“Surely, you don’t really believe that,” returned Mr. Livingston.
“Of course not,” the other admitted. “But that is what the natives will think, if any survive this awful upheaval.”
Another hard tremor shook the area, leveling the statue in the plaza. Crouching together for protection against the falling stone, the Scouts tensely waited.
No further upheavals followed. After awhile, Mr. Monahan decided to creep from the shelter to see what could be done to help the injured.
“Stay here until I test the temper of the natives,” he warned the others. “In their present mood, there’s no telling what they may do. Those explosions and the quake have thrown them into a panic.”
Cautiously, Mr. Monahan moved out into the devastated street. But before he could start toward the shattered temple, he was brought up short by the wild cries of a mob which approached the plaza from the inner lake trail.
Into view came the Indian warriors, their dust-streaked faces contorted with both fear and fierce triumph. On their shoulders they bore the lifeless, battered body of Captain Carter.
“They’ve done for him!” exclaimed the Scout leader.
“They have,” grimly agreed Mr. Monahan. “He brought it on himself by setting off those explosions!”
“Now what?” Jack asked, watching as the strange procession proceeded to the temple steps. “Are they offering prayers to the Gods?”