He was no longer a young man, and the ascent would be perilous without the equipment used by modern rock climbers. But he had set himself to the task and was not about to back down. Too many of his people were counting on him.
About a third of the way up the south wall his heart hammered against his ribs and his lungs ached from the grueling, effort. He could have stopped to rest and catch his breath, but he pushed on, determined to reach the peak without pause. He turned and gazed down only once, checking his Ford pickup truck parked at the base of the mountain. It looked like a toy he could reach down and snatch up with one hand. He looked back at the cliff face. It was changing colors under the setting sun, from amber to tile red.
Billy regretted not starting out earlier in the day, but he had chores to complete, and the sun was high when he drove to the mountain and began his ascent. Now the orange ball was creeping below the ridge of the Sierra de Juarez mountains to the west. The climb was more difficult than he had imagined and was taking far longer. He tilted his head, shaded his eyes against the brightness of the sky, and squinted up toward the cone top of the mountain. He still had 85 meters (278 feet) to go, and full darkness was only a half hour away. The prospect of spending the night with the great stone beast filled him with foreboding, but it would have been suicidal to attempt the descent in the dark.
Billy was a small man of fifty-five. But a life spent ranching in the harsh climate of the Sonora Desert had made him as hard and tough as an old cast-iron frying pan. Perhaps his joints were not as flexible as they were the day he won a bronco riding contest in Tucson, nor did he move with the agility of the boy who was once the fastest cross-country runner in the tribe, nor did he have the stamina, but he was still as tough as an aging mountain goat.
The whites of his eyes were yellowed and the rims reddened from ignoring the onslaught of the desert sun all his life and never wearing sunglasses. He had a round brown face with a strong jaw, straggly gray eyebrows, and thick black hair-the kind of face that seemed expressionless but revealed deep character and an insight into nature rarely understood by anyone who was not a Native American.
A shadow and a cold breeze suddenly passed over him. He shuddered from the unexpected chill. Was it a spirit? Where did they come from, he wondered. Could it be his brother was trying to make him, fall to the rocks far below? Maybe the great stone beast knew he was approaching and was issuing a warning. Beset with foreboding, Billy kept on climbing, teeth clenched, staring only at the vertical rock before his eyes.
Fortunately, others who went before him had chiseled foot- and handholds on the steeper face of the wall near the summit. He could see they were very old by the rounded smoothness of their edges. Within 50 meters (164 feet) of his goal, he entered a rock chimney that had split away from the wall, leaving a trail of loose and shattered stone inside a wide crack that slanted a little more gently and made the climb a fraction less tiring.
At last, just as his muscles were tightening and he was losing all feeling in his legs, the rock wall gave way to an easy incline, and he crawled onto the open surface of the peak. He rose to his feet as the final light of day faded, breathing deeply, inhaling the cool, pure air of the desert He rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants to remove the dirt and grit and stared at the shadow of the demon looming in the growing darkness. Though it was carved from the rock of the mountain, Billy swore that it glowed. He was tired and sore, but strangely he felt no fear of the time-worn effigy, despite the tales about how the restless spirits who were denied entry into the afterworld walked the haunted mountain.
He saw no sign of fearsome creatures lurking in the dark. Except for the jaguar with the serpent's head, the mountain was empty. Billy spoke out.
"I have come."
There was no answer. The only sounds came from the wind and the beat from the wings of a hawk. No eerie cries from the tormented souls of the underworld.
"I have climbed the enchanted mountain to pray to you," he said.
Still no sign or reply, but a chill went up his spine as he felt a presence. He heard voices speaking in a strange tongue. None of the words were familiar. Then he saw shadowy figures take shape.
The people were visible but transparent. They appeared to be moving about the mesa, taking no notice d Billy, walking around and through him as if it were he who did not exist. Their clothes were unfamiliar, not the brief cotton loincloths or rabbit-skin cloaks of his ancestors. These people were dressed as gods. Golden helmets adorned with brilliantly colored birds' feathers covered most of the phantoms' heads, while those who went bareheaded wore their hair in strange distinctive fashions. Their bodies were clothed with textiles Billy had never seen. The knotted mantles that draped over their shoulders and the tunics worn underneath were decorated with incredibly ornate and beautiful designs.
After a long minute the strange people seemed to dissolve and their voices ceased. Billy stood as still and silent as the rock beneath his feet. Who were these strange people who paraded before his eyes? Was this an open door to the spirit world, he wondered.
He moved closer to the stone monster, reached out a trembling hand and touched its flank. The ancient rock felt disturbingly hotter than it should have been from the day's heat. Then, incredibly, an eye seemed to pop open on the serpent's face, an eye with an unearthly light behind it.
Terror stirred through Billy's mind, but he was determined not to flinch. Later, he would be accused of an overactive imagination. But he swore a thousand times before his own death many years later that he had seen the demon stare at him from a sparkling eye. He summoned up his courage, dropped to his knees and spread out his hands. Then he began to pray. He prayed to the stone effigy through most of the night before falling into a trancelike sleep. `
In the morning, as the sun rose and painted the clouds with a burst of gold, Billy Yuma awoke and looked around. He found himself lying across the front seat of his Ford pickup truck on the floor of the desert, far below the silent beast of the mountain that stared sightlessly across the dry waste.
Joseph Zolar stood at the head of the golden suit, watching Henry and Micki Moore huddle over the computer and laser printer. After four days of round-the-clock study, they had reduced the images from symbols to descriptive words and concise phrases.
There was a fascination about the way they snatched up the sheets as they rolled out onto the printer's tray, excitedly analyzing their conclusions as a wall clock ticked off the remaining minutes of their lives. They went about their business as if the men behind the ski masks did not exist.
Henry labored in focused dedication. His world existed in just one narrow hall of academia. Like most university professors of anthropology and archaeology, he labored for prestige, because financial wealth eluded him. He had pieced together potsherds and had written a prodigious number of books that few read and even fewer paid good money to own. Published with small print runs, all his works ended up gathering dust in the basements of college libraries. Ironically, the fame and the honors that he foresaw would be heaped upon him as the interpreter, and perhaps discoverer, of Huascar's treasure meant more to him than mere monetary returns.
At first the Zolars found Micki Moore sexually appealing. But soon her indifference toward them became imitating. It was obvious that she loved her husband and had little interest in anyone else. They lived and worked together in a world of their own making.
Joseph Zolar would suffer little remorse over their termination. He had dealt with disgusting and despicable sellers and collectors over the years, and hardened criminals as well, but these two people were an enigma to him. He no longer cared what form of execution his brothers had in mind for them. All that mattered now was that the Moores come up with concise and accurate directions to Huascar's golden chain.
Wearing the ski masks had been a waste of time, but they kept them on during the entire time they were in the Moores' presence. It was obvious the Moores did not intimidate easily.
Zolar looked at Henry
Moore and attempted a smile. It wasn't very successful. "Have you finished decoding the symbols?" he asked hopefully.
Moore winked foxlike at his wife and gave her a smug grin before turning to Zolar. "We are finished. The story we have deciphered is one of great drama and human endurance. Our unraveling of the images and successful translation greatly expands the current knowledge of the Chachapoyas. And it will rewrite every text ever written on the Inca."
"So much for modesty," said Samson sarcastically.
"Do you know precisely where the treasure is buried?" Charles Oxley asked.
Henry Moore shrugged. "I can't say precisely."
Sarason moved forward, tight-lipped and angry. "I'd like to ask if our illustrious code breakers have the slightest idea in hell what they're doing?"
"What do you want?" Moore stated coldly. "An arrow that points to X marks the spot?"
"Yes, dammit, that's exactly what we want!"
Zolar smiled condescendingly. "Let's get down to the hard facts, Dr. Moore. What can you tell us?"
"You'll be happy to learn," Micki Moore answered for her husband, "that, incredible as it sounds, the golden chain is only a small part of the treasure's stockpile. The inventory my husband and I have deciphered records at least another forty or more tons of ceremonial ornaments and vessels, headdresses, breastplates, necklaces, and solid gold and silver objects that each took ten men to carry. There were also massive bundles of sacred textiles, at least twenty golden-cased mummies, and over fifty ceramic pots filled with precious gems. If given more time we can give you a complete breakdown."
Zolar, Sarason, and Oxley stared at Micki, their eyes unblinking through the masks, their expressions of insatiable greed well hidden. For several moments there wasn't a sound except their breathing and the whir of the printer. Even for men used to dealing in million-dollar sums, the extent of Huascar's golden wealth went far beyond their wildest imaginings.
"You paint a glowing picture," said Zolar finally. "But do the symbols on the mummy's case tell us where the treasure is buried?"
"It's not buried in the strict sense of the word," said Henry Moore.
He stared at Zolar, waiting for him to react to his statement. Zolar stood there impassively.
"According to the narrative engraved on the suit," Moore explained, "the hoard was secreted in a cavern on a river--"
Sarason's eyes flashed with sudden disappointment. "Any cavern by a well-traveled river would have been discovered long before now, and the treasure removed."
Oxley shook his head. "It's not likely a golden chain that took two hundred men to lift could have vanished a second time."
"Nor an inventory as vast as the Moores describe," added Zolar. "As an acknowledged expert on Inca antiquities I'd be aware of any artifacts identified as belonging to Huascar that have made their way onto the market. No one who discovered such a cache could keep it secret."
"Maybe we've placed too much trust in the good doctor and his wife," said Sarason. "How do we know they're not leading us down the garden path?"
"Who are you to talk about trust?" Moore said quietly. "You lock my wife and me inside this concrete dungeon without windows for four days, and you don't trust us? You people must enjoy childish games."
"You have no grounds for complaint," Oxley told him. "You and Mrs. Moore are being paid extremely well."
Moore gave Oxley an impassive look. "As I was about to say, after the Incas and their Chachapoyan guards deposited Huascar's vast store of treasure in the cavern, they covered the entrance to a long passageway that led to it. Then they blended the soil and rocks to make it look natural and planted native plants over the area to make certain the passage to the cavern was never found again.
"Is there a description of the terrain around the entrance to the cavern?" Zolar asked.
"Only that it is on a rounded peak of a steep-sided island in an inland sea."
"Wait a moment," snapped Oxley. "You said the cavern was near a river."
Moore shook his head. "If you had listened, you'd have heard me say, the cavern was on a river."
Sarason stared angrily at Moore. "What ridiculous myth are you handing us? A cavern on a river on an island in an inland sea? Took a wrong turn in your translation, didn't you, Doc?"
"There is no mistake," said Moore firmly. "Our analysis is correct."
"The use of the word river could be purely symbolic," suggested Micki Moore.
"So could the island," Sarason retorted.
"Perhaps you'd get a better perspective if you heard our entire interpretation," offered Henry Moore.
"Please spare us the details," said Zolar. "We're already familiar with how Huascar smuggled his kingdom's treasury from under the collective noses of his brother Atahualpa and Francisco Pizarro. Our only interest is the direction General Naymlap sailed the treasure fleet and the exact location where he hid the hoard."
The Moores exchanged glances. Micki gave Henry an affirmative nod, and he turned to Zolar. "A11 right, since we're partners." He paused to scan a page rolled out by the printer. "The pictographs on the suit tell us that the treasure was carried to a coastal port and loaded on a great number of ships. The voyage north lasted a total of eighty-six days. The final twelve days were spent sailing across an inland sea until they came to a small island with high, steep walls that rose out of the water like a great stone temple. There, the Incas beached their ships, unloaded the treasure and carried it down a passageway to a cavern deep inside the island. At this point, however you interpret it, the glyphs claim the gold hoard was stashed beside the banks of a river."
Oxley unrolled a map of the Western Hemisphere and traced the sea route from Peru past Central America and along the Pacific coast of Mexico. "The inland sea must be the Gulf of California."
"Better known as the Sea of Cortez," added Moore.
Sarason also studied the map. "I agree. From the tip of Baja to Peru it's all open water."
"What about islands?" asked Zolar.
"At least two dozen, maybe more," replied Oxley.
"It would take years to search them all."
Sarason picked up and read the final page of the Moores' translation of the glyphs. Then he stared coldly at Henry Moore. "You're holding out, my friend. The images on the golden suit have to give exact guidelines to finding the treasure. No map worth the paper it's printed on stops short of pinning down the final step-by-step instructions."
Zolar carefully examined Moore's expression. "Is this true, Doctor, that you and your wife have not provided us with a full solution to the riddle?"
"Micki and I have decoded all there is to decode. There is no more."
"You're lying," said Zolar evenly.
"Of course he's lying," Sarason snapped. "Any moron can see that he and his wife have held back the vital clues."
"Not a sound course, Doctor. You and Mrs. Moon would be wise to abide by our agreement."
Moore shrugged. "I'm not such a fool as you think," he said. "The fact that you still refuse to identify your selves tells me the three of you don't have the slightest intention of carrying out our bargain. What guarantee do I have that you'll hold up your end? Nobody, not even our friends and relatives, knows where we were taken. Bringing us here wearing blindfolds and holding us virtual prisoners is nothing less than abduction. What were you going to do once the full instructions for finding Huascar's treasure were in your hands? Blindfold us again and fly us home? I don't think so. My guess is Micki and I were going to quietly disappear and become a folder in a missing persons file. You tell me, am I wrong?"
If Moore wasn't such an intelligent man, Zolar would have laughed. But the anthropologist had seen through their plan and called their hand. "All right, Doctor, what will it take for you to release the data?"
"Fifty percent of the trove when we find it."
That pushed Sarason over the edge. "The bastard, he's holding us up." He walked over to Moore, lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the wall. "So much fo
r your demands," he shouted. "We're not taking any more of your crap. Tell us what we want to know or I'll beat it out of you. And believe you me, I'd take great joy in seeing you bleed."
Micki Moore stood there, as calm as if she was standing over a stove in a kitchen. Her uncanny coolness did not seem logical to Zolar. Any other wife would have demonstrated fear at a violent threat toward her husband.
Incredibly, Moore smiled. "Do it! Break my legs, kill me. And you'll never find Huascar's golden chain in a thousand years."
"He's right, you know," said Zolar, quietly gazing at Micki.
"When I'm finished with him, he won't be fit for dog food," Sarason said as he pulled back his fist.
"Hold on!" Oxley's voice stopped him. "For efficiency's sake, better that you take your wrath out on Mrs. Moore. No man enjoys watching his wife ravished."
Slowly, Sarason let Moore down and turned to Micki, his face taking on the expression of a pillaging Hun. "Persuading Mrs. Moore to cooperate will be a pleasure."
"You're wasting your time," said Moore. "I did not allow my wife to work on the final translation with me. She has no idea of the key to the treasure's location."
"The hell you say?"
"He's telling the truth," Micki said, unruffled. "Henry wouldn't allow me to see the end results."
"We're still left with a winning hand," said Sarason coldly.
"Understood," said Oxley. "You work over Mrs. Moore as proposed until he cooperates,"
"Either way, we get answers."
Zolar stared at Moore. "Well, Doctor, it's your call."
Moore looked at them in cold calculation. "Do with her what you will. It won't make any difference."
A strange silence came over the Zolar brothers. Sarason, the grittiest of them all, stood open-mouthed, disbelieving. What sort of man could calmly, without the slightest hint of shame or fear, toss his wife to the wolves?
Inca Gold dp-12 Page 27
