As for Captain Carter, the Scouts caught no glimpse of him, or of the party of campers which had drawn Jack’s investigation.
One evening as they camped by a fast-flowing stream, Ken fancied he saw a light flashing on a distant cliff. But by the time he had called Mr. Livingston, it had disappeared.
“An Indian torch perhaps,” the Scout leader decided. “We’ve seen no Indians in days, yet I have a feeling they are everywhere around us.”
An uneasiness pervaded the entire camp, which the Scouts tried to dispel by being especially cheerful. But the hardships of the trail had left their toll. Muscles ached, and the food, though plentiful, had become monotonous.
Though Mr. Livingston had not said so, the Scouts sensed that even he had begun to doubt they ever could find the fabled lost Inca city.
“If you ask me, that old Portuguese manuscript was a phony,” asserted War one night as the Scouts lounged around the camp fire. “We’ve followed directions precisely, but what have we found? Nothing!”
“I keep wondering what became of Captain Carter,” Jack said, ignoring the remark. “I have a hunch he knows the location of that hidden city.”
“In that case,” Ken grinned, “it might be smart to trail the captain—save us a lot of trouble.”
“It might at that, if we could catch up with him. Seems as if he or someone else is out ahead of us, and heading for the same general locality. Sooner or later—”
Jack broke off, startled by a sudden commotion. Those gathered at the fire could hear native bearers chattering excitedly.