At the Point of the Sword Part 7

"The Hidden Valley," he replied, "where no Spaniard has ever set foot.

Here you are quite safe, for all the armies of Peru could not tear you from this spot."

"Does Sorillo ever come here?" I asked.

"Rarely; but his messengers come and go at their pleasure."

"That is good news," I remarked, thinking of my mother. "I shall be able to get a message through to Lima. And now, if you please, I will go to sleep."

He spread a rug on the earth floor, covered me with another, and in a few minutes I was fast asleep, forgetful even of the dismal tunnel and its horrible a.s.sociations.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY.

Perhaps my Indian host overstated the case, but he could not have been far wrong in saying that no stranger had ever succeeded in finding the Hidden Valley.

Let me describe the coast of Peru, and then you may be able to form some idea of the district between the Spanish fortress and my new home.

The coast is a sandy desert studded with hills, and having in the background stupendous ranges of towering mountains. From north to south the desert is cut at intervals by streams, which in the rainy season are converted into roaring rivers. Little villages dot the banks of these streams, and here and there are patches of cultivated land.

From one river to another the country is for the most part a dreary desert of sand, where rain never falls nor vegetation grows--a dead land, where the song of a bird is a thing unknown. Sometimes after a sandstorm a cl.u.s.ter of dry bones may be seen--the sole remains of lost travellers and their animals. At times even the most experienced guides lose the track, and then they are seen no more. Over such a desert I had ridden from the fort, and the Indians a.s.sured me that, even in broad daylight, I could not go back safely without a guide.

As for the valley itself, it was comparatively nothing but a slit in the ma.s.s of mountains. A river ran through it, and the water was used by the Indians to irrigate the surrounding land. Their live stock consisted chiefly of oxen and horses, and the princ.i.p.al vegetables cultivated were maize and coca. You may not know that this coca is a plant something like the vine, and it grows to a height of six or eight feet. The leaves are very carefully gathered one by one. They are bitter to the taste, however, and as a rule strangers do not take kindly to coca. The Indian is never without it. It is the first thing he puts into his mouth in the morning, and the last thing that he takes out at night. He carries a supply in a leathern pouch hung round his neck, and with this and a handful of roasted maize he will go a long day's journey. I had never chewed coca before, but soon got into the habit of doing so, much to the delight of my new friends.

My stay in the Hidden Valley, although lasting nearly two years, had little of interest in it. The Indians treated me with every respect.

I was lodged in the best house, and was given the best fare the valley produced. Within the valley I was master, but I was not allowed to join any of their expeditions, and without their help it was impossible, as I have explained, to get away.

Their advice to stay quietly in my hiding-place was indeed the best they could give. I was quite safe, the Spanish soldiers in the fort being unable to follow me, and indeed, as we gathered from the spy, quite at a loss to account for my escape. Away from the valley, too, I should be utterly helpless. I could not return to Lima, and without money there was little chance of making my way into Chili.

The two things that troubled me most were Jose's fate and my mother's unhappiness. At first I had ventured to hope that my friend still lived; but as the weeks and months pa.s.sed without any tidings, I began to look upon him as dead. The Indians thought it certain I should never see him again.

As to my mother, she would be in no particular uneasiness until the time came for the return of the _Aguila_; but I dreaded what would happen when Mr. Maxwell had to confess the schooner was overdue, and that nothing had been heard of her. Many miserable hours I spent wandering about the valley, and thinking how my mother would watch and wait, hoping against hope for some tidings of the missing ship.

One night--it was in the December of 1819--I had gone to bed early, when an unusual commotion in the valley caused me to get up. My Indian host had already gone out, so, putting on my things, I followed.

Naturally my first thought was of the Spaniards; but the natives, though flocking towards the entrance to the valley, did not appear alarmed. Several of them carried torches, and a strange picture was revealed by the lurid flames.

On the ground lay a horse so weak and exhausted that it could barely struggle for breath. Close by, supported in the arms of two Indians, was the rider, a short, rather stout man of brown complexion. His eyes were glazed as if in death. Blood gushed from his ears and nostrils, his head hung limply down: it was hard to believe that he lived.

The natives gabbled to each other, and I heard the words frequently repeated, "Sorillo's messenger!" Then an old, old woman--the _mother_ of the village--tottered feebly down the path. In one hand she carried a small pitcher, and in the other a funnel, whose slender stem they inserted between the man's teeth. In this way a little liquid was forced into his mouth, and presently his bared breast heaved slightly--so slightly that the motion was almost imperceptible.

However, the old woman appeared satisfied, and at a sign from her the stricken man was carried slowly up the path. One native attended to the horse, and the rest returned to their huts, talking excitedly of what had happened.

"Is that a messenger from Raymon Sorillo, Quilca?" I asked my host.

"Yes," said he, "and he has had a very narrow escape. He has been caught in a sandstorm. Perhaps he lost the track. Perhaps the soldiers gave chase, and he went further round to baffle them. Who knows? But we shall hear to-morrow."

"Then he is likely to recover?"

"Yes; the medicine saved him. Didn't you see his chest move?"

"Yes," I replied, thinking that but a small thing to go on.

"That showed the medicine was in time," returned Quilca. "It has begun its work, and all will be well."

Quilca spoke so confidently that, had I been the patient, I should have started on the road to recovery at once.

"Will he stay here long?" I asked.

"Who knows?" replied Quilca. "The chief gives orders; the servants obey."

"But he will return at some time?"

"It is likely."

"And will he take a message to my mother, do you think?"

"Oh yes," said the Indian; "I had forgotten. Besides"--and he touched the cord supporting the silver key--"he is your servant, as I am."

For three days the messenger was too weak to explain his errand; but the medicine worked wonders, and at the end of a week he sent for Quilca and the other leading men of the tribe.

What orders he brought I did not learn; only my host told me that the rising to which they looked forward had been put off. The Chilians were not ready, and could not be in Peru for at least another six months.

Quilca was dreadfully disappointed; but the chief had spoken, and his word was law. Indeed, it was most extraordinary to see with what reverence his commands were treated. Had it been his pleasure, I am sure his followers would have willingly gone to certain death.

On the day following this I visited the messenger, who, on seeing the silver key, bowed low before me.

"What are my lord's commands?" asked he humbly.

"They are very simple," I replied. "In a short time you are returning to your chief. Say to him that Juan Crawford is safe in the Hidden Valley, and ask him to tell Senora Maria Dolores Crawford at Lima so.

Can you remember that?"

The blood mounted into the man's face as he said, "I will remember."

Then he added in quick, eager tones, "Are you the son of Don Eduardo?"

"He was my father."

At that the man bent again and kissed my hand, saying,--

"Senor, he was our best friend. He loved our people, and when he was killed there was much weeping in the villages of the Indians."

"He gave his life for you," said I slowly.

"As we will give ours for his son," answered the man; and no one hearing him could have doubted the sincerity of his words.

At the end of a fortnight he was strong enough to travel, and his last words as he struck into the narrow pa.s.s were, "I shall not forget, senor."