"Have you no tongue?" I demanded. "Speak! If you don't know the author of that piece of equine art say so."
"I know, senor."
"You know?"
"Si, senor."
"Then, for Heaven's sake, tell us."
"His story?" pointing to the figure on the rock.
"Yes, idiot!"
Without a sign of interest, Felipe turned twice around, found a comfortable rock, sat down, rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and began. He spoke in Spanish dialect; I shall preserve the style as far as translation will permit.
"Many, many years ago, senor, Atahualpa, the Inca, son of Huayna-Capac, was imprisoned at Cajamarco. Four, five hundred years ago, it was. By the great Pizarro. And there was gold at Cuzco, to the south, and Atahualpa, for his ransom, ordered that this gold be brought to Pizarro.
"Messengers carried the order like the wind, so swift that in five days the priests of the sun carried their gold from the temples to save the life of Atahualpa."