E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures

by E. Hoffmann Price

  Almagro spat. “That he may be, verdad! But me, I’d rather have him here. Where he can’t be ambushed in the mountains. Where he can team up with us if we are attacked.”

  “We considered all that,” Pizarro patiently replied. “Now, Felipe?”

  “With your permission and Don Diego’s—” The interpreter’s courtly bow included them both. “Atahuallpa is insane with rage—”

  “About your way of making converts, eh?” Almagro laughed gustily, and Pizarro’s thin face relaxed in a carefully weighed smile.

  Felipe went on, “I am the faithful servant who kisses the hands of Your Excellencies. More than that, I have been foolish and the cause of Atahuallpa’s anger—”

  “We can put up with that!” Almagro gulped some wine and chuckled.

  Felipe continued, “I do not deserve your kindness. What I mean is this. For the affront he received in…ah…this matter of making converts to the True Faith, he is too angry to be sensible. He did send for Huascar, as you ordered. But I am afraid that Huascar won’t get here.”

  Almagro rose so suddenly that his paunch tipped the table. The flagon crashed to the floor. “By God and Saint Jago! He’ll kill Huascar just to spite us. The way he shut up, last night—he was too mad to shout. Compadre, you had better do something about it!”

  Pizarro dismissed Felipe with a gesture. He said to Almagro, “Send a courier after de Soto. Tell him to go to Huascar’s prison and guard him closely, all the way to Cajamalca. He’s too valuable to lose.”

  But Felipe did not hear this. Having planted new suspicion, he was eager to leave before he was too closely questioned as to details; though it was logical that the high tempered Inca, about to lose even the shadow of power, would stop at nothing to prevent Huascar from regaining the throne.

  Almagro’s greed and Pizarro’s natural fear of a general revolt that would and could overwhelm his small army were Felipe’s allies; yet a man’s wits must at times direct destiny.

  Indian stealth enabled the lovers to slip past the guards. Felipe had secured a horse; and at the start, he wore his Spanish costume. A mile beyond the walls of Cajamalca he met Oello, who had gone ahead to wait.

  She emerged from hiding. A bundle was balanced on her head. It contained not only Felipe’s disguise, but all the finery she had discarded in favor of the coarse, alpaca gown of a peasant woman.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Felipe reassured her as he reined in his borrowed horse. “Give me that bundle—put your foot in the stirrup—up you go!”

  She made it, somehow. Her awkwardness at that unaccustomed exercise made the restive beast paw and snort. But Oello clung to her lover and maintained her seat behind the high cantle of the saddle. Though a clumsy rider, Felipe’s triumph gave him confidence. The horse sensed that this man was not afraid; so he subsided. That Felipe could ride at all made him splendid in Oello’s eyes.

  Finally she relaxed; it was now affection and not fear that kept her arms about Felipe. He half turned in the saddle, caught a swift glimpse of her beauty in the moonlight. His heart rose and choked him. No man from Tumbez had ever dreamed of such a woman!

  Presently Felipe turned from the paved post road that reached twenty-two hundred miles, north and south, paralleling the one that skirted the sea.

  “Hang on,” he cautioned, leaning forward as the panting beast lowered his head and dug into the nasty climb up a trail that followed a gloomy quebrada.

  “What’s the matter?” Oello was puzzled. “This isn’t the way—is someone chasing us already?”

  Felipe evaded, “Just to make certain.” There was no use telling her too much. Only those vague Christian saints could predict the outcome of his venture. They must be more powerful than Inca gods, and Felipe wished he knew them better. For luck, he muttered a prayer to Pachacamac, who was greater even than the Sun.

  Before dawn, Felipe halted. Oello, cramped and shaken, slid stiffly to the ground. “Aren’t you going to put on those clothes I brought you?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Not for a while. Now rest up because we’re going on, as soon as the horse gets his strength back.”

  Toward the end of the second day, Oello recognized the foaming Andamarca, far below them. But before they reached its banks, they would have to go afoot. The horse, improperly cared for and carrying double, had little strength left, so Felipe led the beast, and Oello trudged along, holding a stirrup for support.

  Ahead was a suspension bridge that swayed in the wind. Its cables were made of osiers and maguey fiber. They supported the narrow catwalk that crossed the thousand foot cleft which gaped beneath. Due to the sag of the cable, the drop was steep, and so was the ascent to the opposite lip of the ravine.

  It took an hour of struggle to get the horse past the center. Pizarro’s cavalry knew a few tricks that Felipe had not learned. Then, beaten and frantic, the beast bolted, shouldering Oello off balance. Clawing for support, she slowly slid back, and between the guard cables. Each oscillation of the bridge robbed her of a bit more than she had gained.

  Felipe, flung in the opposite direction, yelled hoarsely. “Quit kicking! Flatten out!”

  He recovered enough to drop belly down. His toes laced in the strands that bound the floor boards. He caught Oello’s wrist; but her weight, mainly unsupported, threatened to pull him loose with each deadly sway of the long main cable. They were facing each other from the edges of a devil’s hammock. They had outwitted a god; he had made a toy of Pizarro’s suspicions; but the mountain wind and a horse’s panic mocked all that success.

  Sweat made his fingers slippery. He could not risk trying for a better grip. Oello had ceased kicking in her efforts to get a knee back over the edge.

  “Let go,” she sighed. “I’ll pull you with me. The gods hate us.”

  That was Indian fatalism. She was right. Felipe knew that, but he had marched with Pizarro, in whose iron heart was not one grain of resignation to fate.

  A flash of that thin, remorseless face for an instant blotted out Oello’s relaxing features. Felipe cried, “Wait till the next swing, you little fool! Hold on!”

  The pendulum dip now tended to spill him through the guards; but the rise of the opposite edge supported Oello at the waist. He let go her wrist. His hand moved, an eye-tricking flicker during which he was slowly sliding back.

  But he made it; he caught her braided hair. That gave him the advantage he needed, and likewise freed her hands, so that she could use them to draw herself back over the edge.

  They crawled up the slope. When they reached the abutments, they crumpled against the cold rocks, panting and quivering. Later, when Felipe recaptured the horse, Oello said, “The Gods tried us, and you did not fail.”

  But Felipe did not hear. He was peering into the sunset haze, and toward the highway that ran north and south a thousand feet below. Oello clung to him, and wondered what could draw his thoughts so far away.

  “Quick,” he said. “Open that bundle. I’m becoming an Inca courier.”

  He seated himself on a rock at the opposite side of the trail and unbuckled his sword belt. He tossed her the weapon and said, “Hide it carefully along with the rest of this truck.” He flung his doublet after the blade. As a second thought, he corrected, “And find a hiding place for yourself.”

  “For myself?” Her eyes became dark and troubled. “Why—”

  “There’s something down there I want to look into,” he evaded.

  Then Oello saw the black spots that moved along the highway right where it skirted the Andamarca’s bank.

  She caught the gleam of bronze lance heads, the ruddy glint of copper loaded maces, the glitter of gilt against the quilted armor of Inca soldiers.

  “Oh—” She began to understand. “We’re near the fort where Huascar was locked up.” She stood there, sword and scabbard in hand. “But don’t worry. They’re going south. Do you
know, I’m certain that must be the convoy that’s taking Huascar to Cajamalca. They won’t notice us.”

  “Maybe,” said Felipe, smiling oddly, “Huascar is with that convoy.”

  He was struggling with his boots. Sweat made them cling. Oello, her back toward the bridge, still strained her eyes, trying to identify the devices on the gaudy pennons the troops displayed.

  “It must be Huascar! His standard—he’d fly it, even as a prisoner.”

  But Felipe’s smile froze. He whirled about, hearing a clank of steel, the ring of horse’s hoofs, the tinkle of curb chains. A deep voice shouted in Spanish, “You, there!”

  Oello turned. On the other side was Ferdinand de Soto, splendid on his horse. A dozen men were behind him.

  They were about to cross the bridge. The girl moaned, “Runners from Cajamalca told him to chase us!”

  Felipe, neither in nor out of his boots, pitched in a heap. His untethered horse, some yards off the trail, bolted at the crash of brush. There was no chance of flight. De Soto’s skittish stallion shied from the bridge, but the lordly Spaniard wheeled him for another trial. He would make it, Felipe knew.

  As he struggled with the damning boots, Felipe did not know whether to pray to Pachacamac or to the saints. De Soto repeated his shout, but the wind distorted his words; neither fugitive could understand.

  Oello defiantly screamed, “We won’t come back!”

  Her legs stretched in a bound that brought her skirt swirling about her hips. She had the sword out of its scabbard. On the other side, the Spaniards muttered in amazement. Too late, they understood. An arquebus jerked into line, and another. “Fire!”, shouted de Soto.

  The keen blade chopped into the cable. The arquebuses coughed flame and smoke. Slugs spattered about Oello. Felipe cried, “Get back—I’ll cut it!”

  As he hobbled toward her, one foot half shod, the other bare, two soldiers dismounted and dashed toward the bridge. “Back, you fool!” de Soto shouted.

  A crackling had followed Oello’s final cut; then a popping, as each snapping cord put greater strain on the others. The audacious soldiers dropped their arquebuses and fled.

  The cable parted. Though the other held, the bridge was impassable except to a man with the courage and strength to crawl down its dip, and then up.

  “We’ve gained hours,” said Felipe. “Por dios, who’d think Pizarro would pull de Soto from reconnoitering and set him to trailing us?”

  Oello did not know. She was too happy to care. Twice in an hour, the gods had helped them out of peril.

  * * * *

  The purple shadow of the Andes had blotted out all details below.

  Camp fires now winked from the darkness of the highway. Huascar Inca was eating, and his respectful escort was drinking chicha. He would be happy, going from prison to a throne…

  An hour…two hours descent of a crude trail. Then Felipe said, “Wait here, while I find out whether this is a searching party, or Huascar’s escort.”

  Darkness and firelight favored him when he approached the sentries of the camp. Both officers and common soldiers were bivouacked about the rest house beside the highway. This assured him that the building must be reserved for Huascar.

  He presented the wand that identified him as one of Atahuallpa’s personal couriers. Though the lowest peasant came with that token, he was for the moment entitled to the respect of the Inca’s own presence. The sacrilege of imposture made deception inconceivable; but Felipe had learned from Pizarro.

  The man who approached to bow before the sacred symbol was tall and sharp faced and commanding. The golden discs in his ears were so large that they made the lobes touch his shoulders. He was one of that sacred clan that could do no wrong; there was no life he could not take, no woman he could not demand, and yet be beyond criticism. But even he would be bare-footed when he approached Atahuallpa; he would have on his shoulder some small burden as a token of servility.

  And that stately man in the crimson vicuna robe listened respectfully. He accepted the wand that made him the Inca’s hand, for the execution of that order. He said, “It will be done as Atahuallpa commands. Runners will go at once to tell him that the body is in the river. And that we return to our starting point.”

  He did not question Felipe, nor offer him refreshment. He knew that Felipe, who could command whatever was needed, was leaving the camp because there were duties other than witnessing the strangling of Huascar. “Only Pachacamac or the saints,” mused Felipe, “could take an Inca woman, and put a king to death.”

  That thought made him light headed. The whine of the mountain wind became exalting music. When he rejoined Oello, he had to steady his voice to say, “It is well with those soldiers. But it is better that you and I return to Cajamalca. I didn’t expect de Soto to hunt us in these mountains, for the sake of Atahuallpa. Pizarro and Father Valverde are our best protectors.”

  “But the assassins who’ll kill us for offending the Inca?”

  He smiled, patted her hair as she helped him into his Spanish garments. He said, “He will have no one touch us. It has come to me, suddenly.”

  Intuition could give her no details. She knew only that Felipe had become more than a man. That he had ordered the soldiers to retrace their course proved that.

  “Isn’t Huascar going to Cajamalca?” She was diffident now.

  “He is not. I forbade that, also.”

  She was almost afraid when she kissed him. The divine Atahuallpa had never been half as much a king of men and a child of the gods.

  So they rode to Cajamalca, not knowing that Ferdinand de Soto had not even recognized them, or known of their flight. Nor could they know that de Soto, finally finding another bridge, had crossed the stream and was now hastening to find Huascar’s escort.

  Felipe was weary. Oello was too ecstatic to be aware of fatigue. The runners who went to report Huascar’s death to Atahuallpa were far swifter than the jaded horse that carried double…

  When Felipe and Oello approached the Valley of Cajamalca, sunset reddened the white walls, and long golden lances of light reached out the clouds that swathed the sierra. Drums rolled, and the mountains flung back their thunder. Trumpets brayed; then the notes became shrill and soul shaking, so that Oello shivered, and Felipe’s pulse began to hammer.

  The barbaric sound beat and stabbed him; it was tragic, it was exultant, and strangely, it brought tears to his eyes. Yet for all the whimsical feeling that this fanfare welcomed him, apprehension made him flinch.

  Oello whispered, “I’m afraid of that sound.”

  The trumpets ceased as suddenly as they had spoken. For moments, the lovers waited, and the ruddy glow became lavender and eerie before their eyes. Then a mumble of voices came from the city.

  Felipe and Oello were troubled as they went on; nor did they know why.

  “I’d think someone had died,” she whispered.

  “Maybe someone has,” said Felipe. It had happened sooner than he had believed possible. He was dazed, now that it was done.

  No one noticed the two who came into Cajamalca. The wailing of women tore the sullen silence. Two musketeers stood watch beside a stake in the center of the plaza.

  A man was bound to that stake. His head slumped to his chest. There were faggots heaped about his legs, but there was no odor of burning. A soldier passed by with a flaring torch. The momentary glow revealed the plumes of the sacred coraquenque which the man at the stake wore in his headdress.

  “Oh…” A quavering exhalation, and Oello faltered, “Atahuallpa’s dead. They’ve killed him—strangled him—”

  “As he would have done to you,” Felipe told her.

  They were entering the quarters of the Spaniards when Almagro boomed from the door of the officers’ salon, “For dios! It’s time you came back, you and your wench! Death and damnation, if we’d not had another interpreter,
we’d have been let down nicely at the trial.”

  Horses’ hoofs were drumming in the distance. A platoon of cavalry rode hell-bent. De Soto must be returning. Felipe wanted to keep out of his sight. He said, “Señor. I was afraid of Atahuallpa’s wrath—I—”

  “Bring him in, Diego!” Francisco Pizarro was now speaking. “Since we’re in trim for court proceedings, we might as well try this loafer!”

  The monotonous wailing of Atahuallpa’s widows was for a moment blotted by the clatter of horses slowing down to a walk as they were reined in on the flagstones of the plaza. Sentries challenged, purely as a matter of form; a familiar voice answered, “De Soto and his troop!”

  The guard turned out. The sounds gave Felipe the picture. His lips were dry, and he could feel the sudden fear that gripped Oello. No one kept her from accompanying him as he slowly advanced toward Pizarro’s table at the far end of the hall.

  Then Pizarro smiled. “Here, here! Don’t look that way, man! Almagro’s just having his fun. But if you were a soldier, I’d have you flogged.” He eyed Oello; she was lovely, despite her fatigue. “I don’t blame you—”

  But that pleasantry was cut short when de Soto stamped into the hall.

  “By God—you, Francisco! You Diego—” His outthrust arm was like a lance ready to impale the two leaders. “The saints forgive me for serving with you assassins! The minute my back’s turned, you murder Atahuallpa! Reconnoiter—Christ’s blood, there wasn’t a sign of insurrection!” His blazing eye nailed Felipe. “Your trickery, you son of several dogs!”

  Almagro’s one eye fell before de Soto’s accusation. Pizarro stuttered, “He was legally tried and condemned. Diego insisted.”

  “I? Señor—”

  “Condemned for stirring up insurrection, and ordering the death of Huascar,” said Pizarro, regaining his self-possession. “But since he became a Christian, he was not burned at the stake. And if you were not his friend, moved by grief, I would hold you accountable for your unmilitary conduct.”

  “Why,” demanded Almagro, “didn’t you guard Huascar, as you were ordered?”