The Web of the Golden Spider

by Frederick Orin Bartlett

  CHAPTER XIX

  _The Spider and the Fly_

  The sun came warmly out of a clear sky as they filed out of thesleeping town. To the natives and the guide they passed readily enoughas American prospectors and so excited no great amount of interest.The first stage of their journey was as pleasant as a holidayexcursion. Their course lay through the wooded foothills which liebetween the shore and the barren desert. The Cordilleras majestic,white capped, impressive, are, nevertheless, veritable hogs. Theydrink up all the moisture and corral all the winds from this smallstrip which lies at their feet. Scarcely once in a year do they sparea drop of rain for these lower planes. And so within sight of theirwhite summits lies this stretch of utter desolation.

  It was not until the end of the first day's journey that they reachedthis barren waste. To the Spanish looters this strip of burning white,so oddly located, must have seemed a barrier placed by Nature toprotect her stores of gold beyond. But it doubtless only spurred themon. They passed this dead level in a day and a half of suffocatingplodding, and so reached the second lap of their journey.

  The trail lies broad and smooth along the lower ranges, for, evenneglected as it has been for centuries, it still stands a tribute tothe marvelous skill of those early engineers. The two men trudged onside by side climbing ever higher in a clean, bracing atmosphere. Itwould have been plodding work to any who had lesser things at stake,but as it was the days passed almost as in a dream. With each step,Wilson felt his feet growing lighter. There was a firmness about hismouth and a gladness in his eyes which had not been there until now.

  On the third day they reached the highest point of the trail andstarted down. Both men had felt the effects of the thin air during thelast twelve hours and so the descent came as a welcome relief. Theycamped that night among trees and in an atmosphere that relieved theirtired lungs. They also built the first fire they had lighted since thestart and enjoyed a hot meal of coffee and toasted porkscraps. Theyfound the steep downward trail to be about as difficult as the upwardone, as they were forced to brace themselves at every step. By nightthey had come to the wooded slopes of the table-lands below, supportedby the mighty buttresses of the Andes. It was a fair land in whichthey found themselves--a land which, save for the vista of snow-cappedsummits and the lesser volcanic peaks, might have passed for a fertileNorthern scene. It was at about sunset that they stopped and Gaspar,the guide, pointed to a spindle lava top against the sky.

  "Up there," he informed them, "is the lake of Guadiva. Some say it isthere that the great treasure lies."

  "So? What treasure?" asked Stubbs, innocently.

  "The treasure of the Gilded God which these people worship."

  Stubbs listened once again to the story which he had already heard adozen times. But it came with fresh interest when told within sight ofits setting. Then he stared at it until the dark blotted it out. Andafter that he lighted his pipe and stared at where he had last seenit. Below them a few fires burned in the darkness showing through thewindows of the adobe huts.

  The next morning they dismissed their guide, as it would be impossibleto use him further without revealing the object of their journey. BothStubbs and Wilson were anxious to push forward to the lake withoutdelay and resolved to reach if possible their goal by night. Theyfigured that as the crow flies it could not be more than twenty-fivemiles distant. The trail was direct and well enough marked and finallybrought them to the village of Soma which is within eight miles of thebase of the cone. Here, for the first time since they started, theyhad a glimpse of the natives. As they entered the small village ofadobe huts they were surrounded by a group of the beardless brown men.In a few minutes their number had increased till they formed acomplete circle some ten men deep. They did not seem unfriendly, butas they stood there chattering among themselves they made no motionto open a path for the travelers. They were ordinarily a peacefulpeople--these of the valley of the Jaula--and certainly in appearancelooked harmless enough. Yet there was no doubt but what now they haddeliberately blocked the path of these two.

  Wilson looked to Stubbs.

  "What does this mean?"

  "Looks as though we had been brought to anchor. D' ye know 'nuffSpanish to say 'Howdy' to 'em?"

  "Perhaps a few presents would talk better?"

  "Too many of 'em. Try your parley-vous."

  "Might move ahead a bit first and see what happens."

  "Then get a grip on your gun, m' boy."

  "No," objected Wilson, sharply. "You'd have a fight in a minute. Moveahead as though we did not suspect we were checked."

  He flicked the haunches of the leading burro and the patient animalstarted automatically. But soon his nose reached the breast of animpassive brown man. Wilson stepped forward.

  "Greeting," he said in Spanish.

  He received no response.

  "Greetings to the chief. Gifts for the chief," he persisted.

  The eyes of the little man in front of him blinked back with noinkling of what lay behind them. It was clear that this was apreconceived, concerted movement. It looked more serious. But Stubbscalled cheerily to him:

  "See here, m' boy, there's one thing we can do; wait for _them_ tomake a move. Sit down an' make yerself comfortable an' see whathappens."

  They gathered the six burros into a circle, tied them with their headstogether and then squatted back to back upon the ground beside them.Stubbs drew out his pipe, filled, and lighted it.

  "Keep yer gun within reach," he warned in an undertone to Wilson."Maybe they don't mean no harm; maybe they does. We'll make 'em payheavy fer what they gits from us, anyhow."

  The surrounding group watched them with silent interest, but at theend of a half hour during which nothing happened more exciting thanthe relighting of Stubbs' pipe, they appeared uneasy. They found thestrangers as stoical as the burros. Many of the men lounged off, buttheir places were promptly filled by the women and children so thatthe circle remained intact. Wilson grew impatient.

  "It would be interesting to know whether or not we are prisoners," hegrowled.

  "When yer feel like beginnin' the row we can find out that."

  "I should feel as though shooting at children to fire into thiscrowd."

  "Thet's what they be--jus' so many naked kids; but Lord, they canswing knives like men if they're like sim'lar children I've seen."

  "We're losing valuable time. We might make another move and try toshoulder our way through until the knives appear and then----"

  He was interrupted by a movement in the crowd. The men fell back tomake a path for a tall, lank figure who stepped forward with some showof dignity. Both Wilson and Stubbs exclaimed with one breath:

  "The Priest!"

  To Wilson he was the man who had tried to kill him in the dark, theman again whom he in his turn had tried to kill. He reached for hisholster, but he saw that even now the man did not recognize him. Thepriest, however, had detected the movement.

  "There are too many of us," he smiled, raising a warning finger. "Butno harm is meant."

  Save for the second or two he had seen him during the fight, this wasthe first time Wilson had ever had an opportunity to study the manclosely. He was puzzled at first by some look in the man's face whichhaunted him as though it bore some resemblance to another face. It didnot seem to be any one feature,--he had never before seen in anyonesuch eyes; piercing, troubled dark eyes, moving as though never atease; he had never seen in anyone such thin, tight lips drawn over theteeth as in a man with pain. The nose was normal enough and thecheek-bones high, but the whole expression of the face was one ofanxious intensity, of fanatical ardor, with, shadowing it all, an airof puzzled uncertainty. Everything about the man was more or less of ajumbled paradox; he was dressed like a priest, but he looked like aman of the world; he was clearly a native in thought and action, buthe looked more like an American. He stared at Stubbs as thoughbewildered and unable to place him. Then his face cleared.

  "Where is your master?" he demanded.

 
; "The cap'n?" growled Stubbs, anything but pleased at the form andmanner of the question. "I'm not his keeper and no man is my master."

  "Does he live?"

  Briefly Wilson told of what had been done with Danbury. The Priestlistened with interest. Then he asked:

  "And your mission here?"

  Before Wilson could frame a reply, the Priest waved his handimpatiently to the crowd which melted away.

  "Come with me," he said. "I am weary and need to rest a little."

  The Priest preceded them through the village and to an adobe hut whichstood at a little distance from the other houses and was furtherdistinguished by being surrounded by green things. It was astory-and-a-half-high structure, thatched with straw.

  On the way Wilson managed to whisper to Stubbs:

  "Let me do the talking."

  The latter nodded surlily.

  Before entering the hut the Priest gave an order to two of hisfollowers to look after the animals. He caught a suspicious glancefrom Stubbs as the native led them away.

  "The brutes look thirsty and I told the boy to give them food anddrink. The Sun God loves all dumb things."

  The room in which they found themselves contained no furniture otherthan a table, a few chairs, and against one wall a bunk covered with acoarse blanket. The floor was of hard clay and uncovered. From oneside of the room there led out a sort of anteroom, and from here hebrought out a bottle of wine with three wooden goblets.

  The afternoon sun streamed in at the open windows, throwing a goldenalley of light across the table; the birds sang without and the heavygreen leaves brushed whisperingly against the outer walls. It was apicture of summer peace and simplicity. But within this setting,Wilson knew there lurked a spirit that was but the smile which mocksfrom a death's head. There was less to be feared from that circle ofchildlike eyes with which they had been surrounded outside, burningwith however much antagonism, than from this single pair of sparklingbeads before them, which expressed all the intelligence of a trainedintellect strangely mixed with savage impulses and superstition. ThePriest poured each of them a cup of sparkling wine and raised hisgoblet to his lips.

  "If my children," he said, almost as though in apology, "do not likestrangers, it is after all the fault of strangers of the past. Some ofthem have respected but little the gods of my people. You are, Ipresume, prospecting?"

  "After a fashion," answered Wilson. "But we prospect as much forfriends as gold."

  "That is better. You people are strange in your lust for gold. Itleads you to do--things which were better not done."

  "It is our chief weapon in our world," answered Wilson. "You here haveother weapons."

  "With but little need of them among ourselves," he answered slowly.

  "But you go a long way to protect your gold," retorted Wilson.

  "Not for the sake of the gold itself. Our mountains guard twotreasures; one is for whoever will, the other is for those not of thisworld."

  "We go for a treasure very much of this world," answered Wilson, witha smile; "in fact, for a woman. She has ventured in here with oneSorez."

  Not a line of his lean face altered. He looked back at Wilson withfriendly interest--with no suspicion of the important part he hadalready played in his life.

  "This--this man searches for gold?" he asked.

  "Yes--for the great treasure of which so many speak."

  There was the very slightest tightening of the lips, the merest traceof a frown between the brows.

  "He is unwise; the treasure of the Gilded God is well guarded. Yes,even from him."

  A big purple butterfly circled through the sunshine and fluttered amoment above the spilled wine upon the table; then it vanished intothe dark. The Priest watched it and then glanced up.

  "The maid--what part does she play?"

  "She is under some strange spell the man has cast over her, I think,for she has been led to believe the wildest sort of a yarn--a talethat her father, long missing, is somewhere about these mountains."

  "Her father--missing?" repeated the Priest, his face cloudinguneasily.

  "The girl loved him as a comrade as well as a father. The two werealone and very much together. He was a captain, and some fifteen yearsago disappeared. It was thought that he sailed for some port along thewestern coast, but he never came back. In time the report came that hewas dead, though this was never proven."

  The Priest rubbed a brown skinny hand over his eyes.

  "But the maid did not believe the rumor?" he asked.

  "No--she did not believe."

  Wilson did not dare tell him of the crystal gazing for fear that thePriest might jump to the conclusion that it was this power Sorez wasusing and so would associate the girl too closely with the treasurehunt. Yet he wished to tell him enough to protect the girl from anyscheme of vengeance this man might be planning against Sorez himself.

  "She is very immature," explained Wilson, "and so believed the olderman easily."

  "And you?"

  "We have come in search of her--to take her back."

  "But does she wish to return?"

  "If I can make her see----"

  "It is difficult to make a woman see sometimes. It is possible thatshe was led to come to Bogova in search of her father--but that wouldnot bring her over the mountains. There are other things--like allwomen she is fond of gold and jewels?"

  "That may be," answered Wilson, with heat. "But if you knew her, youwould understand that no such motive would lead her to venture so muchand endure so much. Nothing could blind her eyes to common sense butsuch a motive as this which drove her on."

  The Priest smiled; he detected the underlying incentive in Wilson'sown hazard, but there was still Stubbs and his relation to Danbury. Hesuspected treachery of some sort.

  Wilson grew impatient.

  "Night is coming on and we ought to be on our way. I suppose you arein authority over these people. Without your consent we cannotproceed."

  "No--but it is far from my intention to interfere with so worthy amission as yours. I might even assist you. I am always glad to doanything that will help strangers to leave. Sometimes this is done inone way and--sometimes in another. I expected this Sorez to leave byto-morrow."

  "To-morrow? Why, he can't have more than reached the lake."

  "No, but strangers do not remain long by the lake."

  For the last few moments the Priest had seemed more normal, but nowthe uncanny, fanatical look returned to his eyes. Stubbs nudged Wilsonto rise.

  The three moved towards the door.

  "I shall not interfere with you--at present," said the Priest. "But--aword of advice--work quickly. As far as the girl is concerned I thinkshe will be ready to return by to-morrow."

  "You have seen her?"

  "Not myself, but I have a thousand eyes seeing for me in thesemountains. They have seen the girl and they tell me she is well,--somuch for your comfort."

  But there was a smile still about the corners of the mouth whichWilson did not like.

  The Priest shifted his eyes to the caravan itself. He made a note ofthe picks and shovels.

  "You have the implements," he remarked, "for grave digging. I trustyou will not need to use them. _Adios_, my friends."

  He watched them until they disappeared into the woods with a sinister,self-confident smile like a spider watching a fly take the path intohis web; a smile that gave him an expression strangely like that ofthe image itself. Before he turned into the hut again he gave severalorders. Three of the brown men melted into the shadows after thecaravan.