happen? Let's watch for the water to drain suddenly away.'
But the great stream continued to spout unabated out of the hole. With an exclamation, Torres pointed to the wall, an apparently solid portion of which was slowly rising.
'The way out,' said Torres.
'In, as the old man said,' Francis corrected. 'Well, anyway, let's start.'
All were through and well along the narrow passage beyond, when the old Maya, crying, 'My son!' turned and ran back.
The section of wall was already descending into its original place, and the priest had to crouch low in order to pass it. A moment later, it stopped in its old position. So accurately was it contrived and fitted that it immediately shut off the stream of water which had been flowing out of the idol room.
Outside, save for a small river of water that flowed out of the base of the cliff, there were no signs of what was vexing the interior of the mountain. Henry and Ricardo, arriving, noted the stream, and Henry observed:
'That's something new. There wasn't any stream of water here when I left.'
A minute later he was saying, as he looked at a fresh slide of rock: 'This was the entrance to the cave. Now there is no entrance. I wonder where the others are.'
As if in answer, out of the mountain, borne by the spouting stream, shot the body of a man. Henry and Ricardo pounced upon it and dragged it clear. Recognizing it for the priest,
Henry laid him face downward, squatted astride of him, and proceeded to give him the first aid for the drowned.
Not for ten minutes did the old man betray signs of life, and not until after another ten minutes did he open his eyes and look wildly about.
'Where are they?' Henry asked.
The old priest muttered in Maya, until Henry shook more thorough consciousness into him.
'Gone all gone,' he gasped in Spanish.
'Who?' Henry demanded, shook memory into the resuscitated one, and demanded again.
'My son; Chia slew him. Chia slew my son, as she slew them all.
'Who are the rest?'
Followed more shakings and repetitions of the question.
'The rich young Gringo who befriended my son, the enemy of the rich young Gringo whom men call Torres, and the young woman of the Solanos who was the cause of all that happened. I warned you. She should not have come. Women are always a curse in the affairs of men. By her presence, Chia, who is likewise a woman, was made angry. The tongue of Chia is a viperine. By her tongue Chia struck and slew my son, and the mountain vomited the ocean upon us there in the heart of the mountain, and all are dead, slain by Chia. Woe is me! I have angered the gods. Woe is me I Woe is me! And woe upon all who would seek the sacred treasure to filch it from the gods of Maya!'
CHAPTER XVI
MIDWAY between the out-bursting stream of water and the rock-slide, Henry and Eicardo stood in hurried debate. Beside them, crouched on the ground, moaned and prayed the last priest of the Mayas. From him, by numerous shakings that served to clear his addled old head, Henry had managed to extract a rather vague account of what had occurred inside the mountain.
Only his son was bitten and fell into that hole,' Henry reasoned hopefully.
'That's right,' Eicardo concurred. 'He never saw any damage, beyond a wetting, happen to the rest of them,'
And they may be, right now, high up above the floor in some chamber,' Henry went on. 'Now, if we could attack the slide, we might open up the cave and drain the water off. If they're alive they can last for many days, for lack of water is what kills quickly, and they've certainly more water than they know what to do with. They can get along without food for a long time. But what gets me is how Torres got inside with them.'
Wonder if he wasn't responsible for that attack of the Caroos upon us,' Eicardo suggested.
But Henry scouted the idea.
'Anyway,' he said, 'that isn't the present proposition which proposition is: how to get inside that mountain on the chance that they are still alive. You and I couldn't go through that slide in a month. If we could get fifty men to help, night and day shifts, we might open her up in fortyeight hours. So, the primary thing is to get the men. Here's what we must do. I'll take a mule and beat it back to that Caroo community and promise them the contents of one of Francis' check-books if they will come and help. Failing that, I can get up a crowd in San Antonio. So here's where I pull out on the run. In the meantime, you can work out trails and bring up all the mules, peons, grub and camp equipment. Also, keep your ears to the cliff they might start signalling through it with tappings.'
Into the village of the Caroos Henry forced his mule much to the reluctance of the mule, and equally as much to the astonishment of the Caroos, who thus saw their stronghold invaded single-handed by one of the party they had attempted to annihilate. They squatted about their doors and loafed in the sunshine, under a show of lethargy hiding the astonishment that tingled through them and almost put them on their toes. As has been ever the way, the very daring of the white man, over savage and mongrel breeds, in this instance stunned the Caroos to inaction. Only a man, they could not help but reason in their slow way, a superior man, a noble or over-riding man, equipped with potencies beyond their dreaming, could dare to ride into their strength of numbers on a fagged and mutinous mule.
They spoke a mongrel Spanish which he could understand, and, in turn, they understood his Spanish; but what he told them concerning the disaster in the sacred mountain had no effect of rousing them. With impassive faces, shrugging shoulders of utmost indifference, they listened to his proposition of a rescue and promise of high pay for their time.
'If a mountain has swallowed up the Gringos, then is it the will of God, and who are we to interfere between God and His will?' they replied. 'We are poor men, but we care not to work for any man, nor do we care to make war upon God. Also, it was the Gringos' fault. This is not their country. They have no right here playing pranks on our mountains. Their troubles are between them and God. We have troubles enough of our own, and our wives are unruly.'
Long after the siesta hour, on his third and most reluctant mule, Henry rode into sleepy San Antonio. In the main street, midway between the court and the jail, he pulled up at sight of the Jefe Politico and the little fat old judge, with, at their heels, a dozen gendarmes and a couple of wretched prisoners runaway peons from the henequen plantations at Santos. While the judge and the Jefe listened to Henry's tale and appeal for help, the Jefe gave one slow wink to the judge, who was his judge, his creature, body and soul of him.
'Yes, certainly we will help you,' the Jefe said at the end, stretching his arms and yawning. 'How soon can we get the men together and start?' Henry demanded eagerly.
'As for that, we are very busy are we not, honorable judge?' the Jefe replied with lazy insolence.
'We are very busy,' the judge yawned into Henry's face.
'Too busy for a time,' the Jefe went on. 'We regret that not to-morrow nor next day shall we be able to try and rescue your Gringos. Now, a little later…'
'Say next Christmas,' the judge suggested.
'Yes,' concurred the Jefe with a grateful bow. 'About next Christmas come around and see us, and, if the pressure of our affairs has somewhat eased, then, maybe possibly, we shall find it convenient to go about beginning to attempt to raise the expedition you have requested. In the meantime, good day to you, Senor Morgan.'
'You mean that?' Henry demanded with wrathful face.
'The very face he must have worn when he slew Senor Alfaro Solano treacherously from the back,' the Jefe soliloquized ominously.
But Henry ignored the later insult.
'I'll tell you what you are,' he flamed in righteous wrath.
'Beware!' the judge cautioned him.
'I snap my fingers at you,'' Henry retorted. 'You have no power over me. I am a full-pardoned man by the
