“So, professor, you don't believe after all he put on Cesare's skin to stalk us?” queried Standifer.
“James, I don't know what to think,” admitted the savant.
“The whole thing fits in better with my Incan theory,” pressed the engineer. “The half-civilized Indians around here, like Pablo and Cesare, could very easily be afraid of some highly developed branch of the Incans, especially if the Incans were seeking victims to sacrifice to the sun. Under such circumstances it might be necessary to slip on the hide of a half-breed to get near the others.”
“It would also explain why that man ambushed our party when we entered the valley,” added the secretary.
“Thanks, Standifer, for helping me out,” said Pethwick. “It would also show why the peons around here call this the Rio Infiernillo and give it such a wide berth.”
M. Demetriovich pulled his chin.
“Your theory seems to hang together right now,” he admitted. “If you are on the right track, we will have a marvel to report—if we ever get back.”
“Then, too,” went on Pethwick, encouraged, “since the prefect warned us against the valley, it suggests to me there has been something sinister here for years—long before Bolshevism became a power.”
“These are queer theories,” laughed Standifer, “one going to the extremely ancient and the other to the extremely modern.”
During the latter part of this discussion, an atok, a sort of huge native rodent, slithered down the valley past the scientists, dodging from one boulder to another. Now a Peruvian fox whisked past.
The unusual animals passing within a few minutes proved sufficient to draw Pethwick's attention from the subject under discussion. The engineer looked up the stony stretch and a surprising sight filled his eyes.
The whole valley worked with glimpses of flying animals. Rats, hares, civets, what not, darted here and there from covert to covert. Along the edge of the river slunk a panther, making cat-like rushes between hiding-places. The shrill whistle of three frightened deer sounded down the valley.
It seemed as if a wave of fear were depopulating the whole Rio Infiernillo. All the engineer could see was innumerable furtive dodgings. From the dull surface of the river arose a loon, screaming, and it boomed down stream with fear-struck speed. Only one animal fled in the open, a huge black bear with a white muzzle, the ucumari. He was king of the Andes, as the grizzly reigns in the Rockies. He lunged down the middle of the cañón, taking the whole Infernal Valley for his course. He was afraid of nothing in the Sierras—except what was behind him.
The scientists hurried out from in front of the brute and let him lunge by unchallenged. They stared up the burnt valley, marveling at this exodus of animals.
Presently, far away against the blackish stones, Pethwick descried what seemed to be yellow fleas hopping among the boulders.
“That must be what made our pack-animals break loose!” cried the engineer.
“Wonder what they are?” from the author.
“I say it's the devil making a drive,” answered Pablo, crossing himself with fervor.
The animals kept darting past. The distant fleas grew into bugs, then into some sort of animals and at last were defined against the charnel gulch as human beings.
“Jumping Jehosophat!” cried Standifer. “They are those Incans you were talking about, Pethwick. Scores of 'em! They've come for us!”
The secretary stepped around behind a large boulder that hid everything except his head. Others of the expedition followed suit, hardly knowing what to believe.
The approaching party were yellow men. Each one carried something in his hand that flashed like metal. They leaped from boulder to boulder in their chase with amazing activity. The very vicuñas themselves that skittered along the craggy sides of the valley did not exhibit a greater agility.
Pablo Pasca, notwithstanding his belief that all this was a great drive of the devil, nevertheless became excited at the passing game. As one speckled deer came shimmering down through the diamondlike sunshine, Pablo determined to beat Satan out of one carcass, so he leveled his rifle for a shot. The author saw it and put his fingers to his ears to dull the report.
At that moment a voice quite close to the party broke the silence with:
“Don't shoot. There must be no holes in the skins.”
The word “skins” brought the party around with a start. They were nervous on the topic. The secretary, however, still stood with his fingers in his ears, watching deer.
On top of a large boulder, still wearing his look of condescension and amusement, sat the recent prisoner of the expedition, Mr. Three. Since he had flung off Cesare's clothes and skin, the weird creature was without apparel and sat naked in the cold vivid sunshine, his body of a clear yellowish complexion and his large head still painted a coppery red.
It was the most grotesque combination Pethwick could have imagined, but Mr. Three maintained a perfect composure, dignity—and condescension. His painted face had the faintly amused expression of a man watching the antics of, say, some pet goats.
The fellow's body suggested to Pethwick a ripe pear or yellow peach. His hands and feet were disagreeably small—sure sign of ancient and aristocratic blood. He must have slipped right through the manacles the moment his captors turned their backs. In one hand he held a small metallic rod.
Pethwick stared at the remarkable transformation and finally blurted out:
“Did you break loose from the handcuffs and set fire to our tent?”
“The fire was quite accidental,” assured the man from One. “I did it with this focusing-rod when I got rid of your quaint old manacles.”
