One day, as the comrades toiled along, entering the real mountains, the vigilant watcher turned toward his companions.
“Brother, they come!” he said.
“They come—yes,” agreed his nearest aide, a noble of the old and almost extinct true-blooded Incas, “They come—yes.”
He made a meaning gesture.
“But—they will not come back!”
That same day Cliff borrowed Bill’s field glasses and focused them on a small band, toiling along far behind them.
“I think we’re being followed—I’ve noticed that group several times,” he told the older members of their party.
They agreed, and frequently thereafter the followers were observed, but always too far behind to enable the chums to guess their identity. Was it the Spaniard? Was it the Indian?
Many days passed and they were well in the high cliffs before they learned the truth!