered the region of the curious mounds and was able to remain in the little valley, for the waters had washed a way around each, not so deep as the channel, however, proving that a portion of the flow had soaked through the strangely formed hillocks.

At his two-thousandth step the boy noticed that the mounds had increased in size and were closer together. A hundred yards farther they appeared to be merged into one, which was several hundred feet in circumference, and which appeared to be a little table-land, indented by the depression across its surface. At the opposite end from where he had entered the table-land, or rather on the opposite side of the circle, the river-bed swept in an angle to the east.

Perspiration stood in beads on his forehead; his heart beat wildly. Was he right? Was this little table-land, this mound larger than all the others, an elevation at the mouth of the mine? Was the decomposed wood under his feet the remains of trees which had been felled in the greatest number by the Ayulis, because of proximity to the treasure? If these facts were true, then where had the white rock stood? Why, at the point where the river of winter changed its course to the east; that was the most probable point, if the pillar that marked the mine opening bore north from the Marañon, as old Huayno had said.

It took him but a minute to reach this point, and once there he put down his rifle, then commenced to crawl on all fours over the little hillocks with which the big mound was dotted, striking the ground hard blows with his hammer. After having done this for a quarter of an hour or so he stopped, for he was almost out of breath, then when rested he moved to the other side of the depression, at a point a few yards beyond, where it turned east at right angles. There his foot encountered something hard, and throwing himself down, he commenced feverishly to tear aside the vines and creepers that formed a covering. When they were removed he saw a dark brown rock that was covered over with decayed vegetable matter. Scraping this off, the lad made use of his little hammer, and after three or four blows a wonderful thing happened.

As the dirty brown shells of an oyster open and reveal an interior of pearly white, so the breaking of the rock showed a seam that was the color of milk.

Ferguson, standing guard near the Marañon, was wondering what kept Harvey so long and was blaming himself for permitting the lad to enter the woods unaccompanied at such an hour, when his attention was attracted by the crackling of underbrush some distance away, and then the sound of footfalls nearing him rapidly.

“Harvey’s on the run!” he ejaculated. “Wonder if it’s a puma this time, or what?” and swinging his rifle on his shoulder, he started at a double quick to the forest, where he met the boy, hatless and minus his shot-gun, just beyond the first line of trees.

He had no opportunity to make inquiries, for the lad waved a piece of rock the instant he caught sight of him and screamed:—

“I’ve found it! I’ve found it! Look at this! will you?”

It happened that the shelter-tent had not been erected in a very secure manner the evening before, for all hands had been too tired and discouraged; they had used a very thin piece of wood for a centre-pole. Therefore the result of a wild rush under the canvas by Ferguson and Harvey, both anxious to tell the cheering news, was the collapse of the cloth structure, and in the entangling folds three men and a boy were soon struggling. To add to the confusion, Hope-Jones, who had been dreaming of the Majeronas, imagined an attack was on, and reaching out for the fancied opponent nearest him, he commenced pommelling Ferguson lustily. The elder American, who was so imprisoned by the canvas that he could not defend himself, might have been seriously injured had not Señor Cisneros rolled himself free, and dragged the bellicose Englishman away. He then freed the others, and as Harvey was still breathing heavily, after the wild dash through the woods, he drew the boy to him, believing he had been injured.

“No, I’m not hurt,” exclaimed the lad, panting. “Look, I have found the white rock over there in the woods! Here’s a piece that I chipped off,” and he exhibited the specimen of alabaster, to which he had held firmly.

Hope-Jones, who by this time had come to his senses, gave a yell of joy, and the captain, jumping to his feet, caught Harvey by the shoulders in an embrace, then urged him to relate the details of his exploration.

Of course there was no thought of attempting to sleep again that night; they did not even straighten up the shelter-tent. Hope-Jones and Ferguson favored starting at once in search of the treasure, but the captain said it would be wiser first to eat breakfast. “Besides,” he added, “Harvey needs some rest.”

So they built a fire and soon were enjoying tin cups of hot coffee and some broiled duck’s meat—for the captain had snared wild fowl the evening before and had prepared it while on watch.

Although the moon was setting when the start was made from the camp, they pushed on quickly, for their watches told them that in another half hour dawn would come; and when at last they reached the large centre mound and the point where Harvey had found the second white rock, a gray light was penetrating the woods.

Three happy men, and a boy who was even happier, sat around the camp-fire on the banks of the river Marañon that evening.

“You say the quartz is the richest you ever saw?” asked Harvey.

“Yes, it is,” and the captain lifted one of the many pieces they had brought from the mine as samples, and all looked at it for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

“How long do you think we had better remain here?” Ferguson inquired.

“Perhaps a fortnight. That will give us ample time in which to explore the property and stake it off.”

Another member of the camp was a friendly Ayuli Indian, who had appeared on the bank as they emerged from the wood. He with others had been driven far from his village by the marauding band of Majeronas before the latter’s encounter with the white men, and he was making a long detour on his return. They had detained him over night and on the morrow intended sending him with letters to Huari, from where they would be forwarded to Chicla and then to Callao.

CHAPTER XIII.
BELLA CACERAS RECOGNIZES A VOICE.

One evening early in November, 1879, several persons met at the home of John Dartmoor in Chucuito, a suburb in Callao.

From La Punta, a seaside resort, had come Captain and Mrs. Saunders, with their sons, Carl and Harold, the first-named a boy who was just graduating from his teens and the latter a much younger lad. Carl was the chum of Louis Dartmoor, Harvey’s elder brother; and these three, Carl, Louis, and Harvey, had experienced many adventures in Callao Bay together. Another adult guest was Don Isaac Lawton, a courtly British colonial, editor of the South Pacific Times, a man greatly esteemed by both Mr. Dartmoor and Captain Saunders, indeed by all the American and English residents of Peru.

A younger visitor was Bella Caceras, whose name has appeared in earlier chapters. Seated beside her on a couch in the little parlor this evening was Rosita Dartmoor, whose strong resemblance to her Peruvian mother was as marked as was her younger brother’s resemblance to his American father.

A dinner had preceded the social evening, and the occasion of the gathering was to celebrate Rosita’s fifteenth birthday. One who did not know how rapidly girls mature in these South American countries would have thought her several years older; indeed, in the United States she would readily have passed for a miss of eighteen or nineteen, and so would Bella Caceras, who was Rosita’s age. Both girls wore long skirts, and in Peru they were considered old enough to enter society. This winter would have witnessed their début, had it not been for the circumstances of the times preventing the social entertainments that for years had marked Lima and Callao as gay cities of the West Coast.

Peru, in this November of 1879, was a nation of mourning, a country plunged in despair. Eight months before she had taken up arms against Chile, to prevent the latter’s seizure of land to the south which was rich in nitrate of soda. Entering the contest with a well-equipped army and with a navy that was deemed by many the equal of the enemy’s, she had met a series of reverses that were disheartening, and in this early summer month—the seasons below the equator are the reverse of those to the north—it was evident that the country’s doom was sealed, and that any day a conquering army might move from the south and besiege the capital.

Fate had been unkind to the northern republic. One month after hostilities had commenced, the largest war-ship, the Independencia, had been lost on a reef near Iquique while in pursuit of a little Chilean gunboat that was hardly worthy the capture. In October, the Huascar, a turret-ship of great power, had been surrounded off Point Angamos, while steaming north, by nearly all the ships of the Chilean fleet and had been captured after a bitter engagement, but not until nearly one-half of her crew had been killed and she had been set on fire in several places.

It was during this engagement that Grau, admiral of the Peruvian navy, had been killed; and that is why Bella Caceras was in mourning, for he was her uncle. The loss of the Huascar had cast a gloom over all Peru, and the despair was heightened a few weeks later by the news that the gunboat Pilcomayo had been captured.

Meanwhile revolution had left its scar upon the country. Prado, the president, had fled to Europe, and an attempt by his ministers to form a government had been resisted by Don Nicolas de Pierola, who with a force of mountain men and some army and navy officers, who flocked to his standard, had attacked the palace in Lima, which they had captured after a bitter struggle; and as a result, Pierola was at this time dictator of Peru. The land forces had not been more successful than had the maritime. Reverses had been met in the south, and orders had been given to concentrate troops in the vicinity of Lima, to take part in the defence of the capital; for now that the Peruvian navy had been nearly annihilated, the ocean highway was clear, and it was possible for Chile to move transports as she wished.

Callao was the one strong point in the country. Defended by large modern guns in the castles, in the Chucuito forts, at Los Baños and at La Punta, the city was pronounced able to withstand any bombardment. But a blockade! That was what the residents feared, for with a cordon of ships in the offing commerce could not be maintained; supplies of food from the north and south and supplies from Europe, upon which the residents greatly depended, would cease.

As yet no Chilean ships had appeared off the port, except to reconnoitre, but rumors came from the enemy’s country that a squadron for blockade duty was forming, and more heartrending than all was the report that machinists were busy on the Huascar, putting her in trim, and that she would form one of the fleet. At this news Peruvians gnashed their teeth with rage.

It would be bad enough to have the ironclads Blanco Encalada and Almirante Cochrane dominate the sea within their sight, but to be compelled to witness a little turret-ship, once the pride of the Peruvian navy, steam near San Lorenzo island at the entrance to the harbor, flying the lone star flag of the enemy, would be the last drop in the bitter cup.

The gloom which overspread the country had little part in John Dartmoor’s home on this evening. They were all very happy, for any day they were expecting the return of Harvey from the interior, and a letter received from him had told them that his mission had been successful, even beyond their most fanciful expectations.

It was only the extreme of circumstances that had influenced Mr. Dartmoor to let his younger son undertake this hazardous trip. At the time of the lad’s departure he had believed he could postpone the evil day for several months, but a few weeks later came the news of the naval engagement off Point Angamos and the defeat of the Huascar, which caused a financial panic in Callao and Lima, and among the many forced to the wall was the American iron merchant.

He bravely faced the storm and was ably assisted by his wife and children, who cheerfully accustomed themselves to the new life that was made necessary. They gave up their handsome home and moved into a little cottage; Mrs. Dartmoor yielded her jewels, that more money might be paid their creditors; Rosita denied herself the pleasures which her father’s wealth in former years had enabled her to enjoy, and Louis, believing that he should no longer be a burden at home, secured a position as purser’s clerk on one of the steamers of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company.

A fortnight before this evening the same persons had met at Mr. Dartmoor’s home to bid good-by to Louis, who had planned to sail on the morrow, and while they were gathered in the little parlor a clerk had arrived from the ship chandler’s, where Mr. Dartmoor had found temporary employment, and had brought a letter received late in the afternoon. It was from Harvey, and the lad had written:—

“Dear Ones at Home: I have found it, or rather we have found it. The mine is here, just where the old Inca said it would be found. Mr. Ferguson, who is somewhat versed in such matters, says that millions are buried. From the study that I have had, I know that our assays have shown twenty-five per cent gold to seventy-five per cent gross.