“With their hands—and without iron tools,” Cliff added, “they mixed some tin with copper and made an alloy that they could make almost as hard as steel. But their roads and their aqueducts and their buildings all took labor and plenty of it.”
“Isn’t it time we started for the hotel?” Tom glanced at his watch, “Quipu Bill Sanders is to come to see us at four.”
They agreed and turned to retrace their way around the ruin.
As they rounded a corner Cliff, in the lead, stopped sharply, in surprise. While there was one chance in a thousand that they should encounter the very Indian who had been with the Spaniard in Amadale, it was certain that the fellow into whom Cliff had almost banged had turned and seemed to stiffen when he saw them.
He stood facing a slender fellow, almost a boy, whose well developed leg muscles made Cliff think of a runner. With a swift word under his breath as the trio of chums stared, the Indian sent the youth off; and he was a runner and no mistake. He went lightly but with almost incredible speed down the road. The stalwart Indian paid no attention to Cliff but hastened away.
“Do you think he was——?” Nicky whispered.
“He jumped,” Tom replied.
“Ought we to follow him?” Nicky wondered.
Cliff thought not. The runner was gone, the Indian might have been surprised to see white youths turn suddenly into view. Cliff could see no advantage to be gained by following.
They crossed the square to enter one of the four straight avenues which quartered the city. Cuzco was beautifully laid out, every ancient street as straight as if made by a surveyer’s lines. Presently they reached the “tambo” or inn.