Excavation

Maggie nodded. “You’re probably right. This region’s never been explored. Too steep and dangerous to trek through.”

Denal spoke up, sticking close to Norman’s side. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve. “Warm in here,” he muttered.

Sam agreed, taking off his Stetson and swiping back his damp hair. At this altitude, wearing only his vest, he should be chilled as twilight approached, but instead the breeze was warm, almost balmy.

“It’s the steam vents,” Maggie explained. “They’re keeping this place heated and humid.”

“Like some tropical greenhouse,” Norman said, his eyes on the jungle surrounding the gold dome. “Look at all this growth.” He struggled to free his camera.

Around them spread a dense forest. Draped with vines, the tangle of trees spread in all directions. From their vantage point higher in the valley, they could spot a few open meadows, breaks in the jungle canopy, mostly near the ubiquitous volcanic vents. Otherwise, within the walls of the volcanic cone, the forest appeared undisturbed. Under its insulating canopy, a profusion of wild growth flourished. Giant ferns, with fronds longer than a man was tall, obscured the forest floor, while hundreds of orchids with fist-sized yellow blooms hung from the crooks of trees. Even some form of jungle rose climbed on thorny creepers along limbs and vines.

Norman snapped a few photographs, while the others wandered along the forest’s edge.

Within this verdant and flowered splendor, birds whistled and piped in alarm, disturbed by their presence. A small flock of blue-winged parrots darted across the misty skies. Closer, the barking calls of monkeys warned them away, echoing off the rock walls. Their tiny bodies darted and flew among the trees and vines, flashes of fiery fur and whipping tails.

Beyond this wall of greenery, the babble of water over rock promised the presence of some spring-fed creek nearby.

“It’s like some lost Eden,” Norman said.

Sam nodded, though a seed of worry took root. He remembered the Latin warning etched on the hematite bands by Francisco de Almagro: Beware the Serpent of Eden.

A similar thought must have passed through Maggie’s mind. Her lips were pinched sternly, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “We’ve got company,” she suddenly whispered.

Sam tensed, eyes instantly on the alert. “What?”

Maggie stood immobile, only her eyes moved, indicating a direction in which to look.

Behind them, a sudden grind of metal sounded. The dome was closing back up, their only means of retreat from the volcanic caldera vanishing.

Sam searched the section of jungle Maggie had indicated. Finally, he spotted a small face in the shadows, staring back at him. The figure must have known he had been spotted and rose from his crouch. He stepped from the dense thicket at the jungle’s edge. From other spots, seven more men slipped into the clearing around the gold dome.

Mocha-skinned and dark-eyed, the men were clearly of Quechan heritage. They stood only to about Sam’s shoulder, but bore spears a good head taller than the Texan. They wore traditional Indian garb: unadorned haura trousers and shirts fancifully decorated with parrot and condor feathers.

The leader, wearing a crimson headband, stepped forward and spoke sternly in his native tongue.

Denal translated, face scrunched. “He wants us to follow him.”

The small hunter turned and stepped back to the forest’s edge. He pushed aside the giant frond of a tree fern to reveal a hidden path. The man ducked under the leafy growth and started down the trail. The other hunters hung back to ensure Sam’s group followed.

Without any reason yet to fear them, Sam waved. “Let’s go…maybe they know a way back to the dig.” Still, as he eyed their long weapons, Sam cinched his Winchester more snugly over his shoulder. If trouble should arise, he wanted to be ready.

Denal touched Sam’s elbow. The boy’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion, too. He seemed about to say something, then shook his head and fished out a bent cigarette from a pocket. He mumbled something in his native tongue as he slipped the filter to his lips.

“What is it, Denal?”

“Something no right,” he grumbled but said nothing more. Ahead, the boy helped Norman under the frond and onto the path.

Sam followed last with Maggie beside him. As the jungle swallowed them up, they proceeded in silence for several minutes.

“What do you make of them?” Maggie finally whispered.

“They’re obviously a Quechan tribe. Hundreds like them live as hunter-gatherers out in the wilds.”

Maggie pointed a thumb back toward the clearing. “And they just ignore a dome made of beaten gold?”

Sam pondered her words. She was right. The hunters had seemed more shocked to see them than the wealth at their backs. Denal’s consternation also nagged at him. What was wrong here?

He studied the Indians as they marched onward. They moved silently, spears carried comfortably, pushing vines from their way. Soon the path crossed a small stream forded by a series of large stone blocks set in the flow. Who were these hunters?