All three occupants developed caution now, as they felt instinctively that they were entering a zone of danger.
Chick had been thinking steadily—while he guided the big car with the instinctive skill of a good driver—and he had come to the conclusion that his chief had been inveigled into the depths of this desolate country, to keep him away till it would be too late for Marcos to save his beloved Joyalita.
Once Chick had talked over his shoulder to Phillips for several minutes. The result of that conversation had enabled him to lay out a plan which might or might not be successful, but which, at all events, would be something definite to work on.
“Gaspara!” had been Phillips’ reply to his question as to whether there were any notorious bad men in these mountains.
Further questioning had brought out that Gaspara was the leader of a gang of brigands, consisting of eight or nine rascals who had come together when they all worked on the construction of the Panama Canal, and who had decided that they could make more money, as well as enjoy the freedom they liked by infesting the automobile highways up and down the Caribbean coast.
“They have their headquarters somewhere in the mountains,” explained Phillips. “But they go a long way when they hear of any party of tourists that they think they can pick up, or some wagons with valuable freight.”
“I know the kind of men,” was Chick’s response. “Have they horses?”
“Sometimes. They use mules and automobiles, too. All stolen. When they want a horse or motor car, they just go somewhere and pick it up.”
“Free and easy, eh?” put in Patsy. “They’re the real ‘I-should-worry’ citizens. The only thing against it, I should think, is that they’ll be shot or hanged at last.”
When Chick stopped he was on a narrow plateau at the top of a long hill up which he had been climbing for fifteen minutes. Just ahead of him was a curve and then another hill.