Alexander Key
The Book With the Golden Leaves
Short Story
    Treasure bunt for the lost loot of the Incas

McWilliams knew El Libro was a scientific wonder – but he didn’t know it was the core of a nation’s destiny!

    There was no trail, only a series of narrow, connecting ledges leading upward. Death lay on their right in a mile-deep plunge to the valley floor. On their left, towering ever higher, rose the great wall and the grim peaks of the Andes. Death waited there too – and perhaps fortune.
    Martin Ransdell, field chief of the Columbian Research Society, flattened against the perpendicular cliff and slid his feet with infinite caution along the ledge. At this point it was hardly the width of his hand. Behind him, McWilliams, his big assistant, held his alpen-stock fast in a crevice until the rope connecting them grew taut. Now Ransdell halted, bracing himself while McWilliams inched nearer. Further on the two swarthy Aymará guides reached a shelf and stood waiting, close-set black eyes furtive and evil.
    Breath rasping in the high altitude, McWilliams gained Ransdell’s side. Ransdell’s lean face was drawn and a pallor showed under his bronzed skin. “Don’t look down, Mac,” he cautioned. “We’ll be over the worst in a little while.”
    “It’s not the height that bothers me,” muttered McWilliams. “Keep your eyes on those damned Indians.”
    “Think there was a better way up?”
    “There should be. I’ve got a feeling the whole set-up’s wrong. Those Aymarás are half-llama when it comes to climbing. I don’t believe Bello picked them just to show us the ledge route. Take another look across the valley at that damned house of his. It doesn’t fit into the scheme of things.”
    Ransdell rested on his stock and turned his head warily. Thinking of his meeting with General Bello yesterday, he cursed softly.
    * * *
    Bello was a strange one, certainly; and it had taken a deal of trouble even to gain audience with him. Far across the valley he could see Bello’s house – a great building of red and white marble that rose startlingly against the sheer blue backdrop of mountains. The place marked the terminus of the single highway cutting through the most distant province of Peru.
    It was incongruous, a palace in this wild region. And in his reception room, General Bello had been an incongruous figure. While Ransdell rested his strained body against the cliff’s side, his mind whipped back to the moment when, after several weeks of waiting, the palace guards had finally admitted them to Bello’s presence.
    The general nodded curtly as they entered. At the sight of him, McWilliams was without words for the first time in his life. Even Ransdell was startled; he had expected nothing like this.
    General Bello’s gold-braided uniform was immaculate, but no tailor’s skill could mask his thick bowed legs, or his wrestler’s neck and huge barrel of a chest. He had the heavy, powerful features of a bulldog – and he was redheaded. It was not the carroty Irish color of McWilliams, but a wicked, swarthy, maroon red that seemed to glow with little devil fires.
    The general’s steel-black eyes drilled them. “I can give you little time. You wish permission to carry out some explorations in this province?”
    “Lima has already given us permission,” said Ransdell. “We need only your signed approval. It was also suggested that you could offer us invaluable aid and advice.”
    The general emitted a guttural sound halfway between a chuckle and a grunt. In this mountain province he was king, and it was well known that the government at Lima feared him like a plague. “Be seated, señores. Now, what is the nature of this undertaking?”
    “We are looking for the Libro de Oro,” Ransdell answered quietly.
    “Eh?” Bello hitched forward. “The Libro de Oro – the fabled Golden Book of the Inca sun priests? What nonsense is this?”
    “No nonsense about it. If you remember the story, the Book of Gold was hidden at the time of the Conquest, taken to a secret valley far up in the mountains and deposited in a special storehouse. The trail was obliterated and the valley has never been found. However, we have traced the Libro de Oro to this section, and have every reason to believe it lies beyond the high cliffs here.”
    * * *
    An impatient rumble came from Bello’s huge chest. “There are many myths like that of the Golden book. I think, señores, that you waste both your time and mine.” He arose, shaking his head. “Even if I could place credit in such things, I would surely not allow foreigners to exploit and derive gain from treasures that belong only to Peru.”
    “Exploit?” growled McWilliams, face purpling. “You’ve got us wrong. The Book has no value except its archeological worth. That and any other artifacts we locate will be turned over to Peru and the Lima museum. Perhaps you do not realize that the Señor Ransdell here is Martin Ransdell.”
    “The name means nothing to me,” Bello replied coldly.
    Ransdell forced himself to be patient.
    “In the past five years, General Bello, I have recovered for the Lima museum examples of Inca workmanship of incalculable value. Their metal worth alone must be well over a million. Being already a wealthy man, my interest is only in science.
    “Should the Book turn out to be what we think it is, the finding of it would be one of the greatest archeological discoveries in history. It is in the name of Peru, General Bello, that we ask your help.”
    “Muy bien!” The general sat down again. “Even so, I doubt if I can give you any assistance whatever.” He waved his hand to a high arched window. “Go there; tell me what you see.”
    Ransdell stared at him blankly, strode across the room. McWilliams followed. They peered out.
    It seemed as if a great blue curtain hung immediately beyond them, so close that it could almost be touched, so high that no man could ever hope to gain its top. Then, in miniature almost below, Ransdell made out a suspension bridge crossing a deep gorge; on the other side were tiny brown squares of houses. Emerging from pinholes in the great curtain’s base were lines of black dots like toiling ants. Sunlight slanted suddenly from the crest far above. Both men gasped as the deception vanished.
    “I see your men working the old Inca mines,” said Ransdell. “And I see a mountain above them as high as the moon.”
    “Dios!” Bello rumbled. “And you wish permission to cross the moon?”
    “We wish permission to attempt it,” Ransdell shot back. “If the Incas once gained the other side, there must still be a way.”
    “There is no way, Señor Ransdell. We are at the valley’s end; no man has gone beyond it. The valley floor is two miles above the sea. At some points the mountain wall rises two miles higher, with greater heights beyond that. Even our government planes cannot fly over it. There are swirling winds up there that make it impossible.”
    * * *
    But in the old days men crossed here! The valley highway follows the old trail. Every reference to the Book indicates that this was the route!”
    “Basta! I am in no mood for argument.” The general stood up impatiently. “The old trail here leads only to the mines. But if you are such fools that you wish to die, there is a slight break across the valley where it may be possible to climb within a short distance of the top. The Indians sometimes go there for birds.”
    “We’ve seen the place,” said McWilliams. “Give us guides and we’ll make the top. It must be remembered that Señor Ransdell is a skilled climber and an engineer. He has come well equipped for mountain work.”
    Bello studied them. Something calculating and evil seemed to tighten his gross features. Abruptly he shrugged. “Very well, señores. Tomorrow I will have guides take you up over the little ledges. Beyond a certain point no Indian will go, and you will have to proceed at your own risk.
    “For the sake of Peru, señores, I will wish you luck. But I fear you are not destined to find the Libro de Oro.” The red devil fires in his hair seemed to glow brighter as he dismissed them.
    * * *
    High up on the cliff’s side, Ransdell drew a deep breath and slid cautiously to the wider shelf where the guides waited. All afternoon he had been grateful for the sun’s warmth on his back. But with the approach of evening the sun had dipped over the coast range, and a chill breath was beginning to sweep down from above. He saw with growing uneasiness that a gray mist was settling about him, obscuring the ledges overhead.
    McWilliams gave a relieved grunt as his feet found better footing. “There’s an hour of light left,” he said. “Think we can make the last ledge by then?”
    Ransdell shook his head. “Afraid not. Too dangerous in the fog.” He turned and spoke rapidly to one of the Indians, then looked at McWilliams again.
    “The devils refuse to go any farther. They want to camp here for the night and make their descent in the morning.”
    McWilliams studied them. “I’d just as soon they left now,” he muttered. “They haven’t helped us any, and I believe they could get down blindfolded if they wanted to. I don’t like having them around in the dark.”
    Ransdell said nothing. Perhaps McWilliams was right, but he couldn’t send men down so dangerous a route in fog and approaching darkness. As he superintended the making of camp, his lean, weathered face became more flint-like than usual.
    The shelf here was little over a yard wide. Loose stones were piled along the outer edge, and the packs, which had been divided equally among the four of them, were wedged in crevices on either side. This left a space just large enough for each man to lie in a cramped position without moving.
    Ransdell brewed mate over an alchohol lamp. Before they finished their frugal meal, black dark blanketed the valley below, and as dark and fog met, night closed about them with the suddenness of a thunder clap. It was bitterly cold.
    “I’ll take first watch, Mac,” he whispered to the big man beside him. “Two-hour shifts.”
    “Okay. If you can tell me where Bello got the money to build that marble house I’ll sleep better. He didn’t inherit it, because his people were peons.”
    “He acquired those old mines somehow, got them to working again.”
    “Those mines, Rand, were in operation five hundred years before the Conquest. All the real wealth was removed before Pizzaro’s time. Yesterday I had a look at some of the stuff they are taking out now. Low grade. Would hardly pay operation costs. And Bello is rated as one of the richest men in Peru.”
    “Got any ideas, Mac?”
    “Yeah, but I don’t like to think about them.”
    For a long while there was silence. Beneath the folds of his blanket, Ransdell kept one hand on his flashlight, the other near his gun butt. He was worried, but he was less concerned with the guides than with what lay ahead of them in the morning. The last hundred feet up the cliff would be the most difficult. Beyond that there would be other dangers probably even greater.
    * * *
    The thing happened without warning. He had heard nothing, not the faintest breath of movement. Abruptly there was a strangled cry, shale clattered over the ledge, and the rope connecting him with McWilliams whipped taut.
    With twenty years of mountain climbing behind him, Ransdell acted without being conscious of what he did. He threw himself back, heels braced on the ledge. One elbow hooked around the alpen-stock which had been wedged in a crack. Under the shock of McWilliams’ falling body, the rope nearly tore him from his perch. He writhed sideways, straining every muscle to keep from slipping.
    Something brushed over him. Steel fingers grasped his leg, jerked. He kicked with his free foot, missed, and felt himself sliding. Praying that the alpen-stock would hold, he clawed for his gun with his left hand, began snapping shots in a quick arc about him. A man screamed. The grip on his foot loosened.
    There was a long, wailing cry that diminished to nothing as one of the Aymarás plunged over the brink. Ransdell heard the second man scuttling away in the darkness.
    Dropping his gun, Ransdell skillfully hauled McWilliams back beside him. The big fellow came up cursing. Ransdell lay back spent and shaken. For once he was not amused at McWilliams’ reaction to danger.
    “Damn Bello!” roared the big man. “If I had him up here now—” He found a light, flashed it about the ledge. “So one of the beggars got away, eh? Told you they knew how to get around in the dark. Like cats.” He stopped, burst into another furious fit of cursing.
    “Look – one of the food packs is gone!”
    Ransdell examined the remaining packs. His thin lips tightened. The missing pack contained dehydrated and concentrated foods that would take weeks to replace. The loss of these might mean disaster if they went ahead and were forced to spend much time in their search.
    “I’ll leave it to you, Mac,” he said simply. “We wasted a month trying to see Bello. Now there’s only a little good weather left before the snows begin. Still want to tackle it?”
    “Hell, yes!” snapped McWilliams. “It won’t be so tough if we can run into some game – and I want to find out what there is in this country that Bello doesn’t want us to see.”
    “Hm. So do I.”
    They pushed on.
    * * *
    It was late morning before there was light enough in the valley for them to go ahead. The contents of the packs were redistributed into two equal loads. With the added weight, Ransdell climbed with increasing caution. The ledges narrowed after an hour, finally disappeared altogether. He clawed upward inch by inch, chipping holes with his knife, seeking out every crevice for support.
    McWilliams followed, careful to keep the rope joining them slack, doubly careful to keep the spike of his alpen-stock wedged into a hole whenever Ransdell moved. Only a hundred feet of cliff lay above them now, but every foot of it was more dangerous than the sheer face of the Matterhorn.
    Ransdell moved more slowly. Breath rasped to his tortured lungs, his heart pounded as if it would tear through his chest. For awhile his exertions, combined with the high altitude, brought on a nausea; he willed himself to go on, tried not to think of the horrid distance yawning beneath him.
    The top was nearer. Seventy feet, probably. If he could gain another thirty feet....
    It seemed impossible. The pack pressed down on his shoulders as if it weighed a ton. He had counted on the guides helping him here. He and McWilliams could have left the packs with them, and after gaining the crest, could have knotted several lengths of line and easily pulled up each item of luggage.
    Ransdell stopped. Blood drummed madly in his temples. His numbed hands sought support overhead, found none. The cliff stretched smooth and unbroken to the top. Looking up, he saw for the first time that the last few feet curved perceptibly outward.
    Hope left him. No man had ever climbed this part of the cliff. No man ever would....
    * * *
    As was his habit when pleased with himself, General Bello rose late. From the window of his east room he could look out across the valley at the further curve of the great mountain wall. That portion of the cliff would be in shadow until noon. But the morning sun etched a line of crimson along the top, and he could easily locate the spot below it where the more agile Indians sometimes went up the ledges for birds.
    While he finished breakfast, his eyes swept down the cliff to a problematical point at the bottom where the bodies of clumsy men would most likely fall. He chuckled, and called loudly for more rolls and cocoa. In the privacy of his bedroom he was under no necessity to appear other than what he was – a gross, hulking son of toil who had battled his way up from peonage by a combination of brute strength and devilish intelligence.
    Adjusting a pair of high-powered binoculars, he leisurely studied the distant cliff, the piles of shale at the bottom. Too early to see anything yet. Blue, opaque shadow masked the wall and filled the entire valley floor.
    There was no hurry; the thing would keep. It was regrettable, though, that his orders could not have been carried out in the bright light of afternoon so that he could have had the pleasure of witnessing the details. But that would have been too dangerous with men like Ransdell and McWilliams.
    Though he had denied ever having heard of him, General Bello was well acquainted with Martin Ransdell’s activities. It had not been altogether a surprise that Ransdell’s researches should finally bring him to the valley. Still, his coming had been a problem, for Ransdell had arrived at a difficult time.
    Men as important as Ransdell cannot be disposed of too openly – especially when one is planning a political venture of great magnitude.
    General Bello yawned, and watched the shadows slowly recede across the valley. Well, the emergency had been handled deftly. Now there remained only the making out of reports, and the writing of a regretful note to the Lima museum.
    He poured himself a generous liqueur, and as the traveling path of light touched the shale at the bottom of the cliff, he reached for his binoculars.
    Almost at the precise spot where he expected to find it, he made out a small, horribly broken form that had once been a man. He frowned, waited for the light to creep higher, then searched again.
    Through the glass he could see every foot of the sloping pile of shale. Only one man lay there!
    * * *
    With a hoarse oath he lunged up, knocking dishes from the breakfast tray, and leaned out of the window. Perhaps the other body had fallen on one of the ledges. He waited impatiently while the sun mounted.
    The sun reached the zenith. Suddenly the entire cliff leapt into full view. Slowly his glass moved from ledge to ledge, searching. Halfway up he stopped, swung to the huddled figure on the shale again. As he studied it a spasm of uncontrollable rage shook him.
    The dead man was an Indian!
    Cursing, he focused the lenses near the cliff’s top. He stiffened, and the loose corners of his mouth tightened to a granite hardness.
    Two men clung to the cliff’s side within a short distance of the crest. The smaller, uppermost figure was easily recognizable as Martin Ransdell.
    Ransdell had wedged the spike of his alpen-stock into a crevice, and was hanging to it by one knee, his other foot rigidly braced underneath. His left hand held a coil of rope and his right was swinging a short length of it around in circles. At the rope end something metallic flashed in the sunlight.
    Bello watched, fascinated. Many men had tried to climb the cliff; none had succeeded. Some of the best climbers had found it a death trap.
    How Ransdell had reached a point so close to the top – higher than any Indian had ever gone – was beyond understanding. How he was able to balance on that frail staff, without even a handhold and with more than eight thousand feet of emptiness beneath him....
    The metallic object flashed straight upward, dragging the rope behind it. It curved over the bulging cliff top, caught there, the rope dangling. It was held by a hook – a small, three-pronged grappling hook!
    Would Ransdell attempt to climb that dangling rope? He was not only attempting it, he was doing it 1 He had cast off the safety line binding him to McWilliams, and with the alpen-stock swinging from one wrist, he was slowly going up, hand over hand!
    Bello gasped; his cold eyes gleamed brighter. General Bello himself was no coward; to witness such a degree of cool daring in another brought forth his ungrudging admiration.
    His intense gaze never left that dangerously swaying figure until the goal had been reached, and Ransdell, after battling the fierce sweep of wind at the top, lay exhausted somewhere on the other side. A half hour later General Bello slowly set down his binoculars. By this time McWilliams had been drawn over the wall and the two men had vanished in the mystery beyond.
    General Bello straightened. “Clavos de Cristo!” he swore gently. “They are fearless ones, those two. I am sorry.” He clapped his hands twice for his bodyguard.
    “Pepe,” he said, as a short, stocky mestizo entered the room. “Cancel all engagements for next week. Tomorrow evening we leave upon a little journey.”
    “A journey, amo? Is it the American car you wish this time, or shall I prepare the English one?”
    “Neither, Pepe. We are going east.”
    Pepe’s curved eyebrows went up. “I will have everything in readiness, amo. Perhaps this trip will not be so dull, no?” He grinned villianously.
    “It will be most entertaining,” said General Bello.
    * * *
    Leaning against the wind, Ransdell surveyed the tortured land ahead. The ground dropped away again at his feet, shot up breathlessly further on; ice patches gleamed in the hollows, serrated snow banks rose dazzling white against jagged rock pinnacles. It was a mad, cold, merciless world, inhabited only by twisting winds that drove stinging snow particles into their faces and filled their ears with a perpetual moaning scream.
    “Looks like we’ve hit a blank,” muttered McWilliams, drawing on his extra clothing and pulling a fur cap over his ears. “How do you figure it?”
    “Coming up at this corner of the valley must have put us about twenty miles too far north,” said Ransdell. “No Inca ever crossed this way.”
    “Then there must be another way over the wall, or we’ve tackled the wrong part of the country entirely.”
    “No, we’re in the right section. We’ve merely missed the old trail.”
    “Rand, while we were waiting to get in touch with Bello, we studied the valley from one end to the other. There was no sign of another route.”
    “Yes, but the records said the old trail had been carefully obliterated. The absence of any other possible way up the cliff makes me believe there was once a series of swinging ladders to the top. They did it before, you know, in the mountains further north.”
    McWilliams shook his head. “Bello knows something, or he wouldn’t try to keep us out. That means he must have discovered the other way – whatever it is.”
    “I’ll grant you that,” said Ransdell. “But what is he after? What’s back of it?”
    For awhile the two were silent. They crouched in the lee of an abutment, coaxing a thin blue flame from the alcohol burner, heating tinned meat until it was lukewarm and wishing for scalding hot tea – impossible at this altitude. Neither broached an answer to the questions. Bello could hardly be interested in the Libro de Oro. Its value would be purely historical, as it was the only remaining record of a forgotten race. The metal content of the thin plates of gold it was said to be inscribed upon would hardly attract a man of General Bello’s wealth. There must be some other reason.
    McWilliams buckled on his pack. “Well, fellow, feel you can navigate the rest of it now?”
    Bending far over against the wind’s thrust, they started southward.
    * * *
    An early blizzard delayed them for two days while they holed up beneath a boulder. A slip on the edge of an ice field cost McWilliams a sprained ankle, and for nearly a week he was unable to move beyond the confines of a small cavern under a ledge. During this time Ransdell cruised wearily down the surrounding slopes searching for the few small, stunted shrubs for their fire. He hunted vainly for game, found none.
    On the sixth day McWilliams limped grimly forth, teeth set against the pain that came with every step.
    “We’d better go back,” said Ransdell, feeling the lightness of his food pack. “There’s always another year.”
    “No,” growled the other. “This is our chance. If we can find the spot we’re after, we’ll learn the trick of getting in and out. As long as I live, I’ll never hang below you and watch you climb by that hook and rope method again. I could never do it – and the next time may be your last.”
    On the following day they broke through the ragged heights. Once, before they dipped down an easy grade at the snow line, the haze cleared in the east and they were able to see, far below and far away, the beginning of the endless green jungles of Brazil.
    At the bottom of the grade they reached an expanse of tableland hemmed in by the peaks. McWilliams’ wind-bitten face lighted at the sound of running water. “Stream out yonder somewhere,” he mumbled. “Maybe there’s a meal in it.” Forgetting his limp, he moved eagerly off through the lush grass that reached to his knees.
    Ransdell sank down, opened a rough chart, and studied it a long time. According to every calculation, the valley of the Libro de Oro should be where he sat. But there was no valley here, no sign of man’s former presence. Only the high mountain meadow and broken ridges on all sides.
    The sky stared upon him with cold austerity.
    He was beaten. No use ignoring the fact any longer. As Bello had said, the whole thing was probably a myth. The main concern now was their own safety. Would their food last until they reached the ledge again, or would it be better to go eastward – down to that unmapped, unknown wilderness that lead eventually to the Amazon? At least there was game there.
    * * *
    A shout from McWilliams brought him to his feet. He ran forward. McWilliams stood by a small brook curving through the meadow. In one hand he held a fish.
    “Look, Rand – trout! The stream’s alive with them. I knocked this fellow out with my stick.”
    Ransdell stared at it. “That kind of fish doesn’t belong here, Mac.”
    “Sure it does. They’ve stocked North American trout all over the Andes.”
    “Only in Argentina, and in a few west coast streams. We’re east of the divide now, and all the water drains into the Amazon. There’s no possible way for trout to get here, unless—”
    McWilliams’ jaw went slack. “Good God!” he burst out suddenly. “I think I see it!”
    “Come on,” Ransdell cried hoarsely, “follow the stream!”
    All else forgotten, they hurried through the meadow. At the end, invisible from the other side, the stream curved past an abutment and dipped abruptly into a narrow canyon in a series of cascades. A carefully-cut manmade trail followed the water’s edge.
    Hours later, Ransdell jerked to a stop. A premature twilight had come. The canyon sides almost closed at the top, leaving only a thin slit through which daylight sifted downward. The stream had become a roaring torrent, crashing and rumbling in the distance. It led ever deeper into the earth – and it flowed west.
    A strange cry ripped from McWilliams’ lips. There was amazement in it, awe, and delight.
    Opening before them was a great half-circular cavern almost filled with a square structure of rose-colored stone. It seemed a fairy thing, built by red genii for the red gods.
    Ransdell spoke first. “We’ve found it, Mac, we’ve found it!” His voice was a reverent whisper. “Lord, look at that slanting doorway, that smooth stone-work! Old Inca! Perfect!”
    “And the Book, Rand; it – it must be there, inside!”
    As if drawn by a magnet, they pressed forward. They reached the entrance, Ransdell’s light wavering in his hand. Within the vault-like interior they stood wordless, playing their lights upon the dim handiwork of forgotten masters.
    It was a small sound near the entrance that brought Ransdell back to the present, and caused him to whirl, A strong light cut the shadows, fastened upon him.
    “Greetings, señores,” came the guttural voice of General Bello. “We have been waiting for you a long time. No, do not move. Little Pepe here is a most excellent shot.”
    * * *
    McWilliams cursed. General Bello approached them from the shadows, grim, dominating, as invincible as death. He wore khaki and puttees; one hand rested easily on the gun buckled on the outside of his leather coat.
    “I am sorry, my friends. What I must do is unpleasant but highly necessary. Against the wall with you!”
    The temple echoed with McWilliams’ blast of profanity. Ransdell quieted him. “He’s got us, Mac. Let me do the talking.”
    He stared desperately at Bello, but his voice came like a whiplash. “You might have the courtesy to explain! A few minutes will make no difference. We can’t get away!”
    The general chuckled. “No, there is no hurry,” he said softly, deftly relieving them of their weapons and tossing them out through the temple door. “Now, you have questions to ask?”
    Pepe set down his lantern and sidled nearer, eyes thin slits in his yellow face. “Amo, let me finish these two quickly. It will be much better.”
    “Silencio! After all, these are brave men, not fools. And they are scientists. I allow them five minutes to satisfy their curiosity.”
    Ransdell tongued dry lips. Five minutes. Much could happen in that time. “Your kindness is overwhelming,” he rasped. “Perhaps you will tell us how you got here, what you are after – and why we must die.”
    “Of course, my friends. I came by the old trail, the one that leads through the mountain. The entrance is at the mines, little more than a mile from here. One travels a winding tunnel to gain the temple. It had been closed with masonry, but I opened it and equipped it with an iron door.”
    “And the stream – it also flows through the tunnel?”
    Bello puffed out his lips; he was enjoying this. “Only part of the way, señor. Those early engineers were clever, They widened the tunnel and diverted the stream near the entrance. When it flows into the valley it appears to be merely seepage from the mountain snows.” He twirled his revolver. “Pepe—”
    “Wait!” Ransdell cried. “The Libro de Oro – what in the name of heaven do you want with it? It’s worthless to you!”
    “Worthless? Ah no!” Bello gave a rumbling laugh. “One more minute, Pepe. These two are consumed with a great curiosity.
    He took a breath.
    “Señores, Peru needs a liberator, another Bolivar! All of South America awaits such a man. But I must have vast wealth to forge these countries into one mighty nation. My mines have failed – but this remains. Look!”
    * * *
    Randsdell followed the sweep of his hand. He gasped, suddenly tottered across the temple. In the center was a rectangular structure perhaps twenty feet long and twice the height of a man. It appeared to be made of flat tablets of gray tile, neatly stacked without overlapping. Ransdell’s shaking hand wiped across a corner, removing the dust of centuries.
    The spot glittered yellow in the lantern light.
    The general’s beady black eyes went half closed. “It is the Book, señor!”
    Ransdell sought to speak, could not. A white fever of excitement burned through him; he forgot all else but this unbelievable pile on the temple floor.
    “There remain nearly three thousand of the tablets, or pages, my friend. Each one weighs as much as a man can lift. The' little symbols that cover them are very interesting, no doubt – but they must be sacrificed to serve a greater cause than science. There will be hungry armies to feed, guns, ammunition, equipment to buy. It will cost millions to unite South America into a single power.”
    The general straightened. “You would object to this, señores. If you lived, you would be dangerous. Por Dios! We have talked enough! Pepe—”
    Ransdell, standing like a hewn image, suddenly whirled on him in a maniacal fury. A shot ripped too late from Pepe’s weapon; Ransdell’s lunge had Bello between them. “You mean,” he screamed, “you would destroy this – this? The most valuable scientific find ever made! The whole culture and knowledge of a vanished people! You – you’re a madman – insane!” He was at Bello’s throat and his hurtling weight carried them both down, a rolling, cursing, twisting mass on the stone floor.
    Pepe danced around them screaming, watching for an opportunity to shoot. McWilliams’ flashlight smashed against his wrist; the gun went spinning through the temple door. Pepe flung himself after it. McWilliams was close behind him.
    Ransdell felt the hot stab of Bello’s pistol in his arm. Black hate had given him momentary strength; he rolled, beating the other’s gun hand against the stones. The pistol clattered away.
    Roaring, Bello tore the lighter man from him, battered him as if he had been a puppet. A terrific right to the jaw sent Ransdell sprawling, limp. Bello’s left came down like a descending piledriver.
    Ransdell sought to rise, could not; a big hand held him immovable. Vaguely he saw Bello towering above him, a hulking shadow against the lantern light. Bello was fumbling on the floor. Something gleamed. The pistol.
    * * *
    Ransdell felt his strength ebbing fast. He drew his knees up, snapped them straight again. His heels exploded against Bello’s barrel chest. The general lurched backward with a hoarse oath, and Ransdell clawed forward with his teeth set, too to weak to rise.
    He went rigid as Bello’s triumphant roar filled the temple. “Basta! you fool! A madman, am I? Caramba! Who are you to halt a nation’s destiny?” General Bello was up, pistol leveled. “By the blood of Dios, you die!”
    Ransdell watched the trigger finger tighten; and suddenly amazed, saw the muzzle swerve to one side. The pistol spat – but two other shots shook the place with thundering echoes.
    A strange, startled expression passed over Bello’s face. His weapon dropped. He clutched his right breast, reeled, and began to sink slowly to his knees. His fists clenched. “Pepe!” he cried thickly. “Pepe! Where are you?”
    “Pepe is gone,” the flat voice of McWilliams spoke from the doorway. “Pepe is floating downstream – and he’s not swimming.” McWilliams was stooped in the dim shaft of light coming through the entrance. In his hand was Pepe’s smoking revolver.
    Bello’s great head rolled on his chest. With an effort he straightened. “Gone!” he muttered. “All gone! The marching armies are ghosts. Another, year... they would have been real... would have swept the Cordilleras, the Pampas.... You have not killed a man, señor – you have defeated a great scheme.”
    His hand unclenched with a futile gesture. “You have courage; the Book goes to science after all. I – I salute you, amigos.” His eyes glazed; he fumbled haltingly in a pocket and a large key slid through his fingers. “To open the... tunnel door. Now – adios.”
    He collapsed and lay still.
    McWilliams limped to Ransdell’s side. He opened a medical kit and bound Ransdell’s arm. “Only a flesh wound,” he said. “Tried to get here sooner, but Pepe gave me some trouble.”
    For a long minute the two stared at the silent form of Bello. “What a devil!” McWilliams muttered finally.
    “A devil, yes,” replied Ransdell. “But he died like a gentleman.”

    1937
    (Argosy, vol. 270, #2, January 16, pp.64-75)

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