“Could a boat sail down either branch of the river?” asked Carl.
“I don’t know about that,” was the reply, “but there must be a continuous valley from Quito to the junction. If yonder aviator had followed that, or if you had followed it, there would have been no trouble with gorge winds or gusty drafts circling around mountain tops.”
“Is there a road through the valley?” asked Jimmie. “A wagon road, I mean. It seems that there ought to be.”
“There are a succession of rough trails used by teamsters,” was the reply. “I came down that way myself. The trails climb over ridges and dip down into canyons, but it seems to me that the roadbed is remarkably smooth. In fact, there seems to be a notion in the minds of the natives that a very important commercial highway followed the line of the river a good many centuries ago. I don’t know whether this is correct or not, but I do know that the highway is virtually unknown to most of the people living at Quito. I blundered on it by mistake.”
“We’ll go back that way,” Carl suggested, “and, as we can fly low down, there will be no risk in taking you along with us.”
The flying machine which had been discovered approaching the camp a few minutes before was now near enough so that two figures could be distinguished on the seats. The machine was still reeling uncertainly, the aviator undoubtedly seeking a place to land.
“You see,” Carl explained, “the fellow is a stranger so far as this camp is concerned. If he had ever been here before, he would now know exactly what to do. Either Ben or Glenn could lay the machine within six inches of the Louise without half trying.”
“Then you are certain that it is not one of your friends in control of the aeroplane?” asked Sam.
“I am sure of that!” replied Jimmie. “Neither one of the boys would handle a machine the way that one is being handled.”
“When she gets a little nearer we can tell whether that man Doran is on board or not,” suggested Carl rather anxiously.