The Adventure Novella MEGAPACK®

by Wildside Press

  Craig, trying to get to his feet, heard the girl scream. One of the attackers shrilled something in a language he did not understand. The flier struggled to his feet. The room was in total darkness. Somebody shoved him and he fell again, this time in front of the door. He had the fleeting impression that a herd of elephants was running over him. Feet clattered in the hall outside. Vaguely, he realized what was happening. The two men were escaping. They were running away. He heard one of them scream something at the other. The scream was followed by a rattling thud. One pair of feet continued running down the hall.

  Craig pulled himself to his feet, fumbled for the light switch, turned it on. The room was a mess. The girl had a chair in her hands. She was backed against the wall with the chair raised ready to strike. Pedro, his knife held low ready for the murderous upward thrust of the experienced knife fighter, was crouched beside her. Bat Randall was sitting on the floor, a surprised expression on his face.

  “What—what happened, boss?” Randall said weakly. “What—what were they after?”

  “Nothing, so far as I can see,” Craig answered. “Anyhow they didn’t get anything.”

  He looked first at the table, to see if the map was there. If the girl’s story was correct, that map was very important. The map was still on the table…

  A second later Craig realized that even if the map was still there, something else had been taken.

  The golden jaguar was gone!

  CHAPTER II

  A Thief Dies

  “What is the meaning of thees?” an angry voice demanded from the doorway. “I cannot have such villainies here. Thees is a most respectable hotel, most respectable indeed.” It was the manager of the hotel. He was almost out of breath and apparently determined to let that interfere with what he had to say. He glared at Craig. “Señor, this is most bad. I cannot have fighting in my most respectable hostelry. And,” he finished, puffing, “there is a dead man in the hall. What do you have to say to that, Señor?”

  “A dead man?” Craig echoed. “What killed him? You must be mistaken.”

  “He is most certainly dead,” the manager said. “I do not know how he died, but he is most certainly dead. You can go see for your own self.”

  “I’ll do that,” Craig said. He was still a little dazed from the blow he had taken.

  The man was lying in the hall, dead. It was one of the two who had burst into the hotel room. A look of agony was stamped on his swarthy face.

  “You can see he is dead,” the manager said plaintively.

  “Yes,” said Craig. “I can see that all right. The question is—” He didn’t finish what he had started to say.

  Clutched in the dead man’s hand was the tiny golden jaguar.

  The others had come into the hall. Craig glanced at them. The girl’s eyes were fixed with frozen intensity on the statuette. The Indian was staring at it too. Fear was writhing across his heavy features.

  “Hello,” Bat Randall whistled. “They didn’t get away with the loot.” He bent over to remove the statuette from the dead man’s fingers.

  “Don’t touch that!” Craig said sharply.

  “Huh? Why not? You don’t think this killed him, do you?”

  “Is there a poison needle hidden in that thing?” Craig asked Lolita Montez.

  “N—no,” she whispered. “Or if there is, I do not know of it. But—” Her face was a wax mask.

  “But what?”

  “It has been in my family a long time,” the girl whispered. “There is a legend about it. The legend says that if it is stolen, the thief will be instantly struck dead.”

  Craig started to speak and abruptly changed his mind. It was hot here in this hotel room but in spite of that Craig felt a touch of cold settle over him as he listened to the girl’s words.

  The same chill seemed to have touched all the others. Bat Randall’s face was twisted into a wry grimace. The hotel manager nervously crossed himself, muttering a prayer to ward off the evil he sensed was here. The girl’s lips were moving. Only the Indian seemed to have recovered from his fear. He belonged to the race that had carved this golden jaguar. His impassive face seemed to say that the death of this thief might seem impossible to the white men but to an Indian such a death was supremely logical. The gods knew all. The gods would destroy a thief. The gods hated thieves.

  “Did the little statue kill him?” Bat Randall whispered.

  Craig didn’t answer. He remembered that the girl had held the statuette in her gloved hands. He had held it in his bare hands. And a shock had passed up his arm when he first touched it. He wondered how close to death he had been then!

  Lolita Montez plucked at his sleeve. “You will not let this prevent you from making the trip, will you, Señor Craig?”

  “Huh? Oh—” The flier had forgotten all about her request, he had forgotten the reward she had offered. He had demanded proof that she could do what she said. His eyes went down to the dead man, to the tiny statuette still clutched in the stiffening fingers. The dead man certainly proved something! Icy thoughts went through his mind as he wondered what it was.

  “Do you know why these men tried to steal this statuette?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Will you make the trip?”

  “Yes.”

  Craig was gambling and he knew it. He was risking a plane that no longer was legally his, and he was risking his neck as well. If he lost, a finance company might call him a thief. It was a gamble, but all aviators, by the nature of their profession, are gamblers.

  “We’ll start in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime, do you mind if I keep that statuette?”

  The relief that flooded the girl’s face when he said he would go turned to surprise. “The little golden jaguar? You wish to keep it?”

  “Yes. I would like to examine it.” Consternation showed on her face. “You will give it back tomorrow? I would like to keep it. It is what you call an heirloom.”

  “Certainly I’ll give it back.”

  “Well—” She hesitated, glanced once at Pedro to see what he said. Imperceptibly the Indian nodded.

  “Yes, you may keep it tonight,” she said quickly.

  Craig spent the better part of the night examining the tiny statuette. He handled it with extreme care, never touching it with his bare fingers. He even went down to the office and borrowed a magnifying glass.

  “What do you make of it, boss?” Bat Randall asked.

  “Nothing,” the flier answered. “Except that the man who made it was about the best craftsman who ever lived.”

  “Is it really gold?”

  “No doubt about that.”

  “Hot ziggity damn! We’ll be rich, boss, if we can pull this off. Between you and me, I could use a few bucks.” Craig grinned at Randall’s enthusiasm. “What do you think of Lolita Montez?” he asked.

  “Think of her!” Randall rolled his eyes. “If you ask me, I think she’s got curves in the right places.”

  “Yes, but do you think she is to be trusted?”

  “You mean maybe she’s selling us a bill of goods?” Randall’s face puckered into a worried frown. “Aw, boss, why would she do a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know,” the flier shrugged. “I don’t know how this thing killed a man either, but it did.”

  Lolita Montez and her Indian shadow turned up very early the next morning. She was wearing riding boots and breeches and she was carrying a light but powerful sporting rifle. Pedro, burdened with a load that only an Indian could have carried, staggered along behind her.

  “A good thing this is a freight carrying plane,” Craig said, looking at the load.

  “I have brought food, Señor Craig, and a tiny tent for me, and other things. We may be gone several days and it is good to make plans in advance
.” She smiled at Craig in a way that made Randall, who was busy checking the motor in the left wing, roll his eyes. “You are almost ready to take off? You have plenty of gas?”

  “I have everything,” Craig grunted. He did not add that to the other supplies he had put aboard had been included the heavy pistol which hung in a holster at his hip.

  “You have the little golden jaguar?”

  “It’s in the cabin. Ready, Bat?”

  “All set,” the mechanic answered. With motors roaring, the plane lifted itself above the waters of the harbor of Callao, swept in a great circle, and turned east. The city became a tiny town far below them. Ahead of them the Andes climbed up into the sky. Craig lifted the ship to meet the challenge of the mountains.

  On foot, the trip would have taken months, if it could have been made at all. The plane crossed mountain ranges where even a llama would not have found secure footing. Craig followed the trail outlined on the ancient map. Crossing peaks that only the condors knew, across valleys that were thousands of feet deep, flying through intermittent clouds and mists, at last they spotted a tiny blue lake. Craig set the nose of the ship down. The sight of the lake sent tension mounting through him. The map had indicated that such a lake existed. Here was proof that the map was correctly drawn. If the lake existed, did the treasure of the Incas, hidden in a ruined city beside it, also exist?

  The hull threw a spray of water to both sides as the ship settled down on the lake. Craig taxied toward a sandy beach on the north shore. Behind the beach a strip of jungle masked the face of a huge cliff that ran along the edge of the lake.

  “Hey, boss, look at that!” Randall said.

  The aviator followed the line of the mechanic’s pointing hand. Located on the strip of land between the edge of the lake and the cliff, half hidden by the jungle growth, was—the ruins of a city.

  “See, it is as I told you,” Lolita Montez said. “There are the ruins of the city of Chianlo.”

  Craig landed the plane on the sloping sandy beach. Pedro was the first one ashore. The Indian had not liked riding in an airplane and he seemed glad of a chance to get out of it. He vanished immediately into the jungle, returning by the time Craig and Randall had finished mooring the ship.

  Leaving the mechanic on guard with the ship, Craig and Lolita Montez took Pedro with them and went to explore, the ruins of Chianlo.

  “This was the sacred city of the Incas,” the girl said breathlessly. “It was their last place of refuge and the Conquistadores did not loot it. Señor Craig, there is every chance that the wealth of the Incas is still here.”

  To the left was the lake. Rising from the water, the ground sloped gently upward a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile to the cliffs, which rose hundreds of feet into the air and formed a dark and forbidding backdrop for the city. Barely visible among the undergrowth were huge stone blocks, fallen columns, tumbled masonry. Looking at the size of the blocks, the flier had the impression that giants had once lived here. Only giants could have carved these huge blocks.

  “It is going to be some job to find this gold,” Craig said grimly.

  “Oh, we will find it. The little golden jaguar—”

  She stopped in sudden confusion. “I mean we will search for it until we do find it.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that we came here searching for your brother,” Craig said, glancing at her.

  The shadow of inward pain crossed her face. “No, I have not forgotten,” she said. “We will find him too. Oh—” She tripped against something on the ground and fell heavily.

  They were in an open space directly in front of the cliffs. Craig bent down to help her to her feet. His eyes fell on the object over which she had tripped. He forgot all about the girl.

  The rusted hilt of an ancient sword was sticking out of the ground. It was this that she had tripped over. It was almost buried in the soft soil.

  “What is it you have found?” Lolita Montez gasped.

  Craig didn’t answer. He had dropped to his knees and was tugging at another object that was almost buried. It came free—a rusted, corroded helmet of the type worn by the conquistadores, by the Spanish conquerors who had overrun Peru under Pizarro. He took one look at it—and involuntarily dropped it.

  There was a skull inside it.

  A man had died here. He had lain where he had fallen. Craig stared at the rusted helmet and sword in startled surprise. Even Pedro seemed perturbed, his stolid face losing some of its immobility.

  “Dig,” the Indian grunted. “Dig here. This right place.”

  Pedro dropped to his knees beside the flier and began to dig in the soft soil. He dug frantically, his eyes darting everywhere. He reminded Craig of a large and very eager bull dog hunting for suspected rats. He found, a piece of armor, a battered breast plate that had rusted almost to nothingness, glanced once at it and tossed it aside.

  He found another sword, then another helmet. They were almost on the surface.

  “Two men were killed here,” Craig said. “Apparently they were never buried but lay where they fell.”

  “Hah!” the Indian cried. “Got something here!”

  He pounced on an object and jerked it free from the dirt. About a foot in diameter, it looked like a salad bowl.

  “Let me see that!” Craig said. Reluctantly, the Indian relinquished hold of it. The flier quickly scrubbed the dirt from it. Scratching it with the point of the rusted sword, his shout rang out.

  “It’s made of gold! It’s one of the golden vessels of the Incas!”

  A frantic hour later, a more extensive excavation had revealed these facts: three men had died here. There were three swords, three helmets, three skeletons. Also there were the rusted barrels of ancient muskets.

  Each of the three men had apparently been carrying a heavy load of vessels of various kinds, bowls, plates, things that looked like cups, such loot as would be taken from an Inca temple.

  They were made of gold. While they weren’t worth a fortune, they certainly represented a good-sized chunk of spending money.

  “I got to give you credit, you certainly knew what you were talking about,” Craig said to the girl. “When we find the temple where these things came from, we will probably be rich forever. What’s the matter?”

  Lolita Montez had taken no part in the digging. She had stood aside. Glancing at her, Craig saw that the normal brown of her face had turned a pasty white.

  “Is something wrong?” the flier asked.

  “No, no. There is nothing wrong. But there is one thing I did not tell you, Señor Craig.”

  “What?”

  “You remember that map I showed you and the tiny golden jaguar?”

  “Of course. What about them?”

  “The map was made by my great-great-great-grandfather, who came here with Pizarro. He, and three companions, found their way to this city. The Incas had deserted it even then. Somewhere here they found a huge amount of gold. I do not know exactly where but they found it.”

  “Judging from what we have found I don’t doubt they made the discovery,” Craig said. “What is there about that to frighten you?”

  “You do not understand,” the girl said. She was not looking at Craig. Her eyes were constantly searching the surrounding scene. She seemed to suspect the presence of some hidden, unseen danger and to be trying to detect it before it struck.

  “If they found the gold and took it away, what is there to be scared of?”

  “That is the point,” the girl said quickly. “Except for my ancestor, who brought back the tiny golden jaguar, they did not take it away. They were starting to take it away, when three of them—all except my great-great-great-grandfather—were struck dead!”

  “Three of them were struck dead!”

  Craig gasped. A sudden touch of cold
settled over him as he glanced down at the skeletons they had uncovered. “Do you mean that you think these three men were the companions of your ancestor?”

  “Yes. That is what I mean. I did not believe the story. I thought it was only a tradition—until we found these skeletons. Oh, Señor Craig, we must leave this place. There is danger here still, great danger. The same thing that struck down these three men, it is still here. I can feel it. It is in the air. It is watching from behind the trees. It is everywhere around us.”

  In the sudden silence that followed, the only sound was that of the Indian grunting. Abruptly, Lolita Montez went into hysterics. She started screaming and crying at the same time, clinging to Craig for protection.

  “There is nothing, Miss Montez,” the flier said. His words seemed to carry no conviction to her. To him, her story was pure superstition. If her ancestor had tried to loot this city and three of his companions had died, it merely meant that they had probably, fallen victims to Indian arrows. But the girl seemed to believe that something else had happened to them. And in spite of himself, Craig found himself almost believing in her. After all, she had brought him here. That certainly proved there was some truth in her story. Craig’s hand went down to his gun. He looked everywhere. The blue waters of the lake were visible through the trees. Above them, almost leaning over them, was the face of the cliff. Somewhere in the jungle tangle a bird was calling. If there was danger here, he could not see it.

  Then he noticed Pedro. The Indian had left off digging and had risen to his feet. He had drawn his knife and was scanning the jungle around them as if he, too, sensed the presence of some hidden menace.

  “This is nonsense,” Craig said firmly. “However, we will return to the plane.”

  He picked up the golden salad bowl to take with him. He wanted to show it to Randall. Bat would be pleased. If Craig got rich here, the mechanic would be cut in on the find, share and share alike. Probably Bat would use a part of his share to buy a plane motor, which he would disassemble in the morning and put together again each afternoon. A motor to tear apart and put back together again would be Randall’s idea of heaven.