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The Buried Treasure
by
“The Indian died,” she went on solemnly, flashing at Craig a glance from her wonderful eyes. “He was poisoned by the other members of his tribe.” She paused, then flashed, “That is my tribe, my family.”
She paused a moment. “The big fish is still a secret–or at least it was until they got it from my brother, to whom the tradition had been intrusted. They drove him crazy–until he talked. Then, after he had told the secret, and lost his mind, he threw himself one day into Lake Titicaca.”
She stopped dramatically in her passionate out-pouring of the tragedies that had followed the hidden treasure.
“I cannot tell you more than you probably already know,” she resumed, watching our faces intently. “You know, I suppose, that the treasure is believed to be in a large mound, a tumulus I think you call it, visible from our town of Truxillo. Many people have tried to open it, but the mass of sand pours down on them and they have been discouraged. But Senor Mendoza believes that he knows just where to bore and Mr. Lockwood has a plan for a well-timbered tunnel which can be driven at the right point.”
She said it with a sort of quiet assurance that conveyed the impression without her saying it that the venture was somehow doomed to failure, that these desecrators were merely toying with fate. All through her remarks one could feel that she suspected Mendoza of having been responsible for the downfall and tragedy of her brother, who had betrayed the age-old secret.
Her eyes assumed a far-away, dreamy look as she went on. “You must know that we Peruvians have been so educated that we never explore ruins for hidden treasure–not even if we have the knowledge of engineering to do so.”
Apparently she was thinking of her son and his studies at the University. One could follow her thoughts as they flitted from him to the beautiful girl with whom she had seen us.
“We are a peculiar race,” she proceeded. “We seldom intermarry with other races. We are as proud as Senor Mendoza, as proud of our unmixed lineage as your ‘belted earls.'”
She said it with a quiet dignity quite in contrast with the nervous, hasty manner of Don Luis. There was no doubt that the race feeling cut deep.
Kennedy had been following her closely and I could see that the cross currents of superstition, avarice and race hatred in the case presented a tangle that challenged him.
“Thank you,” he murmured, rising. “You have told me quite enough to make me think seriously before I join in any such undertaking.”
She smiled enigmatically and we bowed ourselves out.
“A most baffling woman,” was Craig’s only comment as we rode down again in the elevator to wait for the return of Don Luis and the Senorita.
Scarcely had their chair set them down at the inn than Alfonso seemed to appear from nowhere. He had evidently been waiting in the shadow of the porch for them.
We stood aside and watched the little drama. For a few minutes the Senorita talked with him. One did not need to be told that she had a deep regard for the young man. She wanted to see him, yet she did not want to see him. Don Luis, on the contrary, seemed to become quite restive and impatient again and to wish to cut the conversation short.
It was self-evident that Alfonso was deeply in love with Inez. I wondered whether, after all, the trouble was that the proud old Castilian Don Luis would never consent to the marriage of his daughter to one of Indian blood? Was he afraid of a love forbidden by race prejudice?
In any event, one could easily imagine the feelings of Alphonso toward Lockwood, whom he saw carrying off the prize under his very eyes. As for his mother, we had seen that the Peruvians of her caste were a proud old race. Her son was the apple of her eye. Who were these to scorn her race, her family?