“We’d have to be darned lucky, Jack. Even if we could get away, the Indians would be after us in a flash. Besides, Pedro can’t move on that bad leg.”
“Then our only chance is to wait and hope that somehow Hap will be able to help us.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Ken admitted reluctantly. “It’s a slim chance, I know, but something may turn up.”
As the night wore on, the never-ending beat of the drums hammered at Jack’s nerves. Restlessly, he moved about the hut, trying desperately to hit upon a plan for escape. Ken and Pedro slept at intervals but his own body was too tired and battered to feel its own fatigue.
Dawn came, driving back the shadows. As the sun rose, the natives began a solemn dance, rocking from side to side.
The central figure, whom Jack took to be a chief, wore his hair cut short with two plaits at the ears, ornamented with bright red plumes. About his neck was a collar of large green stones.
“Get a load of that bird!” Jack directed Ken who had been awakened by the louder throb of the drums. “Do you suppose those stones can be emeralds?”
“They look like it. Look at the size of ’em! As large as pigeon eggs!”
“That horse collar is worth a fortune if those stones are real emeralds, Ken!”
“You can bet they’re genuine, all right! And look at this water vessel.”