2
THE UNSEEN WATCHERS
Starrett had drifted out of the paralysis of the blow into a drunken stupor. Graydon dragged him over to the tent, thrust a knapsack under his head, and threw a blanket over him. Then he went out and built up the fire. There was a trampling through the underbrush. Soames and Dancret came up through the trees.
“Find any signs?” he asked.
“Signs? Hell—no!” snarled the New Englander. “Say, Graydon, did you hear somethin’ like a lot of horns? Damned queer horns, too. They seemed to be over here.”
Graydon nodded, he realized that he must tell these men what had happened so that they could prepare some defense. But how much could he tell?
Tell them of Suarra’s beauty, of her golden ornaments and her gem-tipped spears of gold? Tell them what she had said of Atahualpa’s treasure?
If he did, there would be no further reasoning with them. They would go berserk with greed. Yet something of it he must tell them if they were to be ready for the attack which he was certain would come with the dawn.
And of the girl they would learn soon enough from Starrett.
He heard an exclamation from Dancret who had passed on into the tent; heard him come out; stood up and faced the wiry little Frenchman.
“What’s the matter wit’ Starrett, eh?” Dancret snapped. “First I t’ought he’s drunk. Then I see he’s scratched like wild cat and wit’ a lump on his jaw as big as one orange. What you do to Starrett, eh?”
Graydon had made up his mind, and was ready to answer.
“Dancret,” he said, “Soames—we’re in a bad box. I came in from hunting less than an hour ago, and found Starrett wrestling with a girl. That’s bad medicine down here—the worst, and you two know it. I had to knock Starrett out before I could get the girl away from him. Her people will probably be after us in the morning. There’s no use trying to get away. We don’t know a thing about this wilderness. Here is as good as any other place to meet them. We’d better spend the night getting it ready so we can put up a good scrap, if we have to.”
“A girl, eh?” said Dancret. “What she look like? Where she come from? How she get away?”
Graydon chose the last question to answer.
“I let her go,” he said.
“You let her go!” snarled Soames. “What the hell did you do that for? Why didn’t you tie her up? We could have held her as a hostage, Graydon—had somethin’ to do some tradin’ with when her damned bunch of Indians came.”
“She wasn’t an Indian, Soames,” said Graydon, then hesitated.
“You mean she was white—Spanish?” broke in Dancret, incredulously.
“No, not Spanish either. She was white. Yes, white as any of us. I don’t know what she was.”
The pair stared at him, then at each other.
“There’s somethin’ damned funny
