The Adventure Novella MEGAPACK®

by Wildside Press

  Craig was the only one who took any of the golden objects they had found. Lolita Montez looked to be too weak to carry anything. And Pedro seemed to have lost all interest in the treasure he had dug so hard to find. The Indian kept his knife in his hand. He watched the jungle around them as if he expected it to erupt with enemies at any moment.

  But nothing happened. If death lurked near them in the green tangle, it gave no sign that it was aware of their existence.

  The plane was still resting on the sandy beach. At the sight of the ship, Craig’s rising fears vanished. Despite the fact that he knew it was superstition, the actions of the girl and the Indian had worried him. When they reached the plane, his spirits lifted.

  “Hey, Bat,” he yelled, jerking open the door of the cabin and holding up the golden bowl. “Look what we found.”

  There was no answer.

  Craig stepped into the main cabin. The interior of the ship was a hellish mess. Their belongings, their food supplies, everything, was scattered everywhere.

  Bat Randall was gone.

  CHAPTER III

  Treachery

  One fact was instantly obvious. The ship had been thoroughly but hurriedly searched. Here in this wilderness in the hinterland of Peru, with almost impassible mountains to the west and with the hell jungles of the upper Amazon to the east, were thieves! No wild Indians, and if there were any Indians around here, they were certainly wild, would willingly approach within a mile of an airplane.

  Then who had pillaged the ship? And what had happened to Bat Randall?

  Looking through the door of the plane, Craig saw footprints in the sandy beach. The prints had been made by hob-nailed boots. Neither he nor anyone else in his party wore such, boots. He dropped from the door of the cabin to the beach to examine the tell-tale prints.

  Crash!

  A rifle spoke from the jungle growth below the cliff. The bullet screamed through the open cabin door where he had stood a second before. It whanged against the other side of the ship, ripped through the metal, smacked into the lake.

  When Craig hit the ground, he was running. He knew a bullet when he heard one, and he knew that if he had paused for a second in the cabin door, the bullet would have got him.

  As he raced across the beach he caught a glimpse of Lolita Montez and Pedro among the trees above him.

  “Down!” he shouted at them.

  A second bullet whined over his head, emphasizing the order. The girl and the Indian ducked quickly out of sight. The flier threw himself flat on the ground in a tangle of jungle shrubbery, jerked his pistol from its holster.

  Lolita Montez had been right when she sensed the presence of danger! Death did guard the forgotten city of Chianlo. It had been waiting, back at the plane, for them.

  Craig hugged the ground, waiting for a third shot that would reveal where the killer was hidden. No third shot came. He wondered what had happened to Randall. Had the mechanic been shot from ambush and his body dumped into the lake? The thought sent a surge of anger through the flier. Randall was his best friend. Then he realized they would have certainly heard the rifle if Bat had been shot. They had heard nothing. Which meant that maybe Bat was still alive. And maybe wasn’t. A knife made no sound.

  Craig waited as long as he could, then began a slow cautious circuit of the place from which the shots had come. He caught a glimpse of the killer. It wasn’t an Indian. It was a white man. Clad in a dirty khaki shirt, a growth of beard on his face, a cap thrust back on his head, he was kneeling behind a fallen tree. Head and gun thrust forward, the killer was watching the clump of shrubbery where Craig had first taken refuge.

  Craig lifted his pistol, took steady aim, then slowly lowered the gun. He had no compunctions about shooting this man. But—he might miss. The distance was too great for the pistol. If he missed with the first shot, the man with the rifle would have him at his mercy.

  Wiggling on his belly, he kept moving until he was behind the man with the rifle and within ten feet of him. “Hands up!” the flier grimly ordered.

  The killer jumped like a startled cat.

  He spun on his feet, looked behind him, tried to bring up the rifle, looked straight into the muzzle of Craig’s pistol—and saw death looking at him. He hastily dropped the rifle.

  “That’s better,” Craig said. “You were within a fraction of a second of getting what you deserve. Back away from that rifle and turn around.” Khaki Shirt hastily did as he was ordered. He didn’t in the least like the grim look on the flier’s face. Craig stepped forward, picked up the rifle, which was an excellent weapon of a European make. A search revealed a pistol in Khaki Shirt’s pocket. Craig appropriated that too.

  “Now who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  There was despair on Khaki Shirt’s face, and terror, but he didn’t answer. Instead he shook his head.

  “How would you like a bullet through the guts?” Craig said. “Maybe that would open you up enough so you could talk.”

  The flier was bluffing. He wouldn’t shoot a prisoner, no matter how much that prisoner might deserve to be shot. But the prisoner didn’t know that.

  Khaki Shirt’s face showed that he believed what Craig had said. His hands began to tremble and a convulsive tremor shook his body. But scared as he was of Craig, he was more scared of something else. He wouldn’t talk.

  Craig marched him back to the plane.

  “Did—did you cap—capture him?” Lolita Montez’ voice quavered from somewhere.

  “Yes,” said Craig grimly. “Come out here and see if you recognize him.” Closely followed by Pedro, the girl came but of the clump of trees where she had been hiding. She had the light rifle in a firm grip and she was holding it as if she knew exactly how to use it. There was frank and undisguised admiration in her eyes as she looked at the flier.

  “Oh, Señor, Craig, you did capture him—Drop that gun!”

  She stepped behind the flier. He felt a sharp stab of pain as the muzzle of her rifle was rammed into his back.

  “What the devil—” the-startled flier gasped.

  “Drop that gun or I’ll shoot!” she answered.

  “But—” Craig choked. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, believe that this girl who seemed to have stepped straight out of a convent—The jab of the rifle against his back told him that another second’s delay would send a bullet crashing through his spinal column: He let Khaki Shirt’s rifle fall to the ground. Khaki Shirt hurriedly leaped forward and picked it up. Pedro seized Craig’s pistol.

  “That was fast thinking,” Khaki Shirt said admiringly to the girl. “You are to be congratulated. Our leader will hear of this.”

  “You little vixen!” Craig gasped. “You were lying to me all the time.”

  “We needed your plane to get our selves and the statuette here,” Lolita Montez said, flushing at his hot tone. “Yes, I lied to you. It was so easy. Show you Americans a pretty face and a curving hip line and you all fall over yourselves to be suckers.”

  “We do, do we?” Craig choked off the hot words. He had been played for a sucker by a girl! That was hard to take but losing his temper would not get him anywhere. “What’s the pay-off on this treachery?” he snapped.

  “The pay-off is millions in Inca gold that is really here,” Lolita Montez answered. “I wasn’t lying to you about that, Señor Craig!”

  “What good will it do you? Even if it is here you can’t get it out of these mountains.”

  “You forget we have your plane,” the girl suavely answered.

  “So what? If you think I’ll fly it for you—”

  Craig was so angry he scarcely heard Khaki Shirt’s voice.

  “Señorita Montez, shall I shoot him now?” Khaki Shirt said.

  “Shoot me?” Craig gasped.

 
Even the girl looked startled. “No,” she said quickly. “It will not be necessary to shoot him.”

  “What kind of a pirate crew do you belong to?” Craig demanded.

  “No pirate crew, sir!” the girl said hotly.

  Another voice spoke, a harsh guttural voice, the voice of Pedro.

  “Shoot him!” the Indian said.

  “No!” Lolita Montez cried sharply. “Yah!” said the Indian.

  Turning, Craig saw that Khaki Shirt was bringing up the rifle for the coldblooded murder of a helpless prisoner. And Khaki Shirt, looked as if he was going to enjoy pulling the trigger of that gun. The sight was sickening.

  With his right hand Craig knocked the rifle upward. Up to the wrist he drove his left fist into Khaki Shirt’s belly. Every ounce of the flier’s weight was behind the blow. The rifle exploded over his shoulder. Khaki Shirt’s mouth flew open.

  “Uck!” he said.

  As he struck the man, Craig was moving. He kept right on moving. Man of War coming down the home stretch never moved faster than did Craig as he dived for the protection of the trees. Pedro had a pistol and a knife, the girl had her light rifle. Pedro might not be able to use the pistol effectively, but Craig was willing to bet the girl could handle the rifle.

  Crack!

  The spiteful crack of the rifle sounded and a bullet screamed past him.

  The distance to the trees was not great. He could make it in seconds. And, if he didn’t make it in seconds, he would never make it.

  The pistol boomed and a slug tore a hole in the air within inches of his head.

  Another ten steps, another five steps! He was among the trees! He was safe. Only a lucky shot could ever hit him here. Dodging among the trees, fighting his way through the tangle of creepers, he kept on running.

  Glancing back, he caught a flash of bronze among the trees.

  Pedro was following him! The Indian was on his trail!

  In a fair fist fight, Craig might be able to whip the Indian. He was a foot taller than Pedro but the Indian was built like a barrel and was unquestionably very strong. Besides, he was armed, and Craig wasn’t. The flier’s only hope was to outdistance him, to lose him in the jungle.

  He fought his way through briars, through creeping vines that tore at him, impeding his progress. A bullet whanged past him. He kept on running. He knew if he didn’t lose Pedro soon, he was done. His breath was coming in gasping heaves and a stitch was beginning to appear in his side.

  He would have preferred to stop and fight but to stop was to invite death. Craig could hear the Indian tearing along behind him, Pedro’s barrel chest, developed in a high altitude, enabled him to keep running forever. He seemed tireless. With every stride he was closing the gap between them. The growing pain in his side warned the flier he could go no farther. His only choice was to stop and fight.

  Ahead was a huge tree. Craig staggered toward it, intending to put his back against it for a last stand. He could run no farther. He knew he was too winded to fight effectively but he had no choice. As he stumbled toward the tree, he saw something that sent his heart up into his mouth. For a second he hesitated, wondered if he really saw what he thought he did.

  Bat Randall was hiding behind the tree. Just the side of his face was projecting around the trunk.

  “Come on, boss,” Randall whispered fiercely, jerking his thumb to show his meaning. “Run him past me.”

  Craig changed his direction, staggered past the tree, stumbled, and fell. Pedro came charging through the underbrush just in time to see the flier trying to get to his feet. With a whoop, the Indian leaped in for the kill.

  As Pedro ran past the tree, Bat Randall stepped out from behind it and hit him over the head with a wrench. The Indian fell like he had been hit with an axe. Sprawling on all fours, he smashed through a tangle of briars and hit the dirt. He didn’t move after he hit. Craig sat down and gasped for breath.

  “Hard head these Indians got,” Bat Randall said, hefting his wrench to see if a second blow was necessary.

  “Is—is he dead?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the mechanic said, regret in his voice. “But he’ll have a headache that will last for years.” Randall appropriated the knife and pistol Pedro had been carrying.

  “Where—where did you come from?” Craig panted. “I saw the plane had been turned inside out—and I thought you were dead.”

  “I was out in the bushes when the lads arrived to take the plane,” Randall said, his tone apologizing for the fact that he hadn’t been in the ship to defend it. “They didn’t see me and since there were four of them, all well armed, and only one of me, I didn’t think it worth while to call attention to my presence. I’ve been hiding out here trying to see what I could see ever since. I tried to find you, but I missed connections, and I was heading back to the ship when all the shooting started. Then I heard you coming through the bulrushes with Chief Knot on the Head here trying to tag you with his scalping knife. Boss; what the hell’s going on in these parts anyhow?”

  “Piracy and murder,” Craig answered bitterly. He told what had happened.

  “So Miss Fancy Pants was taking us for a ride all the time!” Randall said, amazed. “That little witch! I never did trust her. And she really knows where this gold is located! But why didn’t she just pull a gun on us and take over when we first landed? Why did she tag along with you over to the ruins?”

  “I think she was waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive,” Craig answered. “Those four fellows who searched the plane were obviously already here. But she had to give them time to reach the ship. Meanwhile, if she could split us up and take us separately, it would be easier.”

  “Much easier,” Randall agreed. “We’re in a pickle, boss. What the heck are we going to do?”

  “Wait until night and capture our plane,” Craig said grimly. “We’ll fly out of here. When we come back, we’ll have the ship loaded with men we can trust. We can pick up half a dozen Americans in Callao who will like nothing better than to come back here and help us thin out this gang of pirates.”

  “Sorry, boss,” Randall said, shaking his head. “But that idea won’t work.”

  “Why won’t it work? It has to work. We’ve got to get the ship back into our possession. It’s our only way of getting out of this jungle. Don’t you think we can take the ship?”

  “Sure, but it won’t do us any good.”

  “Huh? What the devil are you hinting at?”

  “The four thugs who raided it, took the precaution of removing the points from the distributors,” Randall said. “I was watching them while they did it. Even if we grab the plane, it won’t fly. Boss, we’re stuck here.”

  The plane had been sabotaged. Vital parts had been removed from the mechanism of the motors. Craig and Randall were marooned in a mountain wilderness.

  “Then we’ll have to take the pirates first,” the flier said, getting to his feet. “We’ve got to get those distributor points.” He started toward the ruins of Chianlo. Since the gold was hidden somewhere among the ruins, Lolita Montez and her gang of cut-throat’s would be there too.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Randall asked, pointing to the still unconscious Indian.

  “I’d like to slit his throat,” Craig answered. “But we’ll leave him where he is. That’s all we can do.”

  “Maybe a jaguar will get him tonight,” the mechanic said hopefully.

  CHAPTER IV

  In the Inca Temple

  While Craig and Randall warily made their way through the jungle, the shadows of night lengthened across the mountains. Black tropic darkness had fallen by the time they reached the ruins of Chianlo.

  Across the broken ruins, up near the cliffs, was a moving spot of illumination.

  “What’s that, boss?” Randall whispered.


  “A flashlight,” Craig diagnosed. “That’s where we’re going.”

  In the open space in front of the cliffs where they had discovered the three skeletons they found Lolita Montez. Four men, including Khaki Shirt, whom Craig recognized, were with her. Watching from, the shelter of a huge block of stone, Craig saw that the girl seemed to be taking little part in what was going on. Khaki Shirt was playing the leading role.

  The thug had thrust something into the end of a split stick. Holding the stick over his head, he was walking slowly back and forth along the face of the cliff. Straining his eyes, Craig saw what was in the end of that stick.

  It was the tiny golden jaguar.

  “They look like they’re witching for water,” Randall whispered.

  “I think they’re witching for gold,” Craig answered.

  “A fine chance they’ve got of finding it by witching for it,” Randall grunted.

  “I don’t know,” Craig demurred. “The craftsmen who carved that statuette may have known more than we credit them with. That little golden jaguar may be the key that will reveal—look at that!”

  Held in the end of the stick, the statuette had begun to glow with a dim blue light. The second the light appeared Khaki Shirt shouted with triumph. The others gathered around, him, all of them eagerly staring at the statuette. Closely watching the little golden ornament, Khaki Shirt began to move again.

  When he moved away from the cliff, the glow lessened. When he moved closer to the cliff, the glow brightened.

  “It is the key to the source of the gold we found!” Craig gasped. Wondering how the little ornament worked, he decided it must be similar to an electroscope. “That can’t be right,” he said to himself. “An electroscope is an electrical device, and the Incas knew nothing of electricity. Or did they?”

  “Golly, boss, look at that!” Randall gasped.