“Two weeks—two months. Quien sabe?”
“The rascal disappeared on purpose with our money!” Mr. Livingston exclaimed. “Are other guides to be had?”
“Si, Senor, for a price. But they do not know the mountain country as does Miquel. He is very good guide, but muy perezoso—very lazy.”
“There may be more to it than that,” Mr. Livingston replied. “He may be afraid of the trip, or possibly he was bought off.”
The Scout leader obtained the names of other guides and, with Jack, started making the rounds. After hours of dickering, they finally were able to engage a stubby little man named Pedro, who for twice the amount that Miquel had been paid agreed to accompany the party.
“We’ve made a poor start,” Mr. Livingston admitted as he and Jack returned to the hotel after midnight. “I hope we can depend on Pedro, but I have my doubts.”
On one point only, the Scout leader was encouraged. Conversation with the hotel man confirmed that months before, Burton Monahan’s party had passed through Cuya. Natives later had returned with reports of great hardship encountered on the trail. Many had deserted after only a few days travel. Miquel had kept on to the second base camp, there refusing to go further.
Jack and Mr. Livingston were abroad most of the night, checking equipment and arranging for burros.
By dawn however, all was in readiness for the departure into the mountains. Fortified by a hearty breakfast, the Scouts set off single-file on the start of a tortuous trail.
Pedro, his olive skin glistening in the bright sunlight, led the expedition. Behind followed Ken and Mr. Livingston. War, Willie and Jack brought up the rear, the latter astride a sturdy but temperamental burro he had nicknamed “High Hat.”