“Any chance Mr. Corning may show up here after we leave?” speculated Willie, quickly starting to gather his scattered belongings.
Mr. Livingston replied that the possibility seemed a remote one. “Except for the enjoyment we’ve had in seeing the banana plantations, I think it was a mistake to come here,” he admitted.
“You believe Ferd Baronni deliberately threw us off the track?”
“I’m afraid so, Willie. For some reason, he doesn’t want us to go on to the mine—possibly for fear of what we may learn. This trip to Santa Marta, I suspect, was only to keep us occupied.”
“Then if we waited a month, you don’t think Mr. Corning ever would show up here?”
“That’s my slant. I’ve been unable to locate any of those close friends Appleby was supposed to have here. To be on the safe side, I’ll leave a letter for him here at the hotel. Now pack your duds, fellows. We haven’t much time.”
The plane flight to Bogota proved an uneventful but thrilling experience for the Scouts. Accustomed as they were to air travel, they were awed nevertheless, by breath-taking views of the vast Magdalena valley, forests of deep green, and the great ranges of the Andes which divided the land into isolated plateaus and valleys.
At the capital city, the party lingered half a day before taking a bus to a little Colombian village high in the cool hills. During their brief stay in Bogota, Jack and Mr. Livingston twice visited the mining company office. The official in charge, they learned, had absented himself on a week’s holiday.
“We can’t wait for him,” Mr. Livingston decided. “We’re going on to the mine.”
Late the next morning, the bus deposited them in the chilly little village which served as a take-off point for the mine. The trail which the Scouts were to follow wound sharply upward toward a line of rugged mountain peaks and a narrow pass. Somewhere beyond, lay the Last Chance mine.