It was strange, Johnny thought. Crouching there in the shadow, one hand on the muzzle of a century old brass cannon that had once barked its defiance to the world, this native seemed a spirit come from out the past.
“He’s not that,” the boy told himself. “But who is he? When did he come?”
They had been at the ancient fortress. He and Curlie Carson had been prowling about its dungeons and secret passages for four days and had not so much as seen a sign of a living human being. The silence they had found oppressive by day and spooky by night.
“And here is a man. I wonder—” His wonderings came to a sudden end. A strange phenomena had broken in upon them. Just as the native, having cast fears aside, had swung out upon the slender rope ladder, one of those curious after-glows of a sunset drenched the Citadel with golden light.
The effect was magical. “As if it came from Arabian Nights,” Johnny told himself, thrilled to the very center of his being. The figure of the native, quite naked save for a loin cloth, was transformed into a bronze statue.
“And the ladder seems our ‘Rope of Gold’,” Johnny breathed.
The after-glow endured through a space of ten seconds. Then all was dark as before. It lasted long enough for the boy to see that a machete, a great, long-bladed knife, hung at the native’s side.
“And Curlie is alone, unsuspecting,” he told himself, and a chill ran up his spine.
At once his mind was in a whirl. Should he shout, warning his pal and perhaps frightening the native away?
This, he thought, might be wise. Yet, nothing serious might be contemplated. Most natives wore machetes at their sides. Besides, there was his own bow and arrow, a very useful weapon. An arrow shattered against the wall would serve to drive the intruder away.