“My father!” declared Cliff, eagerly, while Tom and Nicky sat forward on the porch swing, intent and excited.
“Quien sabe—who knows? I think yes. This man agree to take white man to old ruins in cordillerras—mountains! They stop in village where is—how you say?—festival of wedding.
“White man get very drunk. He have fight and shoot natives.”
To Cliff that did not ring true; his father was a quiet man, not the sort to take much wine or to use firearms except in self defense. However, he said nothing.
“One native die,” went on the Spaniard, “Others very angry. Put white man in prison. He think they kill him. He write letter and ask this friend of me, here, to escape away and send letter. This man must swim in river to escape. Water make the address of letter so it is not to send.” He made a gesture of smudging ink and flung out his hands to indicate helplessness.
“This friend not know what to do. He not read. He put letter away and forget. He learn after ‘while the white man kill’ by natives.”
Cliff was saddened by the story, even though he had no proof that it really concerned his father. Tom and Nicky looked sorrowful and sympathetic.
“Ten week ago,” the Spaniard continued, “this man see another white man in mountains, make hunt for the place of gold mining.”
“A prospector,” Nicky interrupted. Cliff nodded.
“This man ask white man about letter, what to do. I am in camp with white man, Americano. But I not read letter. Other one do that and grin and laugh and take new envelop’ and put on address from inside letter. He go away and mail at Cuzco.