IV
Men, women and children began to press toward the group of riders. Dick, first to realize the change in the humor of the mob, spurred alongside Maria-Teresa.
“We must get out of this! Steady, and forward all!”
The Marquis, superbly cool, followed as if reluctant to show his back to any horde of Indians. The menace in the voices grew clearer. He looked round him, and drove his spurs home, till his mount reared and plunged into the crowd, clearing a space around it.
The mob was howling now, and knives were being drawn on all sides, when a giant Indian pushed his way toward the Spaniards. Maria-Teresa, Don Christobal and Dick recognized Huascar, before whom his countrymen made way with evident respect and dread.
“Back!” he shouted, taking the young girl’s mule by the bridle. “Who touches the Virgin of the Sun is a dead man!”
At these words, the crowd parted. Silence succeeded the tumult of a moment before.
“Let the strangers pass,” ordered Huascar, and himself escorted them to the ancient palace gates.
Outside, on the plaza, they met a police patrol. The sergeant, in undertaking to escort them to the inn, was eloquent on their imprudence in coming into a quarter peopled by fanatical Indians on the eve of the Interaymi.
The Marquis wished to thank Huascar, but the Indian had vanished. Maria-Teresa and Dick, both very white, had not a word to say. Uncle Francis was also dumb, and did not take a single note.
At the inn they found only one vacant room, in which they all gathered. Dick was the first to utter the thought which was worrying them all.
“Suppose it was true!”
“Yes, suppose it was true!” repeated Maria-Teresa,
“What? Suppose what was true?” demanded the Marquis, refusing to understand.
“The Virgin of the Sun!”
They were all silent for a moment, bent under the weight of one amazing, absurd, monstrous thought. And they exchanged anxious, frightened looks, like children who are being told some terrifying fairy-tale. Dick broke the spell:
“You heard what Huascar said. ‘Who touches the Virgin of the Sun is a dead man!’ Those were his own words!”
“Just a manner of speech,” hesitated Uncle Francis. “It cannot be anything else.”
“Anything else? What do you mean?” demanded the Marquis violently.
“Well, it could not be… the other thing. If Maria-Teresa was… was the Virgin of the Sun, they would not have let her pass out.”
“Are we all going mad! After all, we are masters here!” burst out Don Christobal. “There are the police, and the troops. All those rascals out there are our slaves. ‘Pon my soul, we are all raving!”
“Of course!” exclaimed Maria-Teresa.
“All the same, I think we ought to get out of Cajamarca as soon as we can,” said Dick, going to the window and looking out. Night had fallen, and with it silence. The square outside was deserted.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a servant brought in a letter addressed to Maria-Teresa. She tore it open and read aloud:—“Return to Lima at once. Leave Cajamarca tonight.”
“It is not signed,” she said, “but this warning comes from Huascar.”
“And we should follow his advice,” said Dick. There was another knock at the door. This time, it announced the arrival of the Chief of Police, who was anxious to know what had happened.
He had heard of the incident at Atahualpa’s palace, and had moreover been warned by an Indian, an employee at the Franco-Belgian bank at Lima, that it might be dangerous for the Marquis and his companions to show themselves in the streets on the following day.
It was obvious that the man feared trouble, and would have given anything to see the party a hundred miles away. When he learned that they were ready to leave at once, he busied himself about finding them fresh mules and a guide, and furthermore detailed four troopers to escort the party as far as the railway.
Cajamarca was left at eleven o’clock that night, and the return journey was made at double the speed at which they had come. Dick would let nobody rest, and forced the pace throughout. It was not until the following night, safe in the train for Pascamayo, that they realized the ridicule that attached to their hasty flight. “Just like a pack of children frightened out of their lives by Agnes’ stories,” said the Marquis.
Back in civilized life again, they were all surprised at their panic. After all, the whole thing could be so naturally explained—fanatics resenting the presence of strangers at a religious festival, and nothing more. The best thing they could do was to forget it as soon as possible. Uncle Francis restored the party’s gaiety by going through the same performance which he had rehearsed on landing.
Forty-eight hours in Lima completely dispelled the cobwebs. Maria-Teresa found a great deal of work awaiting her, and forgot her fears in a maze of figures which took her to Callao early, and kept her busy at the offices until late in the afternoon, when Dick came to fetch her.
One afternoon, about eight days after the adventure at Cajamarca, the tap at her window which announced Dick’s arrival came earlier than usual. Maria-Teresa got up, and threw open the shutters. Dick was not there.... Then she retreated with a half-strangled scream. Was it possible? In the rapidly gathering darkness, she could not be sure, and leaned out of the window to see better.... That thing, swaying in the darkness, looked just like the sugar-loaf skull.... She retreated into the room, trembling in every limb, and turned round. From the dark corners of the chamber two other shadows, the valise and cap skulls, were advancing slowly, swaying as they came.
For a moment, Maria-Teresa thought she had lost her reason. Then she made a violent effort to regain control of herself. Dead skulls could not come to life like this. And yet, they were coming toward her, swaying horribly, above shadowy bodies! A desperate scream for help was choked in her throat. “Dick!…” and nothing more. The three living skulls had hurled themselves upon her, gagged her, and now, throwing the inanimate girl over their shoulders, hurried through the black hole of the open window. Maria-Teresa’s own motor was waiting there, her negro boy at the wheel, smiling strangely.
Their mummy hands, horribly living, lifted the girl into the tonneau, and the three monsters, like three larvae, climbed in after her. Then the car shot down the street.
BOOK III—THE TRAIL OF THE PONCHOS
I
Meanwhile, Dick, wandering through Callao until the time came to call for Maria-Teresa, was strolling up the Calle de Lima. He had just come from the Darsena docks, where the harbor engineers had been giving him news the reverse of cheerful. In the present condition of the country, they said, any venture in the deserted gold-mines of the Cuzco was hopeless.
The last two days had brought news of fighting from the other end of the country. Or, at all events, cartridges were being used up, even if there was no attendant damage. Everybody had thought Garcia feasting at Arequipa, but the pretender had evaded his enemies and attacked the Republican forces between Sicuani and the Cuzco. It was even rumored that Cuzco itself had fallen into his hands.
Were all this true, the outlook for Dick’s affairs was bad. His company, thanks to the influence of the Marquis de la Torre, had obtained a concession from President Veintemilla, This would not be worth the paper it was written on if Garcia proved victorious. Super-active by nature, the young engineer could not endure the thought of the long months of enforced idleness before him until the revolution had been settled in one way or another.
As he came into the Calle de Lima, Dick pulled out his watch. He found that he still had a few minutes to spare. Much as she loved him, Maria-Teresa did not like being interrupted at her work, so he turned into the Circulo de los Amigos de las Artes for a drink. This establishment, though baptized a club, was in reality a huge café and reading-room. The ground floor was packed with people discussing the latest events. Cuzco was in every mouth, and it was noticeable that Veintemilla’s warmest partizans now had a good word to say for Garcia.
A stampede of shock-headed newsboys, shouting the latest edition of an official paper, tore past the café, scattering still wet sheets and collecting coppers. One of the customers climbed onto a table and read out a proclamation by the President, urging calm and giving a categorical denial to the report of the capture of Cuzco. General Garcia and his troops, the President announced, were bottled up in Arequipa, all the sierra defiles were in the hands of Government troops, and the traitors would be hurled into the sea or chased into the great sand deserts. The proclamation concluded with a reference to Indian troubles in the suburbs, attributing them to the usual Interaymi effervescence, and dismissing them as negligible. Cheers for the President ended the reading of his manifesto. Wavering allegiances were at once restored, and it was generally agreed that his statement was superb.
Dick left the café a little happier, though he did not really place a great deal of faith in the official denial. Night had fallen and he walked briskly, now fearing that he might be late. As he went, he remembered his first day’s walk through this same labyrinth of narrow streets. Then he caught sight of his fiancée’s verandah in the distance, and noticed that the window was open, as on the first day.
There she sat, the little business-woman, with her brass-covered green registers. What a manly little brain it was! And to think that the pair of them had been such fools over that Golden Sun bracelet… Something to laugh about in after years, that!
“Hello, Maria-Teresa!”
There was no answer, and Dick walked up to the window.
“Maria-Teresa!”
Still no answer. He peered into the room, trying to see where she was hiding. Nobody there.
“Good God! Maria-Teresa!”
He walked into the room. There could be no doubt of it. That table knocked down, those books on the floor, that curtain torn from its rings, this broken pane in the window told the story. Silence greeted his shout for help. Not a servant, not a soul in the place, and all the doors open! “Maria-Teresa! Maria-Teresa!”
Hardly knowing what he did, Dick ran into the deserted courtyard, and then back into the office. There could be no doubt of it. Huascar and his Indians had carried her off. That dog Huascar, whom she trusted, and who loved her, not as a dog should, but as if he were a man. Horror-stricken, furious, Dick searched the room for some clue.
The scoundrels! He swore aloud as he pictured Maria-Teresa struggling in Huascar’s arms and calling for help in vain. That was where he should have been, instead of listening to all those fools in the café. He could have laid his hands on Huascar then! That was the man they should have watched instead of being thrown off the scent by all those wild-cat legends about the Bride of the Sun.
An Indian in love with a white girl and thirsting for revenge! Of course! He saw it all now, and remembered how Huascar had last left that same room, driven out by Maria-Teresa. The insolent dog, with his fist raised in menace!
As idea after idea swept across his brain, Dick stared helplessly at the blank walls about him. What could he do? He jumped back into the street and hesitated. No clue here—only the doors of closed stores and sightless walls—a pit of gloom.
Suddenly he heard voices, and leaped into action. At the corner of the street there, under that lantern, was a wine-shop, the only living thing in this dead street. He ran toward it, kicked the door open, and almost fell on top of Domingo, the night watchman.
“Where is your mistress?”
Domingo, taken aback, mumbled indistinctly. He thought that the señorita had returned to Lima as usual with the señor. The motor had gone by just a little while ago.
“What motor?”
Domingo shrugged his shoulders. There were not so many motors as all that in Callao and Lima.
“Who was driving?”
“The boy.”
“Libertad?”
“Si, señor, Libertad.”
“Did he say anything to you as he went past?”
“No, señor, he did not see me.”
“Did you see your mistress?”
“The hood was up, señor, and the motor was traveling fast.... Nay, señor!… That is the truth. I swear it!”
Dick seized the man by the collar, and shook him like a rat
“What were you doing here? Why were you not with your mistress, at your post?”
“I meant no harm, señor. A Quichua offered me a drink here… real pisco, señor.”
Dick, without listening, dragged the protesting man through the streets and into the empty office. When he realized what had happened, Domingo would have torn his hair out with grief, but Dick, seizing him by the throat, drove him to the wall and looked into his eyes. A fool or a traitor, which was he?
Told to speak, and speak quickly, Domingo answered Dick’s volley of questions without a minute’s hesitation. The señorita could not have been carried off without the aid of Libertad, a rascally half-breed to whom the señorita had given work out of pity. The day and hour had been chosen by some one who knew the place well, for on Saturday afternoons there were no workmen or clerks on the premises.
“When you went out to drink, was the motor already waiting?”
“Yes, señor. It had been there half an hour.”
“Was the hood up?”
“No, señor. Libertad was sitting in it alone.” Releasing his grip, Dick dashed into the street again and started running toward the main avenue. If Maria-Teresa had been carried off in her own motor, it would be easy to trace her part of the way. As Domingo had said, there were not so many cars about.
As he dashed round a corner, Dick came into sharp collision with a man emerging from a doorway, who swore vigorously. Dick recognized him at once, and gave such a shout that the chief of police, for it was he, fell into a posture of defense.
“Forgive me, señor.... I am Dick Montgomery… the fiancé of Señorita de la Torre.... She has been carried off by the Indians!…”
“Doña Maria-Teresa? That is not possible!” In a few words, Dick told the little old gentleman what had happened, and gave him his suspicions. He found ready sympathy and belief.
“I was on my way to dine with a friend just opposite. A minute while I tell them that I cannot come, and I am with you.”
He hurried across the street while Dick, with an indignant snort, moved on toward the harbor, questioning shopkeepers and pedestrians as he went. So far as he could gather, the motor had about half-an-hour’s start of them.
Dick was convinced that he had seen the last of the Chief of Police. In this he did the little man an injustice, for he had hardly gone two hundred yards before he heard footsteps behind him.
“You did not wait, señor? Well, here I am. Natividad is always to be counted upon.”
Though his real name was Perez, the Chief of Police was known throughout the city as Natividad, a nickname earned him by his cherubic face, and of which he was rather proud. Dick found the little man hot enough against the Indians even for his taste. Natividad hated the Quichuas, and believed them capable of anything.
Just before they reached the harbor, at the corner of the narrow Calle de San Lorenzo, Natividad seized Dick by the arm and drew him to the wall. The street was deserted, and lighted only by feeble rays from a low glass-paned door a few steps ahead. This door had just been opened, and a man peered out cautiously. Dick stifled a desire to shout. He had recognized Huascar!
The Indian whistled, and two shadows, wearing wide-brimmed Indian sombreros, detached themselves from the wall at the other end of the street. They rejoined Huascar, who had closed the door behind him, and exchanged a few rapid words. Then the two walked off in the direction of the harbor, and Huascar disappeared as he had come.
Natividad, pressed against the wall, held Dick’s hand in a grip that imposed silence. “Why is it? What does it mean? Perhaps she is in there,” the young man whispered.
Signing the engineer to stop talking, Natividad crept toward the door, and at the risk of being discovered, peeped through the uncurtained panes. Dick, looking over his shoulder, saw a room full of Indians sitting at tables, but neither smoking nor drinking. Huascar was walking up and down between the tables, in deep thought Then he vanished up a staircase leading to some room on the first floor.
Natividad had apparently seen enough, for he dragged Dick into the shadow of a neighboring porch.
“I cannot make it out,” he said. “What are they all doing here during the Interaymi? I thought every Quichua in the city had left for the mountains. There should not be one here for the next ten days. But I cannot believe Huascar has anything to do with the kidnaping. He wouldn’t tell his secret to all the Indians of Peru, when he knows that nearly every one of them can be bought for a few centavo!”
“Wait before you make up your mind. We can at all events find the motor. I am sure Huascar knows where Maria-Teresa is. We must not lose sight of him.”
“We shall not have to wait long,” replied Natividad, stiffening at a fresh noise from the other end of the calle. “Here are those Indians coming back with horses.... What does it mean?… Madré de Dios!… Is it possible?… The Interaymi!… Silence!”
The clatter of hoofs on the cobbled roadway showed that quite a strong cavalcade was approaching, and the watchers drew back farther to the shelter of an alley nearly opposite the low door, and from which they could still see all that was happening round it. As the cavalcade rode up, the door opened again, showing all the Indians standing up, and apparently waiting for somebody.
Huascar appeared first; after him an Indian whom Dick recognized at once for the Red Preacher of Cajamarca; lastly a man in a lounge-suit of impeccable cut:—Oviedo Huayna Runtu himself. Then an incredible thing happened. All these men who had remained motionless before Huascar and the priest bent on their knees, humbled their heads to the ground before the bank-clerk.
The troop of horses and mules had halted before the low door, and men with lanterns came out of the house. The bank-clerk was the first to vault into the saddle, Huascar holding his stirrup. Then Huascar and the Cajamarca priest mounted, ranging themselves on each side of the leader, but just behind him.
Huascar turned in his saddle and made a sign. Every Indian in the party threw open his poncho, showing beneath it, in the light of the lanterns, another cloak of brilliant red.
“The Red Ponchos!” gasped Natividad, grasping Dick’s arm.
There was a whistle at the end of the street, answered by another a long way off, at the other end of the Darsena quay,… and the cavalcade started.
Dick made as if to follow, but Natividad held him back.
“Wait, and listen! We must know which way they are going!”
II
H unched forward, he listened, then turned to his companion.
“The Chorillos road. Unless I am much mistaken, they are following the motor.”
“Come on; we must get after them! Where can we get horses?”
“Follow me. We can do better than that. We have the telephone and the railway.” And once again he took up his litany:—“The Red Ponchos! The Red Ponchos!”
“What do you mean by that?… Red or gray, it’s all one.... Those men belong to Huascar’s band, and helped him.... That seems pretty clear to me.”
“Quite right, quite right. I agree with you now, young sir,” replied Natividad, puffing by Dick’s side as they hurried toward the railway station. “Yes, indeed. They are all in it.... The Red Ponchos.... The Priests of the Sun.” Dick stopped dead. Natividad’s last words at last made him understand. He remembered, in a flash, all the legends told by Aunt Agnes and old Irene. And they had seen fit to laugh.
“Good God!” he groaned, and began running again. As he ran, he shouted to his companion:—“But we’ll catch them yet, and you’ll arrest them all!”
“I shall do what I can. But there are at least thirty of them, and there are not enough troops in Callao to send a squadron in pursuit.... Every soldier the city could spare has been sent into the sierra against Garcia.”
“You can telephone to Lima.”
“And they’ll take me for a madman, as they did ten years ago,” replied Natividad enigmatically.
“Will we get to Chorillos before them?”
“Yes, there’s a train in ten minutes’ time.”
“It seems to me we would have done better to follow on horseback. Then we could have found out where they were going. Thirty of them, are there? Only damned Indians, though. I wouldn’t mind tackling the lot myself.”
“This way is the best....” And Natividad added in an undertone: “They wouldn’t believe me ten years ago. Well, it’s beginning again.” Dick, intent on reaching the railway station, did not hear him. He could only think of those mysterious Indians on the highroad out there. “We shall lose their track,” he groaned.
“You need not fear that,” replied the Chief of Police. “Their road runs alongside the railway line. If we see a motor waiting on it, we stop the train. If we overhaul the Red Ponchos alone, we go on to Chorillos, and wait for them there. I’ll see that the police expect them. Nothing is lost yet, Señor Montgomery.”
At the railway station, Natividad found he had just time to telephone his instructions to the Chorillos police. No motor coming from the direction of Callao was to be allowed to pass.
They were talking to the guard of the express when a Lima train steamed into the station, and they saw the Marquis, Uncle Francis and little Christobal appear.
“Where is Maria-Teresa?” shouted the Marquis as he caught sight of Dick, and ran toward him. “Why are you alone? Where is she? What has happened? Speak, boy!”
Little Christobal, clinging to Dick’s legs, reiterated his father’s questions, while Uncle Francis’ long shanks took him wandering aimlessly round the little group. The guard blew his whistle, and Natividad pushed them all into a carriage just as the train started.
“Yes, she has been carried off by the Indians, but we know where she is. She is at Chorillos.” Dick’s attempt to reduce the force of the blow to the Marquis partly succeeded. Then he explained what he knew while Don Christobal, raging in his corner, swore to kill with his own hands every Quichua in the country. Little Christobal, understanding only that his sister was lost, sobbed bitterly.
But what had given the others the alarm? The Marquis explained that Aunt Agnes and Irene, going to church for the evening angelus, found that the Golden Sun bracelet had been stolen from the shrine of the Virgin of San Domingo. They had returned home in a panic, to find the Marquis nearly distracted with fear. Going to his club for the first time in a week, he had there found an anonymous letter warning him to watch over his daughter day and night throughout the Interaymi. This letter, a twin of the one received at Cajamarca, had been waiting some days. It particularly warned him not to allow his daughter to go to Callao on Saturday. It was then seven o’clock, and going home to find that neither Maria-Teresa nor Dick were back, he had at once rushed to Callao. Little Christobal, refusing to listen to orders, had followed his father and Uncle Francis.
Dick listened like one demented. He was silent, but his mind was in a turmoil. To think of such a thing! In a country where people used telephones and traveled by rail! It was too horrible, too incredible, yet horribly credible. There was no doubt in his mind now as to the reasons for the abduction.
Natividad, closely questioned by the Marquis, finished by telling all he knew, and left them little hope. While loth to cause pain, he could not disguise certain facts. In a sense, too, he was triumphant. A conscientious official, he had once almost ruined his administrative career by certain reports on Quichua customs, dealing notably with the ritual murder of women and children. He had been laughed at, and called a lunatic—now the Red Ponchos were at work again.
The silence of despair greeted his words. Then, anxious to reassure them, the little old gentleman insisted that the Indians could not go far with their precious burden. All the defiles of the sierra were held by Veintemilla’s troops. They would always give assistance to the police, and the Indians were bound to run into them as soon as they left the costa. The chief thing was not to lose the trail.
They had now reached the point where the railway line joined the highroad running parallel to the sea, and all eyes were fixed on the great white band stretching out there in the moonlight. At first, it was bordered by a few tumble-down cabins and bamboo cottages, but soon there was only the nakedness of a huge sandy plain before them. Dick, the Marquis and Natividad, grouped at the windows, searched the night, while Uncle Francis took little Christobal in his arms and strove to console him. But the boy insisted on being held up, that he also might see out, moaning the while: “Maria-Teresa, Maria-Teresa!… Why have they taken my big sister?… Maria-Teresa!”
Suddenly, the same cry broke from them all: “The motor!” There it was, standing before the gates of a lonely hacienda. Natividad almost tore out the emergency cord, and the train, with a grinding of brakes, slowed down and then stopped. They tumbled to the line, Natividad shouting to the guard to go on, and send back police, troops and horses as soon as they could.
Dick raced across the plain, while Natividad, panting in the rear, called out to him to be careful, and not to give the alarm. The young engineer drew a revolver as he reached the motor, ready to shoot down the first man he saw. But there was nobody there. The car was empty, and the courtyard of the hacienda showed deserted, peopled only by the blue shadows of moonlight.
The gates were wide open, and he entered cautiously. Some of the buildings round the courtyard were in ruins; all were manifestly deserted. On his right, the bodega, or store-house; on his left, the proprietor’s casa. Here again the doors were open.
Dick returned to the motor, and was there rejoined by the Marquis and Natividad just as he lit one of the headlights. There was not a sound to be heard, and they followed the young man in silence. As they entered the first room of the house, a heavy, pungent perfume greeted their nostrils. Dick, leading the way, made a few cautious steps, and then fell back with a cry of horror. The furniture of the place was scattered in all directions, and there was blood everywhere.
“Maria-Teresa!” The Marquis and Dick, both calling out at the same time, were as suddenly silent again. Both seemed to have heard a faint voice answering them.
“It’s up there!” shouted the young man, dashing toward a staircase leading to the first floor. All could now distinctly hear a low, prolonged moan. Dick, slipping on the stairs in his hurry, rose again with a white face. His hands were red with blood!