out, and a new one in.
'That's what it would mean if you refuse to respect American property. And if this land concession isn't American property, I'm a string on Nero's fiddle.'
Don Rubio's swarthy face was flushed a smudgy purple, even to his pointed ears. His hands trembled with rage — and worry. He knew all Ham was telling him was true. Uncle Sam was not somebody to be fooled with. He seized desperately at a straw.
'We cannot recognize your right because there is no record in our archives!' he said wildly.
Ham slapped Doc's papers on the desk. 'These are record enough. Somebody has destroyed the others. I'll tell you something else — there are some people who will go to any length to keep us away from this land. They've made attacks on us — no doubt they destroyed the papers.'
As he made that statement, Ham watched Don Rubio intently. He felt there was something behind Don Rubio's attitude, had felt that from the first. Ham believed Don Rubio was either one of the gang trying to keep Doc from his heritage, or had been hired by the gang. And Don Rubio's agitation tended to corroborate Ham's suspicion.
'It's going to be just too bad for whoever is causing the trouble!' Ham stated. 'We'll get them in the end.'
Various emotions played on Don Rubio's too-handsome, swarthy face. He was scared, worried. But gradually a desperate determination came uppermost He clipped his lips together, shot out his jaw, and offered his final word.
'There is nothing more to be said! You have no claim to that land. That's final!'
Ham twiddled his cane and smiled ominously. 'It will take me just about one hour to get a radio message to Washington,' he promised grimly. 'Then, my friend, you'll see more diplomatic lightning strike around you than you ever saw before!'
Leaving the government building, Ham and Monk ascertained the location of the radio station and set a course for it. Darkness had arrived while they were talking to Don Rubio. The city, quiet during the heat of the afternoon when they had entered, was awakening. Carriages occupied by staid Castjiians, the blue blood of these southern republics, clattered over the rough streets. Here and there was an American car.
'You talked kinda tough to that Don Rubio gink, didn't you?' Monk suggested. '1 thought you was always supposed to be polite to these Spaniards. Maybe if you'd handled him with gloves on, you'd have got somewhere.'
'Hur-r-rump!' said Ham in his best courtroom manner. 'I know how to handle men! That fellow Don Rubio has no principles. I give politeness where politeness is due. And it is never due a crook!'
'You said a mouthful!' rumbled Monk, for once forgetting himself and agreeing with Ham.
They soon found the anglings and meanderings of Blanco Grande streets most bewildering. They had been told the radio station and message office was but a few hundred yards' walk. But when they had covered that distance, there was no sign of any radio station.
'Fooey — we're lost!' Monk grunted, and looked about for some one to accost regarding directions.
There was only one man in the street, a shabby side thoroughfare in what, as they only now perceived, was a none-too-savory-looking part of Blanco Grande. The sole pedestrian was ahead of them, loitering along as though he had no place to go, and plenty of time to reach there.
He was a broad-backed fellow with a short body and a block of a head. He wore dungarees, a bright-green calico shirt, and no shoes. His head, ludicrously enough, was topped with a rusty black derby.
He had his hands in his pockets.
Ham and Monk overhauled the loafer.
'Can you direct us to the radio station?' Ham asked in Spanish.
'Si, senor!' replied the loafer. 'Better yet, for a half a peso I will guide you there myself.'
Ham, baffled by the crookedness of the Blanco Grande streets, thought it cheap at the price. He hired the native on the spot.
Not once did the stocky, ill-clad fellow take his hands out of his pockets. But Ham and Monk thought nothing of that, passing it up as laziness on their guide's part.
If anything, the streets which they now traversed became more offensive to the eye and nostril. Stale fruit odors came from the darkened mud houses, mingling with the far from weak smell of unwashed humanity.
'Strange district for a radio station,' Monk muttered, beginning at last to get suspicious.
'Only a little distance now, senor!' murmured their guide.
Monk, studying the man's plumpness, his curving nose, his prominent lips, was struck by something vaguely familiar. It was as though he had known the guide, or one of his relatives. Monk cudgeled his brains, trying to place the fellow.
And then the whole thing became unpleasantly clear!
Their guide halted suddenly. He pulled his hands from his pockets. The finger tips were stained red for an inch of their length!
The fellow released a loud shout. Instantly from every doorway and darkened cranny for yards around, shadowy forms sprang.
They had been trapped!
Monk emitted a great howl. Monk's fights were always noisy, unless there was reason for them being quiet. Like a gladiator of old, Monk fought best when the racket was loudest.
Knives glittered in the dark. Sandals, made of tapir hide and held on with coarse henequin rope, slammed the cobbles.
Monk lunged and got the man who had been their guide by the nape and the seat of his dungaree pants. As though he were a straw, Monk whirled the man up and back, let him fly. The victim screamed in a strange tongue. A clot of the attackers went down like ten-pins before his hurtling body.
The scream, the ex-guide's red finger tips, told Monk something. The man was a Mayan! The same race as the fellow who had committed suicide in New York! That was why he seemed familiar.
Like the gigantic anthropoid he resembled, Monk went into action. His first fist blow jammed a ratty, dark- skinned man's jaw back under his ear. The fellow dropped, convulsively throwing his knife high in the air.
Ham, dancing like a fencer, tapped a swarthy skull with his sword cane. The cane looked very light, but the tube-like case over the long, keen blade of steel was heavy. The blade itself was by no means light.
As the first assailant went over backward, Ham unsheathed his sword cane. He expertly skewered a fellow who tried to stab him.
But where one besieger went down, a half dozen took his place. The street was full of snarling, vicious devils. None of these had red finger tips, or even resembled Mayans.
The one who was a Mayan, their late guide, had regained his feet, dazed.
Men were clinging like leeches to Monk. One sailed fully ten feet straight up when Monk threw him off. But suddenly, weighted by hopeless odds, Monk went down.
Ham with his sword in another unlucky one, was overcome an instant later.
A resounding blow delivered on the head of each one rendered Monk and Ham senseless.
Monk's awakening was one long blaze of pain. He rolled his eyes. He was in a mud-walled, mud-floored room. There was not a single window, and the one door was low and narrow. Monk tried to sit up and found himself tied hand and foot — not with rope, but with heavy wire.
Ham sprawled near by on his back. Ham was also wired.
The red-fingered Mayan was bending over Ham. He had just appropriated Ham's papers — Doc's sole documentary proof to his ownership of the tract of land in interior Hidalgo.
Evidently he had been after these. He hissed a number of words in Mayan, which neither Ham nor Monk understood. It didn't sound complimentary, whatever it was.
The Mayan whipped a knife from inside his bright-green shirt.
But even as his knife started up, he seemed to get a more satisfactory thought. From within the capacious green shirt he drew an evil-looking little statuette. The features carved on this faintly resembled those of a human being, a tremendously long nose being most notable. It was artfully sculptured out of a dark obsidian rock.
The Mayan mumbled words, and there had suddenly come into his voice a religious fervor. Monk caught the name 'Kukulcan' a time or two, and recognized it as the name of an ancient Mayan deity. The fellow was going to
