THE MYSTERY BOYS
AND THE
INCA GOLD

By VAN POWELL

Author of
“The Mystery Boys Series,” etc.

THE
WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.
Cleveland, Ohio New York City

Copyright, 1931
by
THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO.

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [A Dead Letter Comes to Life] 5 II. [The Mystery Boys Add a Member] 13 III. [Gold, and a Life At Stake] 21 IV. [“Quipu Bill”] 30 V. [The Chums Prove Their Mettle] 39 VI. [A New Mystery Develops] 49 VII. [Cliff Tries a Ruse] 59 VIII. [The Outcome] 67 IX. [Ambushed!] 78 X. [The Hidden City] 89 XI. [“Chasca, Hailli!”] 98 XII. [Cliff Faces a Problem] 114 XIII. [The Games] 123 XIV. [Gold, and a Surprise] 131 XV. [The Feast of Raymi] 139 XVI. [The Mystery Boys Hold Council] 147 XVII. [From Bad to Worse] 154 XVIII. [Tit For Tat] 163 XIX. [Huamachaco’s Secret] 174 XX. [On the Temple Steps] 179 XXI. [Rats in a Trap] 184 XXII. [The Temple of the Sun] 189 XXIII. [Chasca Appears Again] 196 XXIV. [The Inca Speaks] 202 XXV. [Tom’s Adventure] 207 XXVI. [Into the Dungeons] 213 XXVII. [Beasts of Burden] 221 XXVIII. [“Can We Get There in Time?”] 229 XXIX. [At the Cistern] 236 XXX. [A Fortune by Misfortune] 244 XXXI. [Cliff Becomes a Prophet] 253 XXXII. [The Andes Close Their Jaws] 258 XXXIII. [No Way Out?] 264 XXXIV. [Huayca Plays Decoy] 269 XXXV. [Folded Arms] 278

THE MYSTERY BOYS
AND THE INCA GOLD

CHAPTER I
A DEAD LETTER COMES TO LIFE

The whole mysterious affair puzzled Cliff. To have those queer strangers appear suddenly at Aunt Lucy’s with their unusual questions threw him a little off his stride.

“No,” he answered the stocky Spaniard with the crafty, shifty eyes, “I did not get a letter from Peru. Who wrote it? Is it from my father? How do you know about it?”

While the Spaniard interpreted the answer to his companion Cliff studied them both. If the tall, stalwart man with copper skin and piercing eyes was not an Indian, Cliff had never seen a truthful picture of one. He wore European clothes but he was not at his ease in them. While he listened to the queer language which the Spaniard used he kept his eyes boring Cliff and Cliff saw that his denial was not believed.

Copper-skin muttered something and the Spaniard turned again to Cliff.

“You not get letter? Mi amigo, my friend, say it mail ‘nine, ten week’ ago.”

“I can’t help that,” Cliff declared, “It hasn’t come. Who is it from—my father?” Cliff had not heard from his father in nearly five years: naturally he was anxious about the scholar who studied ancient civilizations and who had gone to Peru to write a book about the Incas.

“Letter from man you not know.” The Spaniard was very impressive; he spoke slowly, “When it come you not open it. You give to us pronto! We pay much money.”

“Why?” demanded Cliff, “What is in the letter?”

The Spaniard turned and began exchanging words with the Indian. Cliff, sitting with his chums, Nicky and Tom, on Aunt Lucy’s cottage porch, looked at his friends helplessly. They, staring with wide eyes, showed plainly that they could not help him with his puzzle. A letter from Peru; from a man he did not know! It must be delivered to these strangers unopened. They would pay well for it. Why? What was it all about?

Clifford Gray was as clean-cut a youth of fifteen as any of the several hundred who attended Amadale Military Academy, in this suburb of a thriving mid-Western city. He was not handsome but he had clear, direct, observant eyes, a firm, almost stubborn chin and a cheerful grin; his body was well built and kept in splendid trim by much athletic activity. That he was calm, cool, in full control of his finely muscled arms was proved on the day that the Amadale baseball pitcher “blew up” in the fourth inning of an important game, letting two runs come in and filling two bases by “walking” a pair of the opposing team; Cliff went in to pitch, with one man out. After two wild balls that clipped the corner of the plate, he surprised the confident batsman with swift pitches which rapped the catcher’s glove as the bat swung, and fine, teasing curves that broke just too soon to be hit. After holding the opposing runs where they were for the next five innings he drove in the tying run and himself scored the needed one to win and became a hero in Amadale.

He lived with his Aunt Lucy because his father traveled in distant lands, studying old ruins for his histories of ancient people. Aunt Lucy took a few “boarders” and mothered the boys without coddling them. Among her “boarders” Tom and Nicky were favorites. Tom was a quiet, thoughtful youth just a month older than Cliff; Nicky, talkative and full of spirits, was the youngest of the trio. All three were drawn together by a common bond; each had a mystery in his life. Cliff’s mystery seemed in a fair way to become very much alive.

The Spaniard and his companion had reached some agreement. Cliff, his eyes missing nothing, his brain alert, surmised from the stocky foreigner’s shifting glance that he was about to say something either wholly or partly untrue.

“I tell you,” he stated to Cliff, “it look to you—how you say!—funny, eh? I make you see.

“Mi amigo—this friend, he live in Quito, that place was once great Peruvian city of Inca people.” Cliff nodded. He knew something about Quito, capital of an empire conquered by the Incas before the Spaniards, in their turn, conquered them.

“Si! Si. You sabe Quito. White man come there—five year’ ago. Ask this amigo to guide to old ruins.”

“My father!” declared Cliff, eagerly, while Tom and Nicky sat forward on the porch swing, intent and excited.

“Quien sabe—who knows? I think yes. This man agree to take white man to old ruins in cordillerras—mountains! They stop in village where is—how you say?—festival of wedding.

“White man get very drunk. He have fight and shoot natives.”

To Cliff that did not ring true; his father was a quiet man, not the sort to take much wine or to use firearms except in self defense. However, he said nothing.

“One native die,” went on the Spaniard, “Others very angry. Put white man in prison. He think they kill him. He write letter and ask this friend of me, here, to escape away and send letter. This man must swim in river to escape. Water make the address of letter so it is not to send.” He made a gesture of smudging ink and flung out his hands to indicate helplessness.

“This friend not know what to do. He not read. He put letter away and forget. He learn after ‘while the white man kill’ by natives.”

Cliff was saddened by the story, even though he had no proof that it really concerned his father. Tom and Nicky looked sorrowful and sympathetic.

“Ten week ago,” the Spaniard continued, “this man see another white man in mountains, make hunt for the place of gold mining.”

“A prospector,” Nicky interrupted. Cliff nodded.

“This man ask white man about letter, what to do. I am in camp with white man, Americano. But I not read letter. Other one do that and grin and laugh and take new envelop’ and put on address from inside letter. He go away and mail at Cuzco.

“Then——” he was very impressive. “He tell me letter say this friend of me is one who lead other white man to death!”

That explained why they were so anxious to see the letter, of course. It might not be a letter from his father—but who else in Peru knew him or knew his address? But his father would not get into a brawl. Perhaps he did write that he was led into danger. In that case the Indian was guilty of it.

“The letter has not arrived,” Cliff repeated.

“Maybe it went to the Dead Letter Office,” Nicky suggested. “Maybe the other fellow didn’t address it right.”

The Spaniard did not interpret this; evidently he did not understand, not being familiar with American postal systems.

“White man dead—not letter” he corrected. Cliff smiled.

“We can’t do anything until it comes,” he said, “Then——”

“You give to us?” eagerly. “You not open. We pay——”

“I won’t promise anything like that,” Cliff shook his head, Tom and Nicky doing likewise. “But I will promise not to open it until you are here. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

When the Spaniard had interpreted, his companion said something that made the interpreter laugh with a vicious glint in his eyes.

At the same instant Nicky laid an excited hand on Cliff’s arm. All of them saw the direction of his intent gaze and turned to look.

The postman was coming along the suburban street, chatting with this one and that one as he delivered mail. His mission was clear to the foreigners and they stood waiting, tense and eager. Those were mild poses compared to the suspense of the three chums. They almost trembled in their excitement.

At their gate their jolly letter carrier waved something at Cliff.

“I declare,” Cliff, eyes fixed on him, heard him banter. “How did you ever get you a girl so far away? Why, it would cost you a year’s allowance to go and call on her!”

He skimmed a fat missive toward the porch. Cliff ran half way down the steps and caught it. From above him, the others stared. There was no mistaking that unusual stamp.

The letter was from Peru.

CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERY BOYS ADD A MEMBER

As Cliff came up the steps with his Peruvian letter both strangers acted together; each made a grab. Cliff stopped.

“Look here!” he challenged, “You wait until I open this!”

He put the letter behind him. They saw that on the steps he was in a position to turn and elude them. Retreating a step the Spaniard nodded and the Indian stood aside, his arms folded. Tom and Nicky were already beside Cliff, ready to help him.

Flanking him they accompanied him as he mounted to the porch and faced the men. The chums formed a tableau; it might have been called “United we stand.”

But they held the pose for only an instant! As they passed him the Indian, with catlike agility, moved back and then stepped down to the point Cliff had just vacated. He, then, was on the steps. They saw that they had lost a point of strategic advantage for the Indian blocked the way of escape to the yard.

Cliff, about to strip open the letter, paused.

“What are you trying to do?” he demanded.

He discovered the answer at once. The Spaniard made a spring toward Cliff, hand reaching, fingers clutching at the letter. The Indian opened his arms to block any leap toward the steps and Cliff saw that he was almost trapped. But not quite!

Nicky stuck out a foot to trip the springing man. Tom made a tackle but the Spaniard swerved. That swerve enabled Cliff to snatch away the letter. Like a shot Cliff stepped backward, turned and in several quick strides reached the cottage door. He swung it open, dashed in, slammed the door. The Spaniard, baffled, said something under his breath and paused.

Tom and Nicky promptly executed a backward movement that drew them up, side by side, before the door. Both aggressors stared and showed that they were baffled.

Cliff appeared at the sitting room window which he lifted.

“You just cool down until I see what is in this that you are so afraid to have me see,” he exclaimed.

The Spaniard, however, seemed to have recovered. There were neighbors, perhaps some of them were watching. Whatever was to be done must be done at the instant. He muttered something to the Indian and made a spring toward the window. He caught the lower edge before Cliff could slam it down, gave Cliff a push. The young man stumbled back and caught his foot on a chair; he saved a backward fall only by supple contortion.

At the same time Nicky and Tom sprang from the door to catch the Spaniard but found their coat collars in the powerful grip of the copper colored one behind them. He swung them off their balance and started to run them toward the steps, backward, scratching, clawing, trying to break his hold.

As Cliff recovered himself, still clinging to his letter he saw the man scramble into the room. He made a fresh clutch at the envelope but Cliff sent it spinning into a corner, then felt powerful fingers grasp his arm.

At the same time a small automobile turned into the street. Nicky shouted, “Mr. Whitley!” as Tom, fighting ferociously, tore loose from his captor. He made a stroke but the Indian flung them both away at the top of the steps and vaulted the porch rail at one end with a shout as the car brakes screamed and the tires smoked. Before the car was at a standstill its occupant, his strong face set and intent, was coming with long strides up the path.

“Let him go,” Tom called as the rescuer swerved to pursue the Indian. Tom saved Nicky a nasty fall down the steps and turned to see how Cliff was faring, shouting to the newcomer to come with him. Nicky, catching his equilibrium, went with them through the cottage door.

Within, Cliff was striving to hold back while his captor, who clung to Cliff as Cliff clung to him, pulled steadily and surely to where he could reach for the letter on the floor.

Cliff felt that he must act swiftly; he heard the noise on the porch but could not tell what had happened. He used a jui-jitsu trick taught him by a young Japanese student at Amadale, and the Spaniard, with a muttered word, crumpled for an instant; it was enough; Cliff had caught the letter and put the table between them by the time his adversary was up.

He was trapped; Cliff blocked the window; three were entering the door. Nevertheless, with a final, futile snatch at the object in Cliff’s hand, the Spaniard caught up a chair and sent it sidewise against the legs of his advancing attackers; in their scuffle and scramble he avoided them, got to the door and was gone before they could right themselves.

“Don’t chase him,” Cliff panted. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Whitley. Everything is all right. They wanted this letter—but they did not get it!”

They all observed one another. Mr. Whitley was the youngest instructor at Amadale; he taught history and was a great friend of Cliff. His method of teaching made him popular with all the youths and boys at the Academy. His classes were more like round-a-camp-fire gatherings, with chats and anecdotes, than like cold, matter-of-fact history lessons. The boys all liked and respected Mr. John Whitley. He was hardly more than twenty-four and had a companionable manner and clear honest eyes. His sense of fairness made him mark examinations so justly that no student ever complained of favoritism.

“What is it all about?” he asked, “If that is any of my affair.”

Cliff promptly began to tell about the arrival of the two men, their strange question followed by the coming of the letter.

And while he talked he began to make signs that were not noticeable to anyone who did not understand them. In actual fact his gestures were part of the secret signs of an order to which the three chums had pledged themselves. They could carry on communication that each understood but without giving away to others the secrets they discussed.

Thus, when Cliff scratched his ear with the middle finger of his left hand, he called for a secret council; when his chums folded their arms quietly it signified that they understood and that the lodge was convened.

Cliff talked to Mr. Whitley, told him everything up to the rescue. In the meanwhile he had appealed to his chums to judge the advisability of admitting Mr. Whitley to their secrets. Nicky, who was more excitable than Tom, forgot that they were carrying on their communication secretly.

“Make him take the oath—and—and everything!” he cried.

Naturally, unaware that they had decided to accept him, Mr. Whitley was surprised at Nicky’s cry. Cliff explained.

“We have a secret order that we call The Mystery Boys!” he said, “we can talk together by signals so no one else understands. Each one of us has a mystery and that is why we formed the order. I don’t know what became of my father, since he went to Peru, and Tom’s sister has been missing for years, and Nicky has an old cipher in his family. These mysteries kind of drew us together and we formed ourselves into a band——”

“‘The Mystery Boys!’” broke in Nicky.

“We have secret signs so that we can carry on a conversation right in front of you—as we just did while I told you some things,” Cliff explained, “you see, Mr. Whitley, we have sworn not to tell our secrets to anyone who was not under the Oath of the Oracle——‘by the sacred Emblem’,” he quoted, “‘Seeing All, I see nothing; Knowing All, I know nothing; Telling All, I tell nothing!’”

“I don’t quite see,” began the mystified instructor—what this has to do with the two men, he would have added, but Tom spoke up.

“We have decided that we need your help,” he said, “we have talked it over together and we want you to know all about Cliff’s mystery and advise us—but we can’t break our oath.”

“Oh! That clears it all up. Very well. I am willing to help Cliff, that is certain. If I have to promise things and join your order, I am willing. But can we not dispense with all but the promises just now and discover what is in that letter?”

“Let’s!” urged Cliff, “I want to see what it is.”

“Well——‘On the Sacred Emblem’——” Mr. Whitley, who had a good memory, repeated the oath solemnly, his hand on a curiously cut Egyptian scarab, the sacred beetle of the ancient Egyptian mysteries which Cliff produced from among his father’s collection in a cabinet.

“Now,” he added, “let’s see the letter, Cliff.”

CHAPTER III
GOLD, AND A LIFE AT STAKE

Cliff was quite as anxious as the others to see what the envelope from Peru contained; he slit it and drew out two folded papers.

While the others watched eagerly he glanced hastily at one paper and crammed it into his pocket as he opened the second.

“It is!” he cried, “It is from my father!”

They crowded closer and urged him to read it aloud. The letter, after the address, fortunately placed there so that the destination was known even when its outer cover was spoiled in the river, was amazing.

“Dear Son and dear Lucy:

“If you ever receive this it will be fond love and farewell.

“I am in a city in the most inaccessible valley of the Andes. When the Spaniards conquered Peru some Incas and their subjects fled here and set up a city. I have tried for over four years to get away but there is no place where the cliffs can be climbed.

“When first I went to Quito I saved a native who was very ill. In gratitude he told me of this hidden city and even guided me to a mountain where a glimpse of it was possible; but he would not help me to enter the valley. When I said I must explore and study it he deserted me. Later I lowered myself with a rope and found a city of the old Inca sort, filled with gold.”

“In the old Inca empire, before the Spanish looted it,” Mr. Whitley broke in, “gold was so plentiful that it was used for dishes, utensils, ornaments, even for decorating their temples to the sun, which they worshipped as a god—but go on, Cliff.”

Cliff finished the letter without further interruption.

“It is a perfect treasure land. But, though there is a way in, there is no way out. The natives are kind but they took away my rope; they do not want me to escape and bring the outside world to their hidden place.

“Being anxious to explain my absence I have trained and tamed a young eagle and I am fastening this to its leg in the remote chance that it may be found when I release him.

“If so, dear son Cliff—and sister Lucy—goodbye. I am very ill and fear I may not get better.

“Your loving “Father and Brother.”

“My!” exclaimed Nicky, “but people get well, Cliff,” as he saw the depression in his chum’s face.

“The Spaniard told a different story,” Tom said, thoughtfully, “I think he wanted to get this for the Indian, to prevent you from learning where your father is. The Incas may be afraid you will try to go there.”

“I would,” Cliff said eagerly, “If——” ruefully “——I had any money and knew where it was.”

“What was the other paper?” Mr. Whitley inquired.

Cliff had forgotten it; he drew it from his pocket and read it aloud. It was in the same handwriting that the envelope bore, and was in a style totally different from his father’s letter.

Cliff, reading its clipped sentences slowly, began to tremble with excitement. When he finished and looked around he saw in the faces about him eagerness, hope, wistfulness.

The letter read:

“Clifford Gray; Sir:

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But I think we will know each other.

“I caught a tame eaglet and found your pa’s letter. There was a map, too. It was to show how he got to where he went into the valley.

“I kept the map. Tell you why. I went to the place and saw the valley. I am a prospector and know these cordillerras.

“Reason I kept the map is I want to be with you if you go to find your pa. If you don’t it’s not any use to you anyhow. If you do I can help.

“What I want is some of that Inca gold. Not a lot. Enough to settle down, buy a ranch, live easy. I will be in Cuzco at the Tambo Atahualpa—that means Atahualpa hotel, for a while, till I hear from you. Let me know. With you and a couple more I could find your father and we could get him out.

“Signed respectfully, “Quipu Bill Sanders.”

“Oh—if we could!” Cliff said. It was clear that his comrades felt exactly as he did.

Mr. Whitley was very thoughtful. While the trio discussed possibilities and re-read the two letters time after time, he sat without saying anything. Finally he looked up.

“See here,” he told them, “you have made me a member of your secret order and asked for advice.” They nodded eagerly.

“I think,” he went on, “that if your relatives would let you go with me, it would be an instructive and an interesting trip.”

The chums agreed with that quite heartily. But how?—where was money to come from?

“I have been given some money recently. I inherited it,” Mr. Whitley informed them, “I will be glad to advance the amount for expenses. If we find Cliff’s father and rescue him I shall feel that the money is well spent.”

“And there is the treasure!” Nicky exclaimed.

“Yes,” John Whitley agreed. There began an eager discussion of what they would do with their shares; but the young history instructor became rather serious.

“I am not so sure that we will try to get the treasure,” he told them. Their faces fell, but they did not argue.

“You see,” he went on, “we aren’t going to be thieves. That treasure is the Incas’ own; it isn’t like buried gold. Of course, the people have taken a white man prisoner, and perhaps if we find it wise to take enough away from them to reimburse us for the expenses, it would not be dishonest.”

“I agree with you,” Cliff declared, “anyway, if we do find my father——” a hope which his chums eagerly echoed, “——he will be able to get all the royalties from his other books, which the publishers have held back, not knowing what to do, and only giving me enough to pay expenses. He will share with us all. My father is that kind of man!”

They were quite satisfied. The adventure would be sufficient as Tom put it.

Eager were their plans. Lists of things to take were made; plentiful discussions ensued, even amounting almost to arguments, for Nicky wanted a full arsenal of weapons, and enough ammunition to load down a mule. But he gave it up, for Cliff, from a study of his father’s notes for part of his book, assured them that the Incas were not very warlike or cruel. They were not like the Mexican Aztecs, who, in days past, had been cruel and harsh. The Incas, he said, were rather gentle, making war only in self defense, or to add territory when it was essential to their growth of empire.

Cliff, from his studies, conceived a great plan. Mr. Whitley agreed that it would be worth trying. What it was, and how it would work out, only time could tell; but it was so well thought of that some special articles were included in their supplies in order that they could use Cliff’s method of entry into the country.

“Of course that means if you boys go beyond Cuzco with us,” John Whitley said, when he had secured parents’ consent to the adventure and had given promises to avoid danger. The chums felt very certain that they would go well beyond Cuzco, old Inca city, once capital of their vast empire.

In time goodbyes were said, final promises made, handkerchiefs waved from a departing train. The day spent in New York was a delight to the chums, and so was the embarkation on the great white fruit liner which would take them southward.

They laughed when, soon after the boat sailed, great clusters of bananas were placed within easy reach of passengers; that was a custom on the liners and it made the tropics seem very real and quite close already. The days of their voyage to the Panama Canal were spent in studying some books of Inca lore, and in working out better systems of signals for the Mystery Boys’ order.

The passage through the Canal, the visit to one of its huge mechanically worked locks, the sights of the strange mingling of East and West in Panama City, added zest to the trip.

Then, tracing the route taken by the original Spanish caravels, they turned, as Nick said, “down the map,” along the South American coast, and landed at Lima, in Peru, where Mr. Whitley wanted to locate an old acquaintance of his college days and get more information and a proper set of ancient Inca costumes, if possible, for use in Cliff’s plan.

They found the city a thriving one and spent pleasant days there. The journey to Cuzco seemed almost endless, so eager were they. But, like all things that depend on time, the trip was eventually completed and the chums, hardly able to speak for their suppressed excitement, saw the first glimpses of what Cliff termed “The Gateway to Adventure”—Cuzco!

CHAPTER IV
“QUIPU BILL”

Romance! Adventure. To Cliff, Tom and Nicky the ancient capital city of the Inca empire was built on those two words.

Not that Cuzco, when they reached it, had any of its old treasures; Spanish invaders had stripped it centuries before. But the memory was there among the ruins.

The native Peruvian Indians—over whom the Incas had ruled, for the Incas were a superior tribe which governed its subjects kindly but firmly—these natives were shiftless, poor and inclined to be lazy.

But to the three adventurers, with their imaginations fired by what Cliff had read and what Mr. Whitley had told them on the boats, Cuzco still echoed to the tramp of armies carrying bows and arrows, swords and light shields; the great square shook again to the shouts of hosts gathered for ceremonies and feasting in the rites of their worship of the Sun.

“It is certainly interesting,” declared Cliff, as they stood near the stripped temple which had once rivaled in splendor any other place of worship ever built. “The gold cornice is gone and so is the silver and so are the emeralds and ornaments. But we can imagine them. And notice how perfectly the edges of these stones are ground and fitted and matched.”

“How big they are, too,” Nicky added, “tons, some of them must weigh. The Incas had no beasts of burden to haul things—how they ever got these stones cut and shaped and hauled here and lifted into place—it is too much for me.”

“Patience and time did it,” Tom said, “I believe they say it took fifty thousand men twenty years and more to build one great palace or temple.”

“With their hands—and without iron tools,” Cliff added, “they mixed some tin with copper and made an alloy that they could make almost as hard as steel. But their roads and their aqueducts and their buildings all took labor and plenty of it.”

“Isn’t it time we started for the hotel?” Tom glanced at his watch, “Quipu Bill Sanders is to come to see us at four.”

They agreed and turned to retrace their way around the ruin.

As they rounded a corner Cliff, in the lead, stopped sharply, in surprise. While there was one chance in a thousand that they should encounter the very Indian who had been with the Spaniard in Amadale, it was certain that the fellow into whom Cliff had almost banged had turned and seemed to stiffen when he saw them.

He stood facing a slender fellow, almost a boy, whose well developed leg muscles made Cliff think of a runner. With a swift word under his breath as the trio of chums stared, the Indian sent the youth off; and he was a runner and no mistake. He went lightly but with almost incredible speed down the road. The stalwart Indian paid no attention to Cliff but hastened away.

“Do you think he was——?” Nicky whispered.

“He jumped,” Tom replied.

“Ought we to follow him?” Nicky wondered.

Cliff thought not. The runner was gone, the Indian might have been surprised to see white youths turn suddenly into view. Cliff could see no advantage to be gained by following.

They crossed the square to enter one of the four straight avenues which quartered the city. Cuzco was beautifully laid out, every ancient street as straight as if made by a surveyer’s lines. Presently they reached the “tambo” or inn.

Bill Sanders was already there: he and John Whitley were in the courtyard around which all the rooms opened. Bill was squatted on his heels, cowboy fashion, with a knife in his hand, idly whittling a stick.

As he saw them and stood up they saw that he was tall and very thin; so thin, in fact, that he looked more like an underfed man than a tough, sinewy, sturdy mountaineer. However his skin was brown with healthy exposure and his grip, when they shook hands, made Nicky wince a little.

Quipu Bill Sanders had the eyes of a fox and the courage of a lion; and he was cunning, too; but his cunning was not the stealthy, wicked sort.

“You know who I am,” he greeted. “Let’s see if I know which of you is which.”

Cliff, who had discovered a little skein of colored yarn at the roadside near the inn entrance and who had paused to glance at it and slip it aimlessly in his pocket as some decorative native object about which he would ask later, came forward at once.

“You’re Cliff,” said Bill. “The others stood back for you. And this is Tom—because he sort of fits his name, for he looks quiet and has a manly grip. Of course there’s only Nicky left so this must be Nicky.”

They smiled at his deduction and felt as though they had known him for a long time, he was so easy to meet. He already called Mr. Whitley by his first name, insisted they call him Bill, and alluded to them as “comrade” or “comrade Cliff.”

“How is it you are called ‘Quipu’ Bill?” Nicky asked at once.

Bill squatted and began work on his stick again.

“The Incas didn’t have any alphabet or writing to keep their records and history,” Bill answered, “Nor any stone carvings such as you see in Egypt. When they wanted to send a message or make a record, or even figure up accounts, they used wool yarn of different colors and wove it together with different knots. The colors meant something and so did the placing of the knots and the number and the way they were made.

“They called these records or messages ‘quipus’ and a fellow who understood them, could make them and read them, was a ‘quipucamayu.’”

“And you studied and got to be one of them,” Nicky guessed.

“Yep! So I shortened it down to just the name of the yarn message.”

“Were they like this? Isn’t this one?” asked Cliff, recalling what he had found. He produced it. Bill nodded.

“That’s one. Where did you get it?”

Cliff told him. Bill dropped his stick and became suddenly mighty serious.

“Why—look here! This is queer. This thing is a message about two grown men and some children and mountains and the snowy pass—and war—or ambush——”

He began to study the short woven length with its knotted strands and its weave of colors, some white, a bit of red and other colors mingled.

Then he looked up as he saw Tom’s eyes turn toward the road, visible from the courtyard. They all looked. A youth—it might be the one they had seen before—was searching. He went along, head bent low, eyes on the road, turning from side to side.

Bill rose, dropping the quipu carelessly into his left coat pocket. Cliff, who was always observant, noted it though he paid little attention, being too busy wondering what Bill meant to do.

He went to the road and called. The youth turned, came back to him. There was a brief exchange of words, too far away to be heard. Then Bill put a hand in his pocket, drew out an object of woven yarn. The boyish fellow almost snatched it and while Bill called and pretended to be very angry the boy dashed out of sight and Bill strolled back to the party.

“For Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Mr. Whitley, appearing exasperated. “You gave him that quipu.”

“I gave him that quipu—yep.”

“But—with the Spaniard visiting America to forestall that letter and with our lads seeing the Indian give that runner a quipu—don’t you see that the message might have been about us?”

Bill nodded. “It all hooks up. It likely was,” he agreed.

John Whitley stared, as did Nicky and Tom. Was this new acquaintance as much on their side as he claimed to be?

“Wasn’t that the same boy you saw?” John Whitley inquired.

“It was, sir,” Nicky answered. “He had a bright yellow thing-umjig on his head.”

Bill whittled one side of his stick to satiny smoothness. “Now I don’t know your mind and you don’t know mine,” he said, “But——”

“Wait!” broke in Cliff. “You dropped that quipu into your left hand pocket, Bill. I think—I’m sure—I saw you take what you gave him out of the other side of your coat.”

Bill grinned approval. “Right as can be,” he agreed. “I had picked up an old quipu in my diggings to show you fellows and that’s the one I gave him.” He showed them the other one, still where he had dropped it in his pocket. “He’s taking—to whoever he’s sent to find—a quipu that has a history or record of how a great sky god, or courtier of the Sun-god that they worship—of how this Chasca came to earth and brought great peace and prosperity to the Inca people.”

“Why, that fits in with my plan!” exclaimed Cliff.

“So it does,” said Mr. Whitley.

They had a long discussion. Bill told them that he “figured” that the Indian who had been with the Spaniard had been sent out from the hidden city to try and prevent the letter from being delivered.

“They must have learned about it,” he said, “and guess they tried to stop it. Then, when they failed, they let us come on down here, where we are, in a way of speaking, right in their hands——”

“That means that Cuzco is as far as our young chums will go,” said Mr. Whitley seriously. The youthful faces became downcast. “I promised not to take you into danger,” continued their Captain, as Bill named him, “and so Cuzco will be your stopping place.” There was no argument. The Captain’s word was law.

But events were to compel a change in Mr. Whitley’s ideas.

CHAPTER V
THE CHUMS SHOW THEIR METTLE

In Cuzco, while final plans were made and supplies were being assembled, the chums were free, for several days, to explore. Bill had shown them their map, which he had kept out of Mr. Grey’s note when he coaxed the eaglet to his camp. The map did not mean much to them, but to Bill, who had already gone alone over the passes to be sure there was a hidden city, the map was quite clear. They would go on foot over the mountains, he said. It was safer than by muleback: some of the passes were quite narrow and dangerous, although he could show the best ones to them.

The chums were rather depressed that they could not accompany Mr. Whitley and Bill: however they agreed to make the best of it, and with the naturally buoyant spirits of youths in a new place they went about and had a fine time.

One of the people they met was a youth, quite near their own ages. He spoke a little English and acted as their guide.

None of them, nor their older companions, suspected his real purpose, but it was divulged, one day, as they were in a meaner quarter of the city where some of the natives of Peru, degraded and listless remains of a once noble race, had their poor homes.

“Come—here—I show—how I live!” said their young guide. They all followed him into a low room in an old building, squat and roughly built of a composition something like the adobe of the Mexicans.

But once they were inside they turned in dismay. The youth was not alone with them: three fierce looking half-caste men, part Inca, part Spanish, rose from a dark corner: one slammed the rude door and fastened it. “Now,” he said, “you stay here.”

“What’s the big idea?” demanded Nicky hotly, relapsing into slang in his excitement.

“You see!” said the man. He and his companions held a low-voiced conference and then one of them rose and was gone: his malevolent looking friends gave the door a vicious slam and shot its bolt.

“What are you going to do with us?” demanded Tom.

“We keep you. When that tall one—” he meant Mr. Whitley,”—start for Lima once more, we let you go!”

“You daren’t!” cried Nicky, and made a dash for the window. But Tom and Cliff restrained him.

“We’ll have the police—or whatever they’re got here!” Nicky said. He gave a shout. But one of the men advanced with a very threatening gesture.

“Keep quiet,” Tom urged and Cliff added, “we’re in a strange place.” He counseled, “We have to keep our heads. We’ll find a way out but not by making a disturbance. We don’t know these men or this part of town: we don’t know the customs they have. If we keep quiet they may let us go or relax their guard.”

“But then our trip’s ruined!” argued Nicky.

“Yes,” said Cliff, morosely, “and my father is the worst sufferer if he is still alive. But we are trapped. We must do our best to get out of it before they send that man to Mr. Whitley.”

“He’s already gone,” grumbled Nicky.

“No he isn’t. He’s just outside. I see him through the window. He’s rolling a cigarette out there by a post.”

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Tom, “I see him.”

“Tom,” whispered Nicky, “your uncle gave you a pistol, didn’t he? Have you got it? Let’s shoot our way out!”

That was Nicky all over! He was excitable and quick. He knew that Tom had been trusted to carry a light .22-caliber revolver given him by his uncle, because Tom had a cool head and would not abuse the possession. It was more for signalling, than for a fight.

“Easy, Nicky!” counseled Tom, “We don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“No,” chimed in Cliff, “we’re outnumbered and we don’t know how dangerous this neighborhood may be. Besides, if we do anything to get into police courts it will make us tell what we are going to do and that will upset all Mr. Whitley’s plans.”

“They’re upset already,” Nicky grumbled, “That man’s gone——”

“No he isn’t,” Tom replied, “He’s waiting outside, by a post—I can see him through the window. There! Why—I believe the very same Indian we saw by the temple is giving him money!”

“Yes—I’m sure it’s the same one,” Cliff said, “He’s coming in.”

The tall Indian, or Inca noble, for he was really that, was admitted. The two waiting men stretched out eager hands.

“We get them,” said one, “You pay. We go.” Then he remembered that he spoke a half-halting English, and repeated it in dialect.

The Indian paid them some money and the two men, as if glad to be away, left quickly. The boy came in, acting shamefaced, but trying to look cheerful. He, too, stretched out a hand.

“Now—if only we had some way to take these two by surprise,” began Tom.

“Sh-h-h!” warned Nicky, “They’ll hear you.”

Cliff reminded him that the Indian had not understood the half-breeds when one spoke in English, and that the boy had to stop and translate. He spoke in low, eager tones.

“Nicky, what did you do with that little box of magnesium powder you took out of the supplies this morning? You were going to try to take a daylight kodak picture inside a temple by flashlight. If you had it, now——”

“I have,” Nicky whispered, “but——”

“Listen. Here’s a plan. It may work. It would play on the superstitions of these fellows. They are both natives and I don’t think either one has seen a flashlight, or an electric torch. If we could make them think we were powerful magicians and could burn them, they might be scared enough to be off guard——”

“It’s an idea!” exulted Tom, “I have that small burning glass, Cliff—suppose I got to the window, and set the burning glass so it focuses, while the man is paying the boy. Then——” That was Cliff’s idea, too. Tom moved quietly over and pretended to look out of the window. Really, he was adjusting a small lens, hidden by his hand on the stone window ledge, so it focused the sun rays in one spot. On Cliff’s instructions Nicky maneuvered his body to help conceal the tiny lens from the sight of the others. Tom opened the flash powder box, a small, single charge of magnesium powder which, when ignited, makes a great white flash and a big puff of smoke, but is not dangerous.

The boy turned from being paid.

“Listen,” Cliff commanded, “You—tell—that—man—” he spoke slowly and impressively, “—we—are—going—away—from—here. If—he—tries—to—stop—us, we—will—burn—him—up!”

The boy stared. Cliff repeated his words. The boy, mystified, translated. The man laughed scornfully. Cliff drew a small pocket electric flashlamp into view. In a dark corner he played the rays while the natives stared. Then, suddenly, he pointed a dramatic finger at the tiny box on the window ledge. The natives stared at it curiously, not knowing what to expect.

“Tell—him—we—burn—that—box—to—show—what happen—to you—if—you—stop us!” Cliff said with a bold and threatening expression. The boy spoke in dialect and both seemed unable to take their eyes off the box.

Cliff made a sign to Tom who pushed the small box into the focus of the lens which Nicky screened from the natives’ view. Cliff pressed his light switch, and pointed the ray with a few signs of his free hand.

Nothing happened!

The man laughed and the boy snickered. Nicky began to feel weak and cold; but Cliff stood his ground.

Then, so suddenly as to startle even Nicky, the focused rays ignited the powder: there was a dull “boop!” and a blinding glare.

Before the smoke had risen and began to spread Cliff whispered, “Now—make for the door!”

Holding the flashlight pointed at the boy until the latter cowered back against the man, Cliff led his chums to the door. He fumbled with the catch: the man made a move as if to grapple with him but Cliff threw the ray into his eyes and he flung up his arm, instinctive fear of something not understood overcoming his wit. Cliff unfastened the clumsy catch, the chums fled to the street and were off like young gazelles.

“They’ll find the lens!” Nicky panted.

“What do we care?” demanded Tom, “They won’t get us!”

Of course all plans had to be altered; the youths could not be left behind. They were glad that in trying to prevent the expedition the Indian had only made their part in it certain.

On a fine evening, with all the natives engaged, and with all supplies packed, and with their course through the mountains carefully determined, they went to sleep for the last time in a civilized hotel—if the mean accommodations of the place they had selected could be called “civilized.” Mr. Whitley’s Lima friend had not proved a very good adviser. However, bright and early the next clear, temperate day—for Cuzco was not in the hotter lowlands where tropical heat was fiercest—they began their real adventure.

Bill and Mr. Whitley were in advance: then came the natives, laden with quite heavy packs, under which they toiled along on an ever ascending slope, singing native chants and talking in their unintelligible jargon. Behind them came the Mystery Boys, also laden with packs containing personal things and articles they wished to protect from prying eyes.

“We’re on our way,” they told each other and felt like capering at the certainty that in trying to frustrate their plans the Indian had made it possible for them to go along.

Up in the hills a tall, well built Indian stood with several companions, watching the lower passes.

One day, as the comrades toiled along, entering the real mountains, the vigilant watcher turned toward his companions.

“Brother, they come!” he said.

“They come—yes,” agreed his nearest aide, a noble of the old and almost extinct true-blooded Incas, “They come—yes.”

He made a meaning gesture.

“But—they will not come back!”

That same day Cliff borrowed Bill’s field glasses and focused them on a small band, toiling along far behind them.

“I think we’re being followed—I’ve noticed that group several times,” he told the older members of their party.

They agreed, and frequently thereafter the followers were observed, but always too far behind to enable the chums to guess their identity. Was it the Spaniard? Was it the Indian?

Many days passed and they were well in the high cliffs before they learned the truth!

CHAPTER VI
A NEW MYSTERY DEVELOPS

Quichua, the almost universal dialect which the Incas had introduced into Peru as they conquered its tribes, was quite well understood by Bill Sanders. He spent much time on their daily marches, and in camp, teaching it to John Whitley and the three chums. It was the language that the hidden city’s inhabitants would be most apt to understand, he believed.

When they had learned that a “chasqui” was a runner or messenger; that Cuzco, the name of the principal city and hub of the old empire was so called because the word meant navel, the center of the body; and many other things such as that “Pelu” meant river and was thought by some to have been the word that gave the Spaniards their name for the nation—Peru!—they began to study brief sentences and after a while could hold short and simple conversations together.

In return they taught Mr. Whitley and Bill the secret ways of exchanging ideas in the signals of their order. After some discussion and hesitation Bill was made a member of The Mystery Boys and although the chums debated the good sense of letting him know all their signs, they finally gave them to him—and as events proved, they were to be glad they had done so.

In camp Cliff and his friends spent a great deal of time studying the rude map: because Quipu Bill had some misgivings about letting the only guide they had become damaged or lost, Tom, who was quite a draftsman, made a very good copy which they used and over which they watched jealously so that the natives would not discover what it was.

The small party—not more than eight—which had been following them hung on like wolves on the flank of a buck: when Bill hurried along the others kept the same distance, when his party lagged the others dallied also.

“I think it is either the Indian, or the Spaniard, or both of them,” said Bill, “They know—at least the Spaniard does—that there was a map, for he was in camp when I caught the eaglet.” But the other party kept just too far behind for them to see, even with fine glasses, just who comprised the group.

Then, one afternoon, Cliff looked down from a high point and called to Bill.

“Bill—get out your field glasses. I don’t see that party anywhere below.” Bill looked. John Whitley and the youths took their turns. But there was no sign of pursuit.

“We must have lost them,” Nicky said.

“But we have been on a straight road all day,” Mr. Whitley objected. “No. Either they have dropped too far behind for us to see them at all, or they have given it up——”

“Or they have turned into some side pass, thinking that can get around us in some way,” Bill added, “But they won’t. I guess we have lost them for good.”

They all felt rather glad of it. There had been some fun in the game of hare and hounds at first, but after a few days the continual watching became wearisome and perhaps worrisome. Their natives noticed it, for one thing, and they did not want the Peruvians to think their story of an engineering and educational trip was a ruse. They all breathed more freely that night as they made camp.

But Cliff kept wondering why the pursuit had stopped.

That night—and it was cold for they were very high up in the levels just a little below snow level—he lay rolled in his blanket, in the tent the chums shared, thinking about it.

“Cliff,” Tom’s voice whispered through the dark, “Are you asleep?”

“No,” Cliff answered under his breath. But he need not have been so cautious. Nicky was not asleep, either: and he declared the fact promptly.

“I’m awake too. Is it to be a session of the Inner Circle?”

“Maybe,” Tom replied, “I was going to ask Cliff if he noticed that Indian that Bill calls Whackey—the one whose name is Huayca?”

“Notice him? Notice what about him?” Nicky demanded.

“He kept dropping back from one carrier to the next one, right along the line, today.”

“Yes,” Cliff said, “I saw him. He talked to each one for a few minutes, then he dropped behind and talked to the next one.”

“What do you suppose it meant?” Nicky wondered. “Nothing, I guess. I have seen him do it before.”

“You have?” Cliff and Tom asked it at one instant.

“Certainly. But he is the boss isn’t he? He has to give orders.”

“When he gives orders he yells them out so that we all hear him,” Tom objected.

“In the morning,” Cliff said, “Let’s ask Mr. Whitley and Bill if they have noticed.” They agreed and discussed the curious disappearance of the trailing party for a while.

Then, suddenly, Cliff hissed under his breath, “Sh-h-h-h!”

They became alert, intent: they listened with straining ears.

“It was only some pebbles—a little landslide,” Nicky whispered. “They do that in the mountains. I saw some pebbles slip this afternoon.”

Nevertheless Cliff gently crawled out of his blanket and his head came in rather vigorous contact with Tom’s cranium for he was doing the same thing. They forgot the bump in the excitement for more pebbles were clattering at a little distance.

Cliff and Tom unhooked their tent flap and without widening its opening much, looked into the dim, starlit night.

Nicky pushed his face between them. Each felt that the others were tense, Nicky was trembling a little. They stared and listened.

From a greater distance came the crackle of a broken twig.

Without a word Cliff pushed into the open and stared around. Then he saw figures, silent, drifting like spectres through the night, shadows with lumpy heads.

At first he almost cried out at a touch on his arm but in the instant that he controlled his impulse he realized that it came from Nicky’s grip on his arm.

“It’s Indians!” Nicky gasped.

“Yes,” said Tom, at his side; then he added in a puzzled way, “But they are going away from us.”

“It’s our Indians——” Cliff said, “They’re running away. Hey!” he shouted, then, poised to race after them, he called to his comrades to waken Bill and Mr. Whitley; but they were already awake and emerging dazedly from their tent as Cliff thrust the ground behind him with racing feet, in hot pursuit of figures now making no effort to be quiet as they galloped away.

It was a hazardous pursuit in the dark and on a strange mountain path; but Cliff had observed, as was his habit, while they climbed earlier in the day: he knew when to swerve to avoid a heavy boulder, he seemed to avoid by instinct the more pebbled and slippery parts.

While Nicky and Tom, after shouting the news, pounded in pursuit he overtook the hindmost runner.

“Stop—you!” he shouted. The man swerved. Cliff made a tackle. The man tripped, was down. Instantly Cliff was erect again and racing on while Tom caught up with the man already scrambling to his feet and held him until Nicky arrived.

Then, from behind them, Bill, in the dialect, yelled a call to halt to the natives. Cliff reached his second man and put a hand on his arm. From behind came the flash of Quipu Bill’s rifle, fired into the air over the runners’ heads.

They stopped, uncertainly, and Cliff, racing down the path, took advantage of the interval to get to a point where he could at least try to “bluff” and hold the men.

The natives clustered in a little knot. They had bundles on their heads—probably most of the camp food and supplies. Cliff shouted to them to stand while Mr. Whitley and Bill made a scrambling, awkward, but rapid approach.

“Running out at night with our grub, eh?” Bill snapped, “You hombres about face and back to camp!” He translated into dialect and they sullenly obeyed for he still carried his rifle.

“All of ’em here?” he asked Mr. Whitley, “it’s so dark——”

“The fellow you call Whackey isn’t!” Cliff cried. Then a queer misgiving assailed him. He rushed to Bill and whispered. Bill, bent to hear, stiffened.

“Glory-gosh!” he gasped, “Go and see. In my coat pocket!”

They herded their morose captives back to camp while Cliff made his hasty retreat and a thorough but equally hurried examination in certain places.

He met Bill, approaching anxiously with John Whitley.