“The treasure of the Gilded God which these people worship.”
Stubbs listened once again to the story which he had already heard a dozen times. But it came with fresh interest when told within sight of its setting. Then he stared at it until the dark blotted it out. And after that he lighted his pipe and stared at where he had last seen it. Below them a few fires burned in the darkness showing through the windows of the adobe huts.
The next morning they dismissed their guide, as it would be impossible to use him further without revealing the object of their journey. Both Stubbs and Wilson were anxious to push forward to the lake without delay and resolved to reach if possible their goal by night. They figured that as the crow flies it could not be more than twenty-five miles distant. The trail was direct and well enough marked and finally brought them to the village of Soma which is within eight miles of the base of the cone. Here, for the first time since they started, they had a glimpse of the natives. As they entered the small village of adobe huts they were surrounded by a group of the beardless brown men. In a few minutes their number had increased till they formed a complete circle some ten men deep. They did not seem unfriendly, but as they stood there 228 chattering among themselves they made no motion to open a path for the travelers. They were ordinarily a peaceful people––these of the valley of the Jaula––and certainly in appearance looked harmless enough. Yet there was no doubt but what now they had deliberately blocked the path of these two.
Wilson looked to Stubbs.
“What does this mean?”
“Looks as though we had been brought to anchor. D’ ye know ’nuff Spanish to say ‘Howdy’ to ’em?”
“Perhaps a few presents would talk better?”
“Too many of ’em. Try your parley-vous.”
“Might move ahead a bit first and see what happens.”
“Then get a grip on your gun, m’ boy.”