In broken English, he related to the Explorers that Carlos was well known for his cruelty and bold ways. Somewhere in the hills he maintained a hide-out with a few faithful but disreputable followers. The Colombian government had placed a price upon his head. But no one ever had claimed the reward. Year after year, the bandit continued to swoop down on luckless travelers. Three times in the past year he reportedly had made valuable hauls of emeralds which were being taken out of the mine for shipment.
Despite Jose’s fears, no more was heard that night from the bandit. The Scouts slept well, and as soon as the sun came up, were on their way.
For several hours they pushed on, keeping an alert watch for Carlos. At times, they imagined they heard a soft rustling of the foliage along the trail, but they saw no one. Jack had kept the bandit’s automatic as a souvenir, disregarding Jose’s advice to discard it.
“You keep gun—Carlos come back for it,” the guide predicted grimly.
“Let him,” Jack returned cheerfully. “Next time I’ll be more alert.”
By noon, the party had reached a low ridge. As they rested briefly, Jose pointed out a forested valley and a fast-moving river.
“Last Chance mine,” he informed the group. “We be there in next hour.”
“The mine is very old?” Mr. Livingston inquired.
“Si, Senor. It was worked before the Spanish Conquest and many times lost. When the mine close, workers move away—jungle close in. Mine have many names.”
“The Last Chance sounds pretty modern,” the Scout leader remarked with a smile.