"Funny," he heard him whisper to himself; "that's funny; I could have sworn this was the place." And then, "It is," he went on, "but He turned to the others apologetically. "Something has gone wrong here," he said shortly. "I can't quite see what it is, but I don't think it's anything to worry about. Ah, yes, I see. There's been a slight fall of rock which has buried the mouth of the cave. I'm afraid it's going to give us a bit of work, and it will take a bit of time to clear it. This is the place, there's no doubt of that."
"Well, we can't help it," said Biggles quickly, feeling more sorry about his uncle's disappointment than his own. "We'll soon have that stuff out of the way." Dickpa was examining a pile of loose boulders that lay at the foot of the cliff and spread far into the stream, so far indeed that its course had been slightly altered.
"Well, let's get at it," went on Biggles, throwing down his bundle. "It isn't such a bad spot; we've plenty of water, anyway."
The stores were heaped on the bank and all four of them were soon hard at work prising and dragging down the rocks that concealed the entrance of the cave.
"This isn't the only place where the rock has fallen, by the look of it," said Dickpa once, during a brief rest, pointing further along the base of the cliff where several piles of rock, similar to the one on which they were working, lay strewn about. "I fancy there must have been a bit of an earthquake, since I was here last, to bring all this stuff down."
"Well, as long as there isn't another, to bring another lot down on our heads while we're here, I don't mind," observed Biggles, resuming his task. "Do they get many earthquakes here?"
"I don't think anybody's been here long enough to see," replied Dickpa, with a smile; "but I don't think so; at least, not in recent years. The whole country is volcanic of course, and once upon a time it must have been pretty bad. It was an earthquake that split these mountains like that," he went on, pointing at several wide fissures higher up the face of the cliff. "There's not much more to shift, thank goodness; we're lucky it's no worse," he concluded.
But appearances were deceptive, and with only their hands, a small crowbar, a hammer, and a chisel, which had been brought to break down the wall inside, to work with, it was well into the afternoon before the Inca rock-carving was exposed to view.
"You see the luck of it," said Dickpa during another pause. "For hundreds of years this place has stood just as it was when the Incas left it. Then I happened to come along—
perhaps the first man since they went away—and I spotted the telltale mark. Then, before the year is out, down comes all this rock and hides the whole thing up. But for the fact that I had already seen the carving and the cave, and knew they were here, what chance would there have been of anyone ever finding them under all this stuff? It would probably have remained undiscovered until eternity. Well, one thing is certain: we shan't have time to break down the wall today. We dare not risk being benighted so far away from the machine," he continued, glancing up at the now sinking sun. "Naturally I didn't expect this or we might have brought the hammocks and enough food to last us a day or two. But that's Brazil all over; the unexpected is always happening
"
"Hark!" The exclamation came from Biggles, on whose face appeared a look of utter, incredulous amazement.
Faint but clear from the far distance came the unmistakable hum of a powerful aero engine. They all stared in the direction from which the sound came in stupefied astonishment, and for some time nobody spoke.
"I'm not dreaming, Algy, am I?" asked Biggles anxiously. "Can you hear it too?"
"There's no question about it," replied Algy promptly. "It's the machine all right."
"But who on earth could have found it, and, what is more miraculous, who in these parts could fly it even if they found it?" cried Biggles angrily. "It isn't sense."
"Sense or not," snapped Algy, "I can see it—there she is. Look!" He pointed with a trembling finger.
"They must have followed us up the river," muttered Dickpa through set teeth, "and they'
ve brought a pliot with them."
"No!" yelled Biggles, who had been staring fixedly at the distant speck in the sky. "That isn't the Condor; it's a four-engined job. It's too far off to say for certain, but it looks to me like one of those American flying-boats."
"So that's why they went to New Orleans," said Dickpa quickly, with a flash of understanding. "The devils! They saw us fly away and guessed what we were going to do. If they made enquiries they'd find we had bought a machine. They cut across to New Orleans and got another—with a pilot, too, for none of them could fly. This is going to complicate matters."
"Complicate!" cried Biggles. "It's going to do more than that, if I'm any judge. They're not coming this way, thank goodness. They're looking for us, no doubt, but they are going back down the river now, I think. We'd better get back ourselves, and quickly, too.
"
Dickpa took a swift look round the work they had done. "Yes, I think so," he replied. " We've only a few more minutes' work here and we shall have a hole large enough to enable us to get in. It's really better that it should be left as it is until we have coped with this new development."
"All right, let's get away then," returned Biggles. "I shan't feel happy until I feel the Condor under my feet again. We shall have to hide her from aerial observation in future, although that shouldn't be difficult in a place like this. As soon as we have done that, we can come back here and go on working quietly. They won't be likely to see us; we shall be more likely to see them."
"It seems a pity," said Dickpa, looking reflectively at the top of the cave, which they could now see. "So near and yet so far. Well, it can't be helped. We might as well leave the tools here; there is no need to carry them backwards and forwards." A cache was quickly made of the equipment they had brought with them and they set out on their journey back to the machine. Biggles climbed up on to the bank of the stream and surveyed the rolling prairie abstractedly.
"What are you looking at?" asked Algy casually.
"Oh, I was just wondering," answered Biggles.
"Wondering what?"
"As a matter of fact, I was wondering if it was possible to put the machine down here," replied Biggles, removing a bee from his ear. "This new development is a bit of a boneshaker. Who could have thought they'd do such a thing? I wonder what sort of pilot they'
ve got."
"They'd have no difficulty in getting a pilot with the machine, particularly if the prospect of treasure was mentioned," declared Dickpa, leading the way through the shallows on the edge of the stream. "But come on we shall have to put our best foot forward or we shall be caught in the dark. It's no joke groping your way through the forest after dark, I can assure you. I've had some of it."
With their own trail to follow back, and unencumbered with the tools, they reached the edge, of the forest belt in good time, and, following the path they had cut in the morning through the forest, were able to keep up a steady pace.
"I shan't be sorry to get back," admitted Algy, mopping the perspiration from his facer " Gosh, isn't
it hot? But for these confounded flies this would be a really nice place to spend a holiday. Think what a collection of butterflies you could make," he went on, pointing to a cloud of huge brilliant-coloured butterflies that rose from the path in front of him.
"Well, here we are
" began Biggles as they emerged into the clearing; but he
stopped dead, staring. The others lined up beside him and stood silent; there was no need for words. The Condor had gone.
Dickpa was the first to recover from the shock of this staggering discovery. He darted forward and peered up and down the -river. "Not a sign of it," he snapped, and then turned to examine the ground on the edge of the water. He stooped, picked up the butt end of a cigar, and then pitched it carelessly into the water with an expressive shrug of his shoulders. "That tells us all we need to know," he said quietly. "I blame myself
"Blame nobody," inter
rupted Biggles crisply. "No one on earth could have anticipated this. Who would think of camouflaging a machine in such a place? Pah, . don't be silly, Dickpa. There's a limit to the foresight one might be expected to have, and this is outside it, by a long way. We might have guessed they would see the Condor when we were over there at the cave, but, quite frankly, the thought never occurred to me. The only possible danger that crossed my mind was Indians, but it seemed so unlikely that the Condor could be seen from the main stream that I had no fears about leaving her there. Even if we had known what they were up to, it would have made no difference; we couldn't have got back in time to do anything. It's no use talking about blame or what might have been.
"
"That's right," agreed Dickpa; "let's face the facts. What they amount to is this: we're stranded high and dry, without food and without a boat, in what is just about the hardest place in the world to get out of. The position is serious, very serious, and it's no use pretending it isn't, but we're not dead yet "
"Not by a long chalk." broke in Biggles savagely. "There's only one thing to do, so we might as well set about it. We've got to get the machine back."
"An admirable plan, but one which seems to present a little difficulty," observed Dickpa, a trifle sarcastically. "By working really hard we might make two or three miles a day along the river bank. You can work it out yourself how long it will take us to get five hundred miles. I don't want to appear pessimistic, but, as you say, we must face the facts.
"
"I'm not doing any walking back," replied Biggles shortly. "You don't suppose I was thinking of walking back to Manaos, to be chucked into prison when I got there?" he went on grimly. "We've got to see about getting a boat."
"All right. We'd better start making one. I—"
"Hold hard; let me finish," interrupted Biggles. "I've just remembered something, and it might be a trump card. I believe we can get. the Condor back, but let's take one thing at a time. The first thing we've got to have is a canoe. Well, there happens to be one lying on the beach on the opposite bank, a mile or two higher up. I'll tell you later how I know it's there. Wait here while I go and fetch it."
"You're not thinking of trying to swim the river, are you?"
"As I can neither fly nor walk on water without sinking, I can't think of any alternative," replied Biggles, stripping off his jacket.
"But you're crazy, man. You wouldn't get half-way without being pulled down by crocs. This is where I come in," declared Dickpa. "Let's start and knock up a balsa."
"A what?"
"Balsa—a raft made of reeds. They use them a lot in Bolivia—in fact, they make their boats that way. It will only be rough, but it might float long enough to see you across to the other side. It's worth trying, anyway. I remember seeing plenty of reeds a little higher up. Algy, you bend a bamboo into a hoop and cover it with a piece of your shirt, or anything you like, to make a paddle. Come on, Smyth, and you, Biggles," concluded Dickpa, leading the way into the bushes. In five minutes they were hard at work cutting down the reeds, tying them into bundles, and binding them tightly with lianas, of which there were plenty to hand and which made quite passable substitutes for ropes. The bundles were lashed together side by side and then another layer fastened on top. It was quite dark by the time the job was done and the improvised raft dragged down into the water. It floated—sluggishly, it is true, and settled fairly deep in the water when Biggles crawled cautiously on to it. "Give me that paddle, Algy," he said quickly; "she won't float long."
Algy passed the primitive paddle, and Biggles pushed the frail craft away from the bank with a quick shove. "I shan't be long," came his voice from the darkness. "Wait where you are, and, if you hear me whistle, answer. Cheerio."
Once on the river proper, Biggles paddled furiously for the opposite bank about two hundred yards away. Half-way across he could feel that the flimsy raft had settled a lot deeper in the water, and progress became slower. It was difficult to keep straight, and for every few yards of headway he made he drifted farther downstream with the current. He was still fifty yards from the bank when it became completely submerged, but it still supported him, and he flung his weight behind the paddle.
A long, sinister shadow broke the surface of the water close behind him, a shadow that cut a fine ripple in the still water and began to overtake him. Biggles knew quite well what it was; a crocodile had scented him and was hard on his trail. The water was halfway up his body now, and, realising that the raft no longer afforded any protection against the impending attack
of the monster, and that he could in fact travel faster by swimming, he flung the paddle aside and struck out in a swift overarm stroke for the shore. It was a racing stroke, and one that he could not keep up for long, but he had only a short distance to cover, and he flung himself ashore in a last frantic spurt. Even as he did so something like an iron gate clashed just behind his heels.
He darted across the beach and then paused for breath, trembling slightly, for the strain of the last two months had been intense. Opportunely, the crescent moon rose above the tree-tops and shed a silvery radiance over the scene. He watched a long, log-like object slowly submerging in the water near the bank, and then, with a shudder, turned his face resolutely towards the hut and its grisly tenant. It was nervy work, this picking his way among the fantastic shadows on the shore of an uncharted river, more trying than flying through a sky swarming with enemy aircraft. They at least were tangible, real, and something he understood, but here he was faced with unknown dangers and factors outside his experience. The black, impenetrable forest wall was a curtain that concealed—what? He did not know, but furtive rustlings helped his imagination to visualise horrors that crawled and slithered through the ooze. Every shadow was a menace that might hold some denizen of the forest or the black oily river waiting and watching for its prey.
Once he stopped while a monstrous crab with tall, stilt-like legs and waving antennae marched with a curious clicking noise across the beach into the water, and a few moments later, passing across the shadows of some tangled rope-like lianas, one of them came to life and glided, as silent as the shadows themselves, into the forest. For a second Biggles came near to panicking, but he set his teeth and hurried on, brushing away with his shirt-sleeve the beads of icy perspiration that gathered on his forehead. The hut came into view at last, and he hesitated, striking irritably at a great white moth that hovered over his head. Somehow the flimsy walls looked very different in the pale light of the moon from what they had done in the bright light of day, but he knew it was the memory of what they concealed that prompted his misgivings. "Bah! Dead men don't bite," he muttered harshly, and, wondering vaguely where he had heard or read the words, he strode swiftly towards the canoe. He was bending over it, clearing the debris from the bottom, when a sound reached his ears that sent the blood draining from his face and seemed to freeze his heart into a ball of ice. Something had moved inside the hut.
He did not stir a finger, but turned his eyes towards it. They confirmed what his ears had told him; the roof of the hut was swaying—only slightly, but moving beyond all shadow of doubt. He ceased to breathe, listening. Silence. The scene, which was engraved on Biggles's memory for ever, was wrapped in a silence so complete and utter that it seemed to press on him. A . wave of unreality swept over him: that it was not true, that he was dreaming, a horrid nightmare from which he would presently awake. He felt that he was a detached spectator, something apart, watching, as it were, a silent film. How long he remained thus he did not know, for time had ceased to be. It might have been a minute, five minutes, or even ten; he was never able to say; but he was just beginning to breathe again when the silence was broken by a low choking moan that ended in something like a drawn-out sob.
For the first time in his life Biggles knew the meaning of the word fear—stark, paralysing fear. He tried to move, to run, to place himself as far as possible from the accursed place, but his limbs refused to function. His mouth had turned bon
e-dry, so that his tongue clove to it. He could only stare. Then, with a crash that broke the spell, the loose reeds parted, and a dark
form leapt to the ground. At the same instant Biggles sprang to his feet. Before him, not ten yards away, stood a black panther, its eyes gleaming and its tail swishing to and fro like that of an angry cat. For perhaps a second man and beast faced each other, and then before the man could move, the beast bounded lightly away into the forest and disappeared.
In his relief Biggles laughed aloud, a sound so horrible that he broke off in the middle, realising with a shock that he was near hysteria. "This won't do," he snarled, furious with himself for so nearly breaking down, for the whole thing was plain enough now. The beast's presence in the hut was natural enough, and he had no doubt as to the ghastly object of its visit. "I shall feel better when I turn my back on this place," he muttered as he turned to the canoe.
It was in rather worse condition than he had expected. As usual with canoes used in such places, it had been cut out of a solid tree and was about twenty feet long. It was rotten in many places, as he quickly discovered when he tried to move it, for a piece of the freeboard came away in his hand, leaving an ugly gap. It was heavy, and he was afraid of using all his strength to move it in case it collapsed altogether. He hunted around and soon found two bamboo poles. Using these as rollers, he slipped the canoe smoothly across the narrow strip of beach, and floated it on the placid surface of the river.
There was only one paddle, but fortunately it was of hard wood and still in fairly good condition, so, taking his seat in the stern, he drove the canoe towards the opposite bank. He found that the primitive craft had not been cut quite true, and at first steering was rather awkward, but he soon became accustomed to its peculiarities and was able to keep a fairly straight and speedy course towards the backwater where the others awaited him. He experienced no difficulty in finding them, for they were evidently keeping a sharp look-out and his low whistle was immediately answered from the darkness.
Biggles In The Cruise Of The Condor (02) Page 8