“They called these records or messages ‘quipus’ and a fellow who understood them, could make them and read them, was a ‘quipucamayu.’”
“And you studied and got to be one of them,” Nicky guessed.
“Yep! So I shortened it down to just the name of the yarn message.”
“Were they like this? Isn’t this one?” asked Cliff, recalling what he had found. He produced it. Bill nodded.
“That’s one. Where did you get it?”
Cliff told him. Bill dropped his stick and became suddenly mighty serious.
“Why—look here! This is queer. This thing is a message about two grown men and some children and mountains and the snowy pass—and war—or ambush——”
He began to study the short woven length with its knotted strands and its weave of colors, some white, a bit of red and other colors mingled.
Then he looked up as he saw Tom’s eyes turn toward the road, visible from the courtyard. They all looked. A youth—it might be the one they had seen before—was searching. He went along, head bent low, eyes on the road, turning from side to side.
Bill rose, dropping the quipu carelessly into his left coat pocket. Cliff, who was always observant, noted it though he paid little attention, being too busy wondering what Bill meant to do.