chapter 36

Ambush

Preoccupied with those he was pursuing, Rodriquez was unconcerned with his surroundings. His targets were clearly in sight through the spyglass, less than a half a mile ahead. They had slowed down and were doing absolutely nothing to protect themselves. This was almost too easy.

Those were the last thoughts Lieutenant Rodriquez would ever entertain. He never heard the shot, nor felt the lead ball rip through his skull.

Practically invisible in a suit of caked mud, the sniper had shot the Spanish officer as he rode past, close to where the donkey had drowned in the quicksand not long before.

Concealed on a small rise less than a hundred yards away, William had already primed the rifle again, packed another cartridge down the muzzle, and was sighting on the next rider in line when the Spanish officer’s mistakes began paying bonuses.

Startled by the sharp report of the first shot, the horse just behind Rodriquez bucked its rider into waist-deep ooze. The panicked soldier, thrashing to get out, quickly sank to his shoulders in the quicksand.

William shifted his focus to the next rider in line. The horseman tried to escape but ran into the rider behind him.

The gun plate shivered against the British officer’s cheek as he fired again. His target grunted and fell heavily.

The guides, José and Paulo, had prudently held back, and by the time of the second shot, they were well on their way home. They galloped north, closely followed by the last remaining soldier.

“Nice move, Bidwell.” William begrudgingly acknowledged the American’s idea, although vaguely ashamed by the notion of camouflaged combat. “Hard to believe a descendant of the great Spanish conquistadores would mistake a poncho, a hat, and a couple of pieces of wood for a British officer.”

“Hard,” Nate said with a grin, “but not impossible.”

Despite himself, William couldn’t help but grin back.

As they continued south along the Inca trail, the two men differed on how to proceed. William wanted to avoid the ambush in the forest by taking the shortcut through the forbidden valley.

“You say you’ve memorized the Frenchman’s directions to a friendly tribe in the Amazon,” Nate said, “one that supplied him with canoes. Then I opt we stick to that original plan, follow his directions, and fight our way through any ambush in the forest.” He pointed out, “If there’s the slightest chance we can get canoes, we must take it. If we don’t get on the river as soon as possible after entering the Amazon, we’re dead.”

William replied, “Whoever’s chasing us is no fool. Using those soldiers to drive us across the páramo into a trap shows he’s a military man. In the forest, he’ll have the time and resources to set up an ambush that’s impossible to sniff out. Believe me, Bidwell,” he urged, “in this, I know what I’m talking about. To go there would be suicide. I say we take the valley shortcut instead. I didn’t tell you, but there was a loose map in the diary that I stowed in my pocket for safekeeping. It may show us something.”

While William unfolded and looked at the old parchment, Nate fumed. “We can’t go into that valley,” Nate insisted. “You just don’t realize what it means to have a taboo placed on an area. That’s not done lightly.”

“I prefer that to walking into an ambush, even if forewarned,” William said. “We lost more than the Frenchman’s journal back there—my pistols, and most of the gunpowder went down with the donkey.”

“Maybe, but we still have the other guns, and some ammunition, plus what we took off the dead Spaniards. Don’t discount the blowgun either,” Nate persisted. “It’s deadly in the right hands.”

“The forest path is certain death,” the British officer repeated emphatically. “This map’s only useful after we’re on the river.”

“Believe me, Gunn, that valley is a more dangerous choice.” Nate was obstinate. “If I must, I’ll go on alone.”

“What’re you talking about?” the Brit shot back. “Without me, you have no idea where you’re going. And that forest route is idiotic.”

“Are you saying I’m an idiot?”

“What I’m saying, Yank, is you’ll be a dead idiot.”

The two glared at each other in silence for several long moments.

“Why not draw a straw?” William suggested in an attempt to break the stalemate. “Pick the short piece, and we go as originally planned through the forest. Pick the longer piece, and we descend through the forbidden valley to the Amazon.” He added lightly, “What the hell, Bidwell, either way we’re likely to wind up dead.”

“Only sensible thing I’ve heard from you yet, Gunn.”

William trimmed two dry pieces of grass, then held them up, seemingly identical, the end of each concealed in his palm.

Nate picked the one on the right.

They walked most of the day to find the trail to the forbidden valley. It was midafternoon when they came to a place where a barely perceptible path branched off to the left and was soon lost among the tall grasses and stunted trees.

“Are you sure?” Nate was skeptical. This looked more like a game trail, or perhaps a place where the Incas had left the road to relieve themselves.

“From everything the old Indian said, this is the way,” William said without conviction.

Even Nate felt challenged at times to follow the wandering, erratic track. The shadows were already beginning to lengthen when the path stopped at the top of a narrow gorge. The deep scar appeared to be carved out of the heart of the high páramo by some colossal, crooked claw. If the path had not led directly to the edge, the valley would have been easy to miss altogether.

Sheer and narrow at its upper end, it gradually broadened to perhaps a half mile at its widest point. The furthest eastern extremity of the valley was shrouded in an odd fog, like a roof of clouds turned upside down.

Nate said drily, “Some choice.”

A clearing far off near the horizon broke the endless march of trees. Using a spyglass liberated from the dead Spanish officer, Nate spotted a structure at the edge of the field.

“That’s odd. It means that people are either there or were at one time. We should try for that cabin at the edge of the clearing. It doesn’t look like much from here, but at least it’s shelter.”

William said, “We better get going if we’re to make it before dark.”

“When the Spanish discover we’re not coming through the forest,” Nate said, “they’ll search for us. And when it comes to a fight, we can’t beat half a garrison.”

“They may not even know about this route,” William said.

“If they did, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to take it.”

The path appeared to be the sole entrance to the valley, the sides of the opening so steep and scarred by rockfall as to prohibit entry elsewhere. Descending had a walled-in feeling, like entering a neglected garden of an abandoned cloister.

“Who’s Sarah?” Nate asked as they began to pick their way down the slope.

“Why do you ask?”

“You talk in your sleep. You’re keeping me awake at night.”

“She’s someone close to me,” he answered.

As William’s search for the black orchid dragged on, each night his daughter visited him in his dreams. Lately she seemed to be in some kind of institution, among strangers. He had heard of places where they put patients who had no hope of ever getting better, but he had never seen one. He worried that Sarah was ill or dying.

The path narrowed, becoming no wider than a couple of feet; descending required all their concentration. The ancient construction was carved from the mountainside over a precipice hundreds of feet above the valley to their left. To their right, the sheer face of the mountain loomed above them.

The track was so steep that they felt it would soon level off, but it continued sharply downward. They felt an indefinable heaviness grow with every step, an inexplicable foreboding. The slightest breeze from the east brought a vague, nauseating odor like eggs rotting.

The suffocating heat and humidity had been intensifying all day, dark clouds steadily gathering in the leaden sky. The broiling sun was well hidden behind the western cliffs when the path finally began to flatten.

They entered a woodland, airless and hot, consisting of a mixture of deciduous and conifer trees crammed closely together. Only the plodding of the mule’s hooves broke the silence. A malaise overtook them as the afternoon darkened into evening.

Nate wondered how he had ever agreed to come this way.

Even William started to question whether this was a wise choice. The thick, surrounding woods could harbor any sort of evil—human or otherwise. He made sure his rifle was within easy reach. Maybe it was a mistake to ignore the American’s advice about a native taboo. They should turn back while there was still time. To walk into a trap with your eyes wide open would be foolish.

“Much further to the hut?” William blurted out, his words puncturing the silence.

Nate’s reply lacked confidence. “Not far.”

A sudden fierce wind set the tops of the trees waving like the masts on a fleet of schooners caught in a hurricane. The sound of thunder betrayed an approaching storm, and the sky quickly blackened like churning bitumen. A few large drops of rain splashed down. Nate cautiously tightened his grip on the mule’s halter, reassuring the panicky animal.

A bolt of lightning split the air, and the rain began to pour in earnest. Caught in the sudden torrent, they stumbled along with only staccato bursts of lightning to illuminate the path. It would be impossible to light a fire or make any kind of shelter. They had no choice but to continue on to the cabin—in a storm this fierce, it would be madness to attempt to spend a night in the open.

They lurched forward for what seemed ages, questioning all the while whether they were going in the right direction. Just as Nate began to worry that they might be lost, they stumbled upon a cleared field. In a flash of lightning, he saw the hut at the far edge. From this distance, the building appeared to be quite a bit larger than most rural shelters. Blue smoke issued from a chimney.

They slipped and slid their way over the channels of water that had formed in the ground, finally arriving at the front door of the cabin. Before they could knock, the door swung open, seemingly of its own accord. From the dark opening came the stale odor of decay.

From the gloom within, an unearthly voice chafed in English, “What kept you?”