Citadel of Fear | Page 3

for companions.
They would twist off the head of a man and swallow it and his soul like
melon seeds. No, no! Blanket was not woven nor knife forged that
would pay a man for being eaten, soul and all, by devils!
In the huge, half-rotted brown thing like a strange log which they
finally dragged forth to support their story of giants, Kennedy
recognized the thigh-bone of a mastodon! The prospectors yielded hope
of conquering a superstition rooted in the prehistoric past, and set out
alone.
It was true that they had reached their goal, the hills, but with their own
bare hands for sole remaining equipment, and for provision the hope of
what the country itself might offer.
Shadowed from above by beetling cliffs, the curving path of the torrent
led them on. The gorge widened. They reached a sharp bend of the
walls and rounded it.
"Saints above!" came Boots' sharp ejaculation. "Mr. Kennedy, did you
ever see the like o' that?"
Mr. Kennedy made no reply. Had the gorge opened out upon a pit of

flaming brimstone, neither man could have halted more abruptly nor
stared with a greater amazement.
Their emotion, however, was the opposite of dismay. To eyes
sand-tortured and sun-weary, the vista before them seemed hardly less
blessed than paradise.

On either hand steep, thickly wooded bluffs ran parallel to the reach of
a gorgeously flowering and fruitful ravine. Through its midst
meandered the stream, broadly shallow between pleasant banks, till it
reached the rocks and swirled to a somber turmoil of revolt.
But better than flower, or fruit, or sparkling river, the scene held a
certain homelier significance. The groves of fruit trees were set in
orderly ranks. Pina no–as raised their sharp spikes in rows of military
alinement. Along the stream a brown path trended toward that which
confirmed the meaning of all the rest--a gleam of white walls near the
upper end of the ravine.
"A plantation!" cried Kennedy at last. "A plantation in the Collados del
Demonio! And by report there isn't a square foot of cultivated land
within a hundred and fifty miles of this spot."
Boots grinned cheerfully.
"Report's a liar. Maybe it's the house of the old hill devil himself we've
blundered upon. So be, he owes us a breakfast for hunting him out!"
With the direct purpose of hungry men, they headed straight for those
patches of shining white which betokended, as they supposed, the dobe
house of a rancher.
In the orange groves, blossom and full golden sphere flourished side by
side. Sapodillas, milk-pears, and ciruelas, hung with a million
reddening globes, offered proof of generous soil and a kindly climate.
Flocks of butterflies, crimson, blue, and metallic green, shared the air
with humming birds whose plumage put the sailwings to shame for

brightness. Musical-voiced blue sparrows, wild canaries and gaudy
little parrakeets filled the trees with rainbow-hued vivacity.
"It's Eden without the --" began Boots, when whir-r-r-r! came a sharp
warning from the long grass that bordered the path. Boots bowed in
mock salutation toward the sound. "Asking your pardon, Mr. Rattler!
Eden, serpent and all, is what I'd meant to be saying."
"Don't crack any of your fool jokes when we reach the house," growled
Kennedy. "Some of these Mexicans are as touchy as the devil."
"Ah, now, you'd soon soothe 'em down with a scowl or so," laughed
Boots. "But--well, don't you admire the look o' that, Mr. Kennedy? It's
no ranch-house they have, but a full-fledged hacienda no less!"
It was true. Instead of the common dobe-plastered casa of a small
rancher, the thinning trees revealed an establishment far more imposing.
Wide-spread, flat-roofed, its walls even yet showing only in patches
through rioting rose-vines, here was such a residence as might be
owned by any wealthy gentleman of Mexico. To find it in these hills,
however, was as surprising as to discover a Fifth Avenue mansion at
the heart of a Bornean jungle.
From one chimney, presumably over the kitchen, a thin curl of smoke
was rising. This was the only visible sign of life within. And now it
struck them that in the whole length of the ravine they had not seen so
much as one peon at work among the plantations.
The hacienda seemed very silent. Behind the walls of its courtyard no
dog barked nor cock crowed. Save for the musical tumult of birds, they
might, have wandered into a valley of magic stillness.
"Smoke spells fire and fire spells food," asserted Boots. "The cook's
awake, and 'tis shame if the rest be sleeping with the sun up these two
hours. Will we walk in or knock, Mr. Kennedy? You've the better
knowledge of what's considered fitting in these parts."
"Knocks," came the curt advice of his companion.