He rolled a cigarette and they watched him without speech.
“You no fools,” he declared, finally, “you know why I follow. When I was in Senor Sander’s camp one Indian come and say he pay me for go to stop letter. I try but—” he nodded at Mr. Whitley, “—I not so lucky.
“But Indian disappear in Lima. He not pay me. So I think to follow you and so come to place where is much gold.
“But why must I follow? Let us join together. That way we are stronger.”
They exchanged surprised glances.
At a slight shake of the head from Mr. Whitley, Bill spoke. They were not going after gold, he denied, they were going to try to rescue a white man held captive by Incas. They all knew, of course, Cliff thought, that it was useless to try to hoodwink the Spaniard: he knew all but the exact route. It was wiser to admit the truth.
“We will discuss your offer,” John Whitley said, “perhaps we may agree to it. We will let you know later.”
The Spaniard nodded, signaled to his bearers to remove his litter but instead of returning down the pass he was carried the other way. They saw why at once. His camp had been broken up and his natives, not very heavily loaded, for he traveled light, came up the path and overtook their master.
“I don’t know how you feel and you don’t know how I feel,” Bill was whittling industriously as he spoke, “but it looks to me as though he has shown us the way out.”
“I don’t see how,” Nicky broke in, “if we go with him he may spoil our plans and get the gold—and—and—everything!”