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"I order you to put those guns down," commanded Diego, reaching for his sidearm.
Yuma stepped forward, his weathered face expressionless, and rammed the muzzle of his old Winchester rifle deep into Captain Diego's stomach. "Do not resist us. If I pull the trigger, your body will silence the gunfire to those on the mountain."
The sudden, jolting pain convinced Diego these men were not playing games. They knew the desert and could move through the terrain like ghosts. His orders were to prevent possible encroachment by wandering hunters or prospectors. Nothing was mentioned about an armed force of local Indians who lay in ambush. Slowly, he handed over his automatic pistol to one of Yuma's men, who stuffed the barrel down the waist of his denim pants.
"Your radio too, please."
Diego reluctantly passed over the radio. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Don't you know you are breaking the law?"
"If you soldier boys are working with the men who are defiling our sacred mountain, it is you who are breaking the law, our law. Now, no more talk. You will come with us."
In silence, Captain Diego and his radioman were escorted half a kilometer (a third of a mile) to a large overhanging rock protruding from the mountain. There, out of sight of anyone on the peak, Diego found his entire company of men sitting nervously in a tight group while several Indians covered them with their own weapons.
They scrambled to their feet and came to attention, their faces reflecting relief at seeing their commanding officer. Two lieutenants and a sergeant came up and saluted.
"Is there no one who escaped?" asked Diego.
One of the lieutenants shook his head. "No, sir. They were on us before we could resist."
Diego looked around at the Indians guarding his men. Including Yuma, he counted only sixteen. "Is this all of you?" he asked unbelievingly.
Yuma nodded. "We did not need more."
"What are you going to do with us?"
"Nothing, soldier boy. My neighbors and I have
been careful not to harm anyone. You and your men will enjoy a nice siesta for a few hours, and then you'll be free to leave our land."
"And if we attempt to escape?"
Yuma shrugged indifferently. "Then you will be shot. Something you should think about, since my people can hit a running rabbit at fifty meters."
Yuma had said all he had to say. He turned his back on Captain Diego and began climbing an almost unrecognizable trail between a fissure on the south wall of the mountain. No words were spoken between the Montolos. As if on silent command, ten men followed Billy Yuma while five remained behind to guard the prisoners.
The ascent went faster than the last time. He profited from his mistakes and ignored the wrong turns he had taken that curved into blind chutes. He remembered the good handholds and avoided the ones that were badly eroded. But it was still tough going on a trail no self-respecting pack mule would be caught dead on.
He would have preferred more men to support his assault, but the ten men struggling behind him were the only ones who were not afraid of the mountain. Or that was what they claimed. Yuma was not blind to the apprehension in their eyes.
After he reached a flat ledge, he stopped to catch his breath. His heart was beginning to pound, but his body was tensed with the nervous energy of a racehorse ready to burst from the gate. He pulled an old pocket watch from his pants pocket and checked the time. He nodded to himself in satisfaction and held the watch face for the others to see. They were twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
High above, on the mountain's summit, the helicopters hovered like bees around a hive. They were loaded with I as much of the treasure as they could lift before struggling into the sky and setting a course for the airstrip in the Altar Desert.
Colonel Campos's officers and men were working so fast, and were so awed by the golden hoard, none thought to check the security forces stationed around the base of the mountain. The radio operator on the peak was too busy coordinating the comings and goings of the helicopters to ask for a report from Captain Diego. No one took the time to look over the edge at the deserted encampment below. Nor did they notice the small band of men who were slowly climbing ever closer to the mountaintop.
Police Comandante Cortina was not a man who missed much. As his police helicopter rose from Cerro el Capirote for the return trip to his headquarters, he stared down at the stone beast and caught something that was missed by all the others. A pragmatic man, he closed his eyes and put it off as a trick of sunlight and shadows, or perhaps the angle of his view. But when he refocused his eyes on the ancient sculpture, he could have sworn the vicious expression had altered. The menacing look was gone.
To Cortina, just before it slipped out of view of his window, the fang-filled jaws on the guardian of the dead were frozen in a smile.
Pitt felt as though he were free-falling down a mammoth soda straw filled with cobalt blue mist. The sides of the vertical shaft of the sinkhole were round and smooth, almost as if they had been polished. If he hadn't been able to see his diving partner through the transparent water a short distance below, the shaft would have seemed bottomless. He cleared his ears as he descended, finning easily until he caught up with Giordino, who was towing their dry transport container past the elbow bend at the bottom of the shaft. Pitt helped by pushing his end through, and then followed in its wake.
He glanced at his depth-gauge needle. It was holding steady just shy of the 60-meter mark (197 feet).
From here on, as the feeder stream sloped up toward the river, the water pressure would decrease, relieving any fear of depth blackout.
This was nothing like the dive into the sacrificial pool on the jungled slopes of the Andes. There, he had used a strong safety line with communications equipment. And except for the brief foray into the side cavern to rescue Shannon and Miles, he was never out of sight of the surface. This trip, they'd be entering an underworld of perpetual blackness no man or animal had ever seen.
As they moved their bulky canister through the twists and turns of the feeder stream leading to the river, Pitt recalled that cave diving is one of the most dangerous sports in the world. There was the Stygian blackness, the claustrophobic sensation of knowing you're far beneath the solid rock, the maddening silence, and the constant threat of disorientation if silt is stirred into impenetrable clouds. All this could lead to panic, which had killed scores of divers who were trained and equipped to deal with the perils, and made cave diving a morbid fascination that could not be learned from a book.
