War From The Clouds

Chapter Seven

My second meeting with Pico, the hermit, was a mixture of pleasures and disappointments. Or, as the comedians like to remind us somewhat monotonously, some good news and some bad news.

First off, he was angry at me for having left his camp on my own.

"I spent years, Senor Carter," he said, crouching among the short Indians to diminish the effect of his great height, "concealing the trail to my hermitage. No living man but you knows now how to come there. Besides, you weren't ready to leave. The poultice needed several more hours to do its work."

We were in the square of the tribal encampment. The hot midday sun blazed down on the mixture of white and brown bodies. Flies the size of teacups buzzed around us. Some of them even attacked the bandages on my side and my right foot. Shooing them away was a dangerous activity, fraught with promise of reprisal.

Antonio and Purano flanked the fat chief on one side of the circle. A little behind them were Elicia and the spearchuckers from the mission to the seven hollows. The body of the dead spearchucker was in a special burial hut, being prepared by the few remaining women of the tribe. I sat beside Pico on the other side of the circle. Filling in the circle, on either side of the hermit and I, were the village elders I had seen that first night in the council hut. Other spearchuckers, jealous that they hadn't gone on the mission to share in the glory, surrounded all of us, a circle outside a circle.

"The poultice did its work well," I assured Pico, "If it had done much better, it would be like not having had a wound at all. But I do apologize for breaking your rule. Will you accept?"

Pico grinned. It was all the acceptance I would receive. "You must promise never to tell another living soul how you left my camp."

"I won't." Actually, I couldn't. It had been darker than the inside of a pig the night I had left his camp. If I were given the chore of finding my way back there, I would probably wander in the jungle for the rest of my life.

"Now, what is it you wish of me, Senor Carter?" he asked after the amenities and the chastizing were over. "What is the purpose of such hurrying back here to talk to me?"

I refreshed his memory about our conversation, about his saying that he had followed Ancio and his friends, had learned that the man had indeed lied, and had seen his daughter and several others covered with oil and burned. I repeated as much as I could remember of what he had said, hoping to spark memories from him. Important memories.

"I want to know everything you saw and heard that night," I told Pico. "I know it's painful remembering, but this is important. I want to know as much as you can possibly remember before I show you something of great importance."

He looked puzzled. So did all the others. But everyone remained silent while Pico considered the request. I was conscious of the minutes ticking away, of the day and the mission being completely shattered, while this old hermit searched back through thirty years of memories.

"I was there, as I have told you," he said, his voice sounding deep and hollow, his eyes starting to mist. "I remember so little, no more than what I told you. I saw the cave. I saw the seashell necklace that I had made for my daughter. It was on the body of a naked corpse. That is how I was able to tell that it was her."

His voice cracked then and I wanted him to stop that particular line of thought. It wasn't necessary to recall details of the inside of the cave, of the grisly scene there. I wanted him to recall details of the outside, of how to get there. But I knew enough about idea association to let him ramble in his own way, as time slipped past, minute by minute.

But he was finished with his grim recollections. He looked at me blankly, puzzled over what I was seeking. I didn't want to lead him. It was important that his mind be free of prejudice when he saw what I had to show him.

"Do you recall any details of when you followed Ancio and his friends into the mountains?" I asked.

He spent some time thinking. Precious time. My anxiety grew.

"I was under great stress at the time," he said. "I had anticipated that my daughter was gone, but I had no idea…" He stopped, swept the circle of interested faces with deeply sad eyes, and said, "it was thirty years ago. I recall many scenes quite well. They are emblazoned on my soul. However…"

That was the worst of the bad news. He had no idea whatsoever of where the cave entrance was. I wouldn't be able to jog his memory with further questions, and I was afraid of even more bad news when I sprang my one and only possibility. But there was no more time to waste. I turned to Antonio.

"Would you get the map and show it to Pico."

"The map?" Antonio asked, puzzled. "Senor Carter, it is in Indian hieroglyphics and, if the Indians can't read the symbols, how can you expect…"

"Pico was a professor of anthropology at Nicarxa University," I said, looking at Pico to confirm that by memory of what he had told me that day at his hermitage was correct. "He was head of the department of Indian Culture when he became involved in a revolutionary activity that changed his life forever. Am I correct, Pico, in assuming that, as head of the department of Indian Culture, you would have been required to learn the various hieroglyphics used by all the tribes in this area?"

Pico nodded. "You have a map? What kind of map?"

I asked Chief Botussin to explain about the map. It was a mistake. The old chief wound himself up a tangled web of words that seemed to have no ending. It took five precious minutes for him to reach his point: that the map showed Ancio how to find the cave entrance and that his warriors took the map from Ancio and that it had been kept in a secret hiding place ever since and that he would be sorely tried if it fell into evil hands, etcetera.

"May I see it?" Pico asked.

Antonio had the map in a leather pouch strapped to the small of his back. He quickly undid the pouch and handed the fragile parchment over to Pico. The old man studied it for more time than I would have liked him to spend on it. The sun got hotter, the flies meaner and the day much, much shorter. Pico finally looked up and saw the worried looks on all our faces. He grinned at me.

"Don't worry so much about the time, Senor Carter," he said. "I have good news about that. The signal will not be given before sundown. At this time of year, sundown will come shortly after 8:30. You have ample time."

I looked at my watch, a digital creation that was a gift from David Hawk. It was full of lifetime batteries. And the numbers read 12:22. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I had estimated that we had perhaps six or seven hours to stop Don Carlos from sending the signal. We actually had more than eight hours. Yet, it was no great solace learning that piece of good news — we could use, I was sure, more than eight days and still be cutting it close.

"The big concern is the map," I said, "and whether you can read the hieroglyphics. Can you?"

"Oh yes. In my time on the mountainside, I had many hours to continue my studies. And I took along textbooks from anthropologists and sociologists, who have recorded the hieroglyphics of all the ancient tribes in Central and South America. I knew them by heart when I was actively teaching, but I could have forgotten them in thirty years, as I forgot the trail to the cave. Fortunately, I loved my work as a professor of anthropology, so I kept up. However…"

We all sucked in breath, anticipating another round of bad news. We got it.

"The critical area of the map is far too faint to be seen, even by the best of eyes. The map shows a trail leading from an ancient encampment over there…" he raised a long arm and pointed off to the west — "to a point near the mouths of seven valleys." He pointed to the northeast. "But that section concerning the hollows and the cave itself are so faded that — I'm sorry, but it's hopeless."

Bad news — in spades. He could read the map, but seeing it hadn't lifted the veil that covered his memory, hadn't triggered any sharp or even faint details of the route to the cave entrance. And a vital part of the map was too faded to be read.

"What I don't understand," I said, "is how Ancio — or Don Carlos — was able to use this map to find the cave entrance."

"It was easy for him," Pico said. "As Chief Botussin said, he was coached by the old man who entrusted the map to him. And there's another thing. This fading is a recent thing, brought on by Ancio's careless handling of the map. Then, again, the man had all the time in the world to find that cave, while our time, you must admit, is sorely limited."

There was a deep silence in the twin circles in the hot sun and the square of the Ninca village. Old Pico looked from face to face, then returned to a study of the map. More minutes passed. My watch read out at 12:36. Less than eight hours to go. If we had the answer this very minute, I calculated, it would take us two hours to get to the cave entrance, depending on which hollow it was in. That would give us six hours to make what had been calculated as a four-hour climb. We had, then, two hours to spare, two hours in which to learn the mystery of the map.

It was obvious to all of us that we wouldn't be able to make out that damned map in two hours, two days, or even two years. Perhaps even two lifetimes. Fat old Botussin began to shift nervously on the stool his buttocks had swallowed up on the ground. He was anxious to end this fruitless confab and set up his defenses against Don Carlos Italla's elite corps. We could expect them just minutes after the 8:30 signal was given. I knew the old chief was considering moving the Indian village back to the ancient site shown on the map. That would give the Nincas more time, but we all knew that the elite corps would soon find that location. In a matter of days, perhaps even hours.

By tomorrow at this time, there would be no more Ninca Indians in the country of Nicarxa. And, unless another miracle occurred, no more Nick Carter. After my killing of Col. Ramon Vasco, I could count on the fact that my name was high on the list of kills, probably higher than the names of the Nincas.

Pico stirred on the ground, held the map up toward the sun to look at it from a new angle. We waited for Botussin to call an end to the meeting, to start preparing his final defenses. The chief opened his mouth to speak, but Pico held up his enormous hand for silence. He had a new thought. Good news or bad news?

"High above my plateau," he said, more to himself than to the rest of us, "there is a certain herb I found that I boiled into a clear liquid. I coated the print on some of my books, print that was growing faint. Or perhaps it was only my eyes going faint. In any event, the print grew darker, more distinct. I could read it more easily."

He paused again and we were all up on our toes, waiting for him to go on. Even old Botussin was leaning forward so far that I expected to hear the invisible legs of his stool snap like matchsticks. He wouldn't have much of a fall, his overflowing buttocks were almost touching the ground as it was. Behind me, Elicia had sucked in her breath and was holding it. I wondered if her brown skin would turn blue if the old hermit didn't continue talking soon.

"Of course," Pico went on, "the liquid used on my books might destroy this old parchment altogether, or it may not work at all. In my opinion, it is worth a try."

It was good news, or potentially good news.

"How long will it take?" I asked, still clock-conscious.

Pico shrugged. "Miracles must not be shackled to the schedules of man," he said. "It will take however long it takes. I will return when the task is done. If it is successful, I will return to help find the entrance to the cave. If it is not, I will return to help defend against the elite corps."

He got up and started off alone. I knew that the elite corps was already taking up positions in the region, in anticipation of Don Carlos Italla's flare signal. I also knew that the guerillas guarding the mouths of the seven hollows would still be out searching for those who had killed so many of their number.

"Some of us will go with you, Pico," I said, stopping the hermit. "Your journey is perhaps the most important ever taken in this country. We can't have you ambushed and killed on the trail."

"I will accept an escort to a certain point," Pico said, grinning again to show that he wasn't ready yet to let others know of his hidden plateau. "But you must remain here, Senor Carter."

"Oh, no you…"

"That is a condition," Pico said curtly. "If you are to lead the climb up the chimney, if we find the cave, you will need all the strength you possess. You have pushed yourself too much already. If you don't stay and rest, I will not even try to clarify the mysteries of this old map."

A part of me accepted what he said; that part of me wanted to rest, to let the tensions and the fatigue drain away. Another part, the part that has made me the top Killmaster for AXE, wanted to continue to push, to be in on the action, all the action. The first part won.

I watched from the edge of the square as the giant hermit went down the trail. He was flanked by Antonio and Purano. Behind them went two dozen warriors, spears in hand. I kept my weapons just in case the guerillas from the hollows found their way into the Ninca camp.

Chief Botussin arose from his stool and I was surprised to find that it hadn't been damaged, that the legs hadn't been punched into the ground.

"You sleep," he said, pointing to the council hut. "My servants will clear out the flies and put shades over the windows and door to provide quiet dark for your slumber. Don't expect the hermit for at least two hours. Sleep well."

Some order that. If it took Pico two hours to return with the solution, that left only six hours. The climb up the chimney would take four hours, at least, but there was a two-hour journey to the seven hollows. We had no slack time at all. With such troubled thoughts, I lay on the pallet in the darkened council hut to try to sleep. Elicia, I presumed, had gone off to stay with the tribal women until Pico's return. I hadn't seen her when I had turned back from watching Pico, Antonio, Purano and the warriors disappear down the trail.

I lay there and felt the hopelessness, the desolation, of our plight settle down over my mind. It was hopeless, and I knew it. That parchment was two hundred years old and the ink used to make those symbols had no relationship whatever to the inks used in Pico's books. The herbs he found above the plateau wouldn't have the same effect on the parchment that it had on the books. But I was willing to go along because the experiment spelled hope for these people. If they were to die in a matter of hours — days at the most — let them retain hope as long as possible. The death of hope has always signalled the death of the cause. But hope, I was convinced, was all that we had to go on now.

The good news, I was certain, wasn't really good news at all. It was a vision in the jungle, an ephemeral presence like an image projected on a wall of fog. With that unhappy thought, I began to drift into sleep.

A soft, pleasant dream was already starting. I was in the George Cinq Hotel dining room in Parts. Across from me was Diane Northrup, a woman I had loved in an earlier time. She was smiling, sipping from a glass of champagne. The orchestra was playing our favorite song. Diane leaned forward to kiss me and I heard a familiar voice, close by, sweet, bell-like and melodic:

Still half asleep, I couldn't believe that I would mix Diane Northrup and Elicia Cortez in the same dream. I couldn't imagine Elicia in the dining room of the very proper George Cinq Hotel in Paris, anymore than I could imagine Diane here in this hot hut in the middle of an Indian village in the Caribbean.

Something soft crept up along my chest. Something even softer, and smelling of orange blossoms, pressed against my shoulder. And then naked legs touched mine, slipped up over me and began to move gently back and forth.

I came fully awake, out of a pleasant dream into a far more pleasant reality.

Elicia was beside me on the pallet. She was naked and her hair was still damp from having bathed in the stream below the village. Once again, she had found orange blossoms and had crushed them against her skin, from head to toe.

I gazed into her loving eyes and still couldn't convince myself that I wasn't dreaming. She kissed my lips and I found my arm going around her back, caressing the soft, sweet-smelling skin. My hand went down to her gently-rising buttocks and I felt the erection building magnificently at my middle. This was no dream.

"Elicia, do you know what you're doing?"

She shushed me with a fragrant finger across my lips. "I know," she said. "No talk. Only love."

All right, I had tried. Time and again, I had turned away from the pleasures that this girl had offered me. Time and again, I had felt noble about my intentions, about my abstinence. Well, there is a time to put all that jazz behind you. That time was now.

Days of frustration and abstinence and temptation had built up a tremendous drive inside me. My erection was more than an erection. It was a budding, blossoming, flowering instrument of sex and love and lust and frustration. Elicia found the hardness and enclosed it with her hand.

There were no more thoughts about what would happen to Elicia when this caper was over. There were no more thoughts about whether she belonged to me or to Purano. There were no more concerns for whether she was still a virgin by the flesh or by the soul. The future had no place in my mind. Or my body. The needs of the flesh and of the soul were so intense, so ready, for each of us that we shut out past and future and plunged helter-skelter into the present.

I started gently, recalling the brutal rapings this girl had endured for three months from the Cuban Marines. She seemed to like it. I raised up and gazed at those erect, ripe breasts that had tantalized me so often in her loose blouse. I kissed the nipples, tenderly, then with more purpose. I sucked and she arched her back and raised her pubis to me. I lay my hardness along the mound and gently massaged until she let out a moan and bit my ear.

"Enough gentleness," she said, gasping, chewing on my ear. "Take me now and let me know the pleasure of losing my virginity to one I love. Oh, Nick, love me for now, for now only."

When I entered her, she was ready. She climaxed almost instantly and I thought it was over. She took a few seconds of respite and then the passion grew in her to a newer and higher level. She swallowed me up, rising and falling, plunging and withdrawing. She climaxed three more times before it finally happened to me. I had been holding back, savoring it, wanting it to go on forever — or, at least, for the next two hours. But nothing lasts forever. She responded by climaxing again, for the fifth time. I have always envied women that capacity, but I wouldn't have traded that one gigantic climax for all the little ones in the world.

Spent, sated, we lay sweating on the pallet. Elicia's arm lay across my now naked chest. She was silent for such a long time that I thought she was asleep. She wasn't.

"You will think me strange," she finally said, "but I did this as a gesture of farewell."

"Farewell?"

"Yes. In two weeks, I will marry Purano and join his tribe. I told him about you, about how I feel, about how I will always feel about you. He knows that I am with you now."

"He knows? And he agreed to this?"

"Yes, otherwise, he would know that I would always wonder what it would have been like. You see, Nick, I know nothing of love. I mean, this kind of love. What happened to me with those Marines was a world apart from what happened here today. I knew it would be so. Purano understands. Unless I could prove to myself that this beautiful act could be truly beautiful, I would not be a fit bride. Do you understand that?"

I have been all over this globe and have met and been exposed to the cultures of hundreds of peoples. I have understood much. I had to admit, though, that I didn't fully understand this weird triangle between me, Purano and Elicia, or why he would agree to have her come to me when they had just become betrothed. It was equally difficult to comprehend when I knew that Purano had remained single because there were so few suitable maidens in the tribe. There were so few maidens because thirty years ago the surviving females had been «spoiled» by Ancio and his gang. I understood a part of it, then. Spoiled had different meanings. Ancio had taken the maidens against their will, therefore spoiling them. Elicia and I had engaged in an activity of mutual agreement, as, I'm sure, Purano and Elicia would do before their marriage. But that was cutting the culture pretty thin and I didn't understand it at all.

"I understand," I lied.

"Good. It is important for me and Purano that you do."

We slept then, but only for fifteen or twenty minutes. I awoke first and was trying to understand more fully why this girl felt she had to give herself to me before her marriage to Purano, to make it a farewell gesture even though she confessed that she loved me every bit as much as she loved Purano. I couldn't understand. What happened next was even more difficult to understand.

Elicia awoke, came to me and we made love again. This second time, she said, would prepare her for a lifetime of joy in the man she had chosen to marry. I didn't try to understand that one either. I merely enjoyed, even though there was a growing sadness that this would be the last of Elicia for me.

There was shouting out in the square and we quickly dressed. Elicia walked boldly out the front door and I followed, a sheepish grin on my face. If the others in the square knew about our tryst, about Elicia's strange logic on how to say farewell to the man she was turning down, they gave no hint of it.

The shouting was because a sentry below had spotted Pico, Antonio, Purano and the warriors returning. I checked my watch. They'd been gone just over an hour. We were well within the schedule, if Pico had anything to offer concerning the map and the hidden cave.

He had.

The circles formed again in the square, with Pico and the map at the center. Behind Chief Botussin, I noticed, Elicia had moved up beside Purano and they were conversing in that strange ritual of staring at the ground near each other's feet. She was probably telling him about our love-making. With a slightly bitter thought, I figured she was telling him that I was a lousy lover, that he had nothing to worry about. But no, I thought again, she would be truthful. The truth was that we both were good lovers. Purano would have to go some to replace my performance in Elicia's eyes. I wondered, with another ping of jealousy, if she would sing the rose song to him. I knew she would.

"Time was saved," Pico said, "because I still had a supply of the clear liquid from my last batch. I had to coat the parchment three times, but the third time the images became distinct. As you can see, the cave is near the top of the fifth hollow from the east, or the third hollow from the west. It would have taken several hours to search all the hollows. Worse yet, without the map, we would not have found the cave even if we had gone directly to the fifth hollow."

He pointed to a faded mark that looked like a child's rendering of a fly. They were big on flies in this part of the world.

"The fly once was the symbol of fertility among the Nincas," Pico continued. It still was judging from the size of the flies that were right now munching on me. "This fly is facing due west, indicating that the cave entrance is to the west side of the hollow. Possibly, there's a ravine there separating hollow five from hollow six. We won't know until we inspect the premises. But I've found a small dot that I don't understand. Under the magnifying glass, the dot is actually a tiny circle. Whether this was by intent or by accident, I don't know. If by accident, it means nothing. If by design, it means that the cave entrance is through a well or a deep hole in the ground. Finding a hole up there will be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. I know that I followed Ancio and his friends down some steps in a dark place. The open circle on the map indicates the presence of water, but I recall no water. My memory is of no help to us. And there's more potential bad news."

We waited. Pico gazed at the faces, then glanced at the sun that was telling that it was mid-afternoon. I checked my watch. It was 2:26. We were tight on time, but there was enough if we had no further problems.

"When we were returning from my plateau," Pico said, "we saw a group of red-shirted guerillas moving up toward the area of the hollows. These are the elite corps of Don Carlos, of Ancio. There were perhaps a hundred of them. If we encounter them on the trail, it is all over.

"Then," I said as positively as I could, "we'll just not encounter them. Unless you have anything to add, Pico, I think we ought to leave immediately for the cave entrance."

After a brief altercation between Elicia and Purano about her going along, it was decided by old Chief Botussin that, if the Ninca tribe was to link up with the Twentieth Century at last, they might as well accept the new role for women. In short, he said, Purano shouldn't tell the girl what she could or couldn't do. Elicia went along and, even though Purano had nodded his approval, his face and eyes didn't seem any too happy about the decision.

I had already been keeping my eyes on Purano since spending that lovely hour alone in the council hut with Elicia. The boy had known that Elicia was in love with me, had been with me on the trail. But it had seemed to me a somewhat extreme test of his love to tell him, as Elicia had, that she was going to give herself to another man before the marriage. The more I thought of it, the more I realized that women in other cultures were similar in that respect. A great number of American women have a final fling with a former lover before entering into marriage. The difference, though, is they keep quiet about it.

So far, I hadn't seen any signs of animosity out of Purano. He treated me with his usual silent respect. If he was plotting any mischief against me out of jealousy, he didn't show it. And we hadn't been on the trail ten minutes before his obvious pique about losing his first argument with Elicia seemed to have dissipated.

There were seventeen of us in the party heading out to find the entrance to the sacrificial cave and, hopefully, a way to the top of Alto Arete. Besides me, Elicia, Antonio, Purano and Pico, there were twelve warriors armed with knives and spears. We left the Indian camp at 2:32 in the afternoon, giving us just six hours to reach Don Carlos Italla's lair and to stop him from giving the war signal.

We had no time for toe-stubbing.

Purano and his warriors led our party. Purano knew of secret trails which would take a few minutes longer, but which would keep us out of danger from the guerilla patrols. Even so, we spotted the red-shirted members of the elite corps in half a dozen places before we even approached the entrance to the fifth hollow.

Strangely, there were no guards or guerillas at the mouth of the fifth hollow. It was quiet there; not a soul was about. We found the campfires used by guards only recently, and places on the jungle floor where they had slept. The warriors in our group spread out to make certain the guerillas weren't waiting in ambush, but the whole area was clear.

As we made our way up the hollow, through ever-narrowing ravines and along high ledges above a cascading stream, I began to feel more and more uneasy about the absence of guards. If we had spotted guerillas and avoided them, I would have felt easier. At least, we would have known where they were.

This way, the jungle hollow had an eerie feeling about it. Even the birds and the rushing water seemed to have muted sounds, as though anticipating a disaster.

As we neared the top of the hollow and were weary from an hour-long forced march over difficult trails, Pico called a halt and we rested. He sat down and studied the ancient map, getting up frequently to check certain points. Elicia and Purano sat side by side on the grass, gazing at invisible points near each other's feet. I wondered just how those two would help propagate the race among the Nincas, but decided it was none of my business.

I used the time to study my crude map of the top of Alto Arete, based on information I had gleaned from Luis Pequeno, the hapless Marine sergeant who had helped me plunge into this whole mad affair. There were squares for the main buildings; the barracks for the monks, the minefields and other fortifications. Even as I pondered the map, I had the distinct feeling that it would be useless. Luis Pequeno could have lied through his teeth about everything, or he could have made the whole thing up just to keep me from torturing him. But it was all I had to go on and I had the others study it closely.

We moved on. It was 3:45 when Pico spotted a deep ravine separating the fifth and sixth hollows. He had been right about that. We slid down the steep banks and came up on the other side, through a wall of vines and into a small clearing about the size of a high school gymnasium.

It was quiet in the clearing, quieter than it had been on the trail. Not even the sound of the tumbling water from the ravine behind us reached our ears. Not one bird sang or called out. Pico spotted a mound of rocks at the far end of the clearing, up a steep slope.

"That would be where the well is," he said. "If my calculations and faint memory are correct, the entrance will be through the well."

I had a great deal of nylon rope in my knapsack, and Purano and his warriors had brought long lengths of well-made hemp rope. We could use it all for climbing down the well — and possibly for climbing up the natural chimney. The husky Indian and Pico started off briskly up the slope. The hemp rope in hand.

For some reason I still haven't been able to fathom, I decided to remain behind. I smelled danger. I signalled Antonio to take a post to my right with his Volska automatic weapon. I pointed toward the mound of rocks and Antonio dropped to one knee. He aimed at the rocks. Elicia, unaware of our vigilance, went on up the slope with Purano, Pico and the warriors.

My hunch of danger proved true. Pico was no more than halfway across the clearing when guerillas came streaming out from either side of the rock pile. They opened fire and the big hermit was the first to fall. The warriors began to let out hideous war cries and then flung their spears.

The spears fell harmlessly against the rocks and the guerillas advanced down the slope, cutting the warriors to pieces with automatic rifles.

Antonio was going crazy near me. He wanted to fire and I kept holding him back. Elicia had seen the guerillas and had made a dash for the jungle off to her right. She was temporarily out of danger.

"Wait, Antonio," I said, watching the guerillas murder the now unarmed Indians. "Our only chance is surprise. They don't know we're here."

I signalled for him to move up the right side of the clearing. The guerillas had stopped and were watching the warriors who were all on their bellies in the high grass. I counted six guerillas, all armed, then set off up the left side of the clearing.

As I was easing back into a clump of bushes halfway up the slope, I saw that Antonio was doing the same across from me. The guerillas were still near the top of the slope, eyeing the fallen Indians for signs of life. I felt a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach and was convinced that all twelve, plus Pico and Purano, had been killed in the withering gunfire.

Slowly, the guerillas began to edge down the slope to inspect their kill. I raised my rifle and signalled to Antonio to hold off firing. All six guerillas advanced down the slope. Just as I was considering that a stupid move and was ready to open fire, four more guerillas came rushing down from the rocks, firing madly.

If they had waited one second more, they would have caught Antonio and I in a trap.

I opened fire when all ten guerillas were together. Antonio, across the clearing, did the same. The guerilla band split, some running in all directions. Two came down the slope, firing from their hips. I picked them off cleanly, then went after three who were running back up the slope, toward the safety of the rocks.

But four of the guerillas stood their ground.

Crouching just above the fallen Indians, they singled out Antonio and began blasting away at him. I knew I was next. I ducked into the jungle wall and started upward, hoping to come out at a better vantage point. It was then that I heard Elicia scream out Antonio's name.

There was more screaming and yelling in that clearing as I struggled against the heavy vines and underbrush. I couldn't make any headway in the jungle, so I found a new opening to the clearing and went rushing through.

Four of the Indian spearchuckers were up. They were struggling with the guerillas in hand-to-hand combat. Below, I saw Antonio lying flat on his face in the grass. Elicia was dashing down the slope to him.

I looked back toward the struggling warriors and guerillas and knew that the automatic weapon was useless here. If I opened fire, I would kill friends and enemies alike. I reached back and snaked Wilhelmina from the tape.

Kneeling, I singled out a guerilla and took careful aim. The luger boomed and seemed to shake the trees around the clearing. But a guerilla went down. One by one, I picked off five guerillas and made a quick count in my head. Of ten guerillas, we had killed seven. Three were missing.

Worse yet, of the twelve Indian warriors Botussin had sent with us, eight were dead. Purano had been shot in the shoulder and Pico had slight wounds in his thigh and left arm. Both could walk, but they would never be able to climb that chimney to Alto Arete.

While Pico and Purano rallied the four surviving spearchuckers to go look for the three guerillas who had got away, I went down the slope to check on Antonio. Elicia was hovering over him, hugging his head to her bosom, crying softly. I could see from ten paces away that he was dead.

He was. His body was full of holes from the rain of bullets. I shuddered to think that, if I hadn't plunged into the forest wall when I did, my body would look much like his.

"We'll come back for him," I said gently to Elicia. "When it is over, we'll take him to the Indian camp for a proper burial."

She got up and went into the jungle. I waited, watching the minutes flip past on my digital watch. It was twenty minutes past four. We had just ten minutes to find the caves and begin our climb up that chimney.

But death has a way of stalling time, of making it stand still. I could do nothing but wait for Elicia's grief to run its course.

To make matters worse, the four warriors returned and told Purano in stilted whispers that they had lost the three guerillas they had been sent to dispatch. I calculated the distance to the nearest guerilla camp and figured we had plenty of time to be out of here before the alarm went out in any effective manner. Of course, there were the red-shirted guerillas of Don Carlos Italla's elite corps parading about and they could be here in minutes, but I decided not to let that worry me. Not much, anyway.

After five minutes, Elicia came back into the clearing, her eyes dry. In her hands was a cluster of wild roses she had found in the thicket.

She crossed her dead brother's hands over his chest and lay the roses on his hands. Then, she looked up at me.

"We will go now and kill the beast on the mountain."

The three guerillas who had escaped death in the battle in the clearing were still nowhere to be seen. Pico and I led the way to the rocks and then all of us began tossing the stones aside. Even Purano worked with his one good arm and rolled huge boulders down the slope and into the jungle.

It took ten minutes to clear away enough rocks so that we could see the top of the well. A very precious ten minutes.

The well was covered with a cut stone slab about the size of the top of a pool table. It took all of us to nudge it aside, inch by inch, until there was a big enough opening for one of us to slip inside. Pico took a small rock and dropped it into the well.

Less than a second later, we heard the splash. Pico shook his head.

"No good," he said. "The map was right, although I'm certain there was no water here thirty years ago. There must be a system for draining and filling it at will, but it would take us days to learn the key to that system. The cave entrance, the tunnel I recall crawling through after going down many steps, is filled with water. Perhaps even the cave itself is full of water."

We stood there on that pile of stones and peered into the darkness of the water-filled well, and thought of so many deaths that had come for nothing.

And of all the deaths to come.