The Shadow - Xitli, God Of Fire Part 2

"The Tribe of Fire. You've heard of it - an ancient group among the Mayas that continued into Aztec times. Men something like the thugs of India, who killed to please the G.o.d they represented. Yes, there was such a tribe once. Perhaps it still exists today - the cult of Xitli -"

He broke off suddenly and threw a suspicious glance toward Andy, something that the professor always did when he had voiced his thoughts aloud.

But this time Hedwin's glance seemed cannier than ever. His lips snapped shut like a clamsh.e.l.l; then curved themselves into a twisted smile. Stooping, Hedwin gripped one side of the basalt stone andnodded for Andy to do the same.

The black rock was not heavy, though it needed their combined strength to carry it out through the pa.s.sages without dropping it. After a brief rest, Hedwin and Andy continued into camp, bringing the stone with them.

Immediately upon their arrival the superst.i.tious workers scattered.

Daylight was full by this time. The discordant strum of distant drums had ended. Andy, too, was beginning to mop his forehead, when he turned to see a man who stared at him with unbelieving eyes.

The arrival was Panchez; the mestizo leader was holding a carbine under his arm. Andy noted that the weapon was shaking, as though it had been imbued with life and was trying to jump from its owner's grasp.

"Well, Panchez?"

At Andy's words, Panchez recovered himself. He decided that ghosts did not rove by daylight, nor did they talk with human voice. Panchez licked his lips, smiled.

"I am glad, Senor Ames," he said, "to find that you are still alive. It was very bad, last night, the fight we have with the banditti."

"Along the pedregal?"

"Si, senor," acknowledged Panchez. "We hear you fight them and we come with carbines. We shoot" - he gestured with his carbine - "and pouf! - they run away. But we look for you and do not find you.

"I think, senor" - Panchez had laid the carbine aside and was beginning to roll a cigarette - "that maybe you have gone into Mexico City to tell the police of trouble."

Panchez was lying, and Andy knew it from the way the mestizo had averted his eyes. But there was no use pressing the issue. It was Hedwin's job, not Andy's, to reprimand the guards for any faults. At present the professor was too exuberant about finding Xitli's temple and the throne seat of the fire G.o.d to be interested in anything else.

Besides, Hedwin's find meant that the expedition had completed its purpose. Soon the professor would order a start for Mexico City, and men would be needed to carry the basalt stone.

Since the Indian workers would not touch the piece of basalt, that task would have to go to Panchez.

When Andy pointed out the stone to Panchez, the rogue nodded and summoned a pair of mestizos, who took up the burden.

WHEN camp was broken, Andy suggested a detour across the pedregal, to which Panchez agreed. His hand ready to reach for his revolver, Andy kept a sharp eye on Panchez's carbine as they strolled along together. He asked Panchez where the trouble had begun, and the mestizo shook his head.

"It is different now, senor," he said. "Day and night they are different. Sometime we make mistake, senor.

My men, perhaps, could not tell who you were. You may have mistake banditti for mestizos."

Nowhere among the open cisterns did Andy see a cavity that resembled the pit of the night before. He looked for a crack in the lava rock, but failed to find one. The slab had been fitted tightly into place; even Panchez looked puzzled when Andy was not gazing his way. "What about your men?" demanded Andy suddenly. "You are short-handed today, Panchez."

"Some have been wounded," returned Panchez blandly. "Others, they were killed. You will see them, senor, when we reach Tlalpan, the place where I have sent them."

Arriving at Tlalpan, Andy did see Panchez's corps of cripples; their wounds testified to a larger fight than the one that Andy had made against them. Andy half believed that Panchez and his men had actually encountered bandits, and that he had therewith misjudged them, so he simply congratulated Panchez on having put up an excellent fight.

Later that day a train took Hedwin and Andy to Mexico City, along with a supply of Mayan relics, including the Xitli throne stone, and Andy saw no signs of any luggage belonging to Panchez.

Still, some of the mestizos were not accounted for, and Andy knew that they could have gone ahead with their loot. He decided to forget Panchez and the rest, as he would a bad dream.

Yet there was something that Andy could not forget, and it belonged in the dream cla.s.s. Vaguely he could recall brief periods when he had been conscious; after his fall into the pit.

Out of such recollections came a person cloaked in black who spoke in a strange, weird whisper to a pair of squatty Indians. Andy recalled a floating sensation, which made him believe that the Indians had carried him into camp at the cloaked rescuer's order.

He was still thinking of that episode when evening came and he visited Senor Cuzana and Graham Talborn. Andy was with Professor Hedwin, who was too busy talking about Xitli to note the broken beat of Aztec drums that seemed to float in from the mountains.

Angry drums, menacing in tone, the same that Andy had heard at dawn, they seemed to spell a message that certain men would surely heed.

Unfortunately, the story of those drums had not yet carried to distant Guatemala, where The Shadow, otherwise Kent Allard, was bidding farewell to the Xinca tribe that acknowledged him as ruler. Wisely, The Shadow did not deny the rumor that worried the Xincas: namely, that the cult of Xitli was about to form anew.

He let his two Xinca servants make the report. They testified that they had been to Mexico with their great white king and had heard the beat of Aztec drums that told of theft alone. They had seen men engaged in such theft, and had watched their powerful chief drive away the marauders.

The robbers had been punished, hence no revenge was needed. Protection of the stolen treasure was the duty of the Aztecs, not of the Xincas.

But when his servants had finished with their story, The Shadow told them to remain with the tribe when he had gone. They were to be alert, still on the watch for any revival of the Xitli cult.

It was a wise decision on The Shadow's part, considering that the Xitli legend was firmly fixed in Xinca minds. It strengthened The Shadow's authority with the tribe. When he took off in the autogiro, he saw the Xincas gathered about their jungle fire, their arms folded as a token of farewell.

The Shadow's wisdom was to prove twofold. The time was coming shortly when the Xitli rumor was to prove reality. Then would the Xincas more than ever acknowledge the foresight of their ruler, The Shadow, who had warned them to remain alert, even when the menace of the Xitli cult had seemed to be disproven! Moreover, they would be pleased because their black-clad chief had left the servants who knew how to reach him and carry such tidings. When that time came, not one among the Xinca tribe would believe that at the time of his actual departure, The Shadow, master of mystery, had in his own mind cla.s.sed all talk of Xitli as a legend without foundation!

CHAPTER V. THE MAYAN MUSEUM.

VIEWED from the window of an arriving pa.s.senger plane, New Orleans formed an intriguing sight, a city spread upon a broad plain cut by the curving ribbon of the Mississippi. Toy ships were anch.o.r.ed all along the river front, while beyond, the city showed an array of buildings that marked the new town from the old.

New Orleans, however, differed from most American cities. Others were distinguishable by modern skysc.r.a.pers, impressive even when viewed from a high alt.i.tude. New Orleans lacked buildings that were really tall. A structure of a dozen stories rated high in the Louisiana metropolis.

Perhaps it was quite as well that New Orleans lacked a mammoth skyline. Otherwise, the city's newest landmark, the Mayan Museum, would not have dominated the scene as remarkably as it did.

The museum, built in the form of a pyramid, stood on the outskirts of the city, and its glistening white steps immediately caught the eye. Though only a hundred-odd feet in height, its shape made it appear much greater, and the architectural beauty gained a final touch from the surmounting temple that capped the pyramid.

It was The Shadow's first view of the great stone structure, which had been completed in a rush after a long delay through lack of funds. Other pa.s.sengers in the same airliner were also intrigued by sight of the pyramid, and they scarcely noticed the hawk-faced traveler with them.

The Shadow was no longer Kent Allard. His hawkish features were fuller, less gaunt. His whole pose seemed leisurely, indolent. His face had a mask-like expression that seemed a token of reserve. Actually, it signified a disguise. The Shadow had a.s.sumed a different ident.i.ty, yet one with which he was quite familiar.

He was pa.s.sing as Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter, who traveled where whim might call him.

Why he had come to New Orleans was something which seemed logically explained as soon as the plane landed.

At the airport, Lamont Cranston was greeted by James Carland, the haggard-eyed oil operator who had so recently left Mexico City, where the government had emphatically ousted him from his concessions.

Carland did not in any wise recognize Cranston as Allard. The resemblance between The Shadow's old face and his new was traceable only in vague fashion, and Carland was not interested in comparisons. As he shook hands with Cranston, Carland failed utterly to guess the significance behind the visitor's slight but inscrutable smile.

The Shadow was thinking of the meeting in Mexico City, where Carland had ignored Kent Allard as a person of no consequence, a broken-down aviator. Here in New Orleans, Carland was sparing no effort at welcoming Lamont Cranston, man of reputed wealth. The contrast gave an excellent index to Carland's nature.

Carland's motto was "cash and carry"; others could supply the cash, and he would carry it. If they ever saw the cash again, it would mean simply that Carland had slipped. Not that Carland was crooked in the legal sense of the term. On the contrary, Carland was noted for his ironclad methods, as witness his Mexican oil concessions, to which he still argued a valid claim. Carland simply never missed a trick when it lay within the rules of a game called business.

Inviting Cranston into a limousine, Carland began a string of patter as they rode away from the airport.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Cranston," he declaimed. "Glad to meet anyone with vision enough to see the future of rice land in the Mississippi delta. I have thousands of acres of it, the finest land in the world.

"Swampland, some call it" - Carland's chuckle showed contempt - "and that's where they are wrong. It may have been salt marsh once, but today it is covered with rich Mississippi silt, the acc.u.mulation of many years. The reeds that grow through the silt simply bind it, and help it to thicken.

"Salt-gra.s.s flats? Bah! Two hundred years ago the French called those lands 'trembling prairies,' which proves that they knew the ground was good, although unstable. Modern methods of agriculture weren't known then, Mr. Cranston, but we understand them today.

"Rice can be grown along every bayou and lagoon. Big amphibian tractors, with wheels like paddles, will cultivate the land. We'll have barges moving along channels where now you see only shrimp boats and natives paddling those funny dugout canoes they call 'pirogues.'"

IT was an impressive sales talk, and by the time the car had reached the heart of the city, Carland was tabulating figures to show the big profits from rice that could be brought straight to New Orleans by the water route.

Then, as the car stopped in front of an office building, Carland glanced anxiously at his watch.

"It's well after five," he said, "but I think we shall still find Mr. Brendle in his office. He's a contractor; used to lay roads all over the State. He thinks the rice project is feasible. I want you to meet him, Mr.

Cranston."

They found Eugene Brendle in his office. The contractor was a stocky, broad-shouldered man whose concave profile, with bulging forehead and chin, was centered by a very stubby nose. He was the type of man who evidently thought over all decisions, but once having made them, would not alter his final plan.

It happened that The Shadow knew the exact situation between James Carland and Eugene Brendle, for, as Allard, The Shadow had heard it from Graham Talborn, the exporter, while in Mexico City. At present Carland owed Brendle fifty thousands dollars, and the future rice lands - whether salt marsh or rich silt - were the security for the loan.

Evidently Brendle mistrusted Carland, and well he might, for the fifty thousand dollars had not gone to the completion of the museum. Calling the loan when the time came would not help either, unless the delta land proved to be worth fifty thousand dollars, which Brendle appeared to doubt. In his turn, Carland was attempting to convince Brendle that the land was good.

"You're a good judge of property, Mr. Cranston," said Carland, turning to The Shadow. "You know the facts and figures on rice" - glibly, Carland was glossing over the fact that he had just provided Cranston with such information - "and I think you will agree that my land is worth more than fifty thousand dollars."

"As represented, yes," returned The Shadow, in a calm tone that suited Cranston. "Of course, before investing such a sum, I would like to see the land in question."

"And if you found it up to specifications -" "I would either purchase it or offer to invest in its development."

Carland threw a triumphant look at Brendle, as though Cranston's statement had settled the whole question. Then, like a man slapping a trump card on the table, Carland stated: "Your offer is a trifle late, Mr. Cranston. I have already heard from Jonathan Dorn, the New York financier, requesting first opportunity to inspect the property. It would not be fair to Dorn to consider any transaction before he arrives."

"How soon will that be?"

"Frankly, I don't know," replied Carland. "Within a week, I hope, Mr. Cranston. If you will be staying in New Orleans that long -"

"I shall be." Cranston's lips formed one of their half smiles. "My hobby happens to be the study of Mayan remains. I hoped that I might get a preview of the exhibits in the new museum before it was open to the public."

Mention of the museum brought a glare to Carland's haggard face. Angrily, he exclaimed: "I'll have nothing to do with the Mayan Museum! If Graham Talborn had waited, giving me a chance to straighten out matters, I might have regained my oil concessions on the strength of that museum. The Mexican government wanted it completed before the West Indian Exposition; they would have listened to reason while I held the upper hand."

Brendle gave a steady look toward Carland.

"You forget," said Brendle, "that others had much to lose while the museum remained unfinished. Salter, the curator, had his job to think about. Professor Hedwin was nearly stranded, down in Yucatan. I had contracted for materials, and had loaned you fifty thousand dollars -"

Carland's glare had turned to a wince. He interrupted Brendle by clapping the contractor on the shoulder.

"I owe you a lot, Brendle," said Carland. "You're the one friend I had among the whole crowd. The way they deserted me, like rats, when Talborn came along! Don't worry, Brendle. You'll get your fifty thousand dollars, with interest."

"I hope so, Carland."

There was an actual touch of hope in Brendle's tone, inspired, perhaps, by Cranston's interest in the rice fields on which the cash depended, plus Carland's statement that a financier named Dorn had already considered their development.

"Why don't you take Mr. Cranston to the museum?" suggested Carland to Brendle. "Salter will probably be glad to see you, though he wouldn't care to see me. You can call me later, after you've looked over the place."

BRENDLE accepted the suggestion. He closed his office, and they rode to the museum in Carland's limousine. The Shadow and Brendle left the car, and Carland drove away. Entering the museum, Brendle conducted his new acquaintance, Cranston, to the curator's office.

There, they found Graham Talborn, also back from Mexico. Like Carland, Talborn failed to identify Cranston as Allard. The Shadow also shook hands with Fitzhugh Salter, the curator, a middle-aged man of portly proportions, chubby-faced, and of retiring disposition. There was a smug touch, however, to Salter's features, that marked him shrewder than his surface showed.

"I'll show you the museum from the bottom up," declared Salter, when he learned why Cranston had come. "That means from the top down, because all our exhibits are on the higher floors. The lower floors are for offices. Come, gentlemen; this way."

They went to the very center of the pyramid, which, on the ground floor, did resemble an office building.

The elevators were necessarily in the center, in order to reach the top floor of the tapering structure. They entered an elevator and Salter took them to the top, where they stepped out to a promenade atop the temple that surmounted the museum.

Daylight had diminished. New Orleans stretched off into the distance, sparkling with lights, a scene that reminded The Shadow of Mexico City, except that here there was no throb of Aztec drums. Yet, somehow, the spell of the past seemed stronger here than in old Mexico.

Like ancient priests who had ruled Chichen Itza, The Shadow and his companions stood beside a parapet from which they could see the spreading steps of the ma.s.sive pyramid below. It was almost as if the structure itself had been lifted from the ancient city of the Mayas and placed, in all its prime, upon the fringe of a modern metropolis.

This pyramid was, of course, a reproduction; but that only made the illusion more real. The Shadow could sense the spirit of grandeur even more than at Chichen Itza, where he had often visited the ruined temple of the Mayas upon its crumbling mound.

Gazing toward the terraces below, noting the gloom of the low shrubbery that surrounded the museum grounds, The Shadow could almost picture stealthy figures of the past, creeping into this chosen place where a vanished glory had been renewed. The lower darkness, like the blackening sky above, seemed fraught with ominous significance.

Tuned to the unknown, The Shadow possessed a sixth sense that seldom failed him. The very atmosphere was charged with menace of a sort that he had sensed often in the past. Voiceless tongues were crying a message of coming danger that no one else could hear.

Whether it meant evil of an ancient origin, or crime of a modern type, The Shadow could not tell. But his whole being told him to be ready for strange events soon due!

CHAPTER VI. WITHIN THE MUSEUM.

FITZHUGH SALTER stood smugly by while the visitors enjoyed the view from the parapet. The curator seemed in no hurry to show them through the museum "from the top down," as he had expressed it. Not until he saw Cranston turn and gaze questioningly in his direction, did Salter suddenly rouse himself.

He bowed his visitors toward the stairs leading down from the roof, and they descended. Darkness greeted them, until Salter found a switch box and supplied lights to the top-floor corridor. The Shadow saw a stairway leading down around the elevator shafts, also the doors of various exhibit rooms.

The doors were locked, but Salter produced keys that opened them. The locks were of a very ordinary sort, which was natural enough, considering that when the museum itself was locked, the whole top floor would be protected.

Many of the Mayan exhibits were already in place, and they formed as large a collection as The Shadowhad ever seen.

There were tablets with hieroglyphic carvings that Professor Hedwin had sent from Chichen Itza; great stone rings, four feet in diameter, decorated with intertwining feathered serpents.

In another room were pottery exhibits; also some ancient masks fashioned from such hard substances as turquoise, sh.e.l.l and jet. Salter said they were ceremonial masks, representing such deities as Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca, but he did not undertake to identify any more of them by name, though there were dozens of the masks.

Pa.s.sing a rack of costumes, garish and of vivid colors, Salter said that they were of modern manufacture, but that they represented the actual robes used in rituals wherein the masks were also worn. Then, either ignoring, or not hearing, questions, the curator opened the door to a long room that showed an array of statuary, all hewn with stone tools.