The Mexican’s breath hissed in astonishment as he saw it.
“What a chariot! But how are the horses fastened? And why make it so cursed heavy? But it has good lines; only it would do ill in battle. Mark you, my man, there is not proper arm room in which to swing a sword, and that may betray us to these savages.
“A good chariot should have a grip for the left hand so that one may lean out and swing the sword in a complete circle, free of all obstructions. But look at this! There is no grip! There is no place to lean out, and that step which runs along the side will prevent a free swing of the sword.
“But we only talk! Talk is for scriveners and women, not for men of battle. Bring on the horses and we will start.”
Emilio Bender fastened the aluminium eyes upon the man.
“First,” he said, “you must sit in the chariot. We will all get in, and then the horses will come.”
Chapter 4
An Old Battlefield
When the Mexican swung into the car, I noted that the heavy awkwardness was gone from him. He was as graceful as a race horse. I got in the back. Emilio occupied the driver’s seat and stepped on the starter.
The car whirred into life and lurched forward.
The Mexican leaped out into the desert in a long arched vault of such surprising swiftness that it could not have been anticipated.
“Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed, and crossed himself. “It is magic. It shot at us from under that place in the front and it moved. I swear that it moved! Look, you can even see the tracks in the sand where it moved! And there were no horses!”
Emilio Bender got out and fastened the pin-point eyes upon the Mexican, made passes, muttered soothing words.
“It is a magic chariot. We have come from those who are powerful to take you to your comrades. We must make haste. You must enter the chariot and go with us.”
The Mexican shook his head.
“No. I travel either with my horse under me, in a chariot that I can understand, or on my two feet.”
“Surely,” taunted Bender, “Pablo Viscente de Moreno is not afraid of a chariot that can be driven by a poor scrivener!”
That gave the Mexican something to think about. I could see his face writhe and twist in the moonlight.
“He is not!” he said, and climbed back in the car.
Bender stepped on the starter, slammed in the gears. The car lurched into motion, gathered speed, started skimming over the moonlit road.
The Mexican gazed about him at the flying landscape with eyes that seemed to bulge out beyond the line of his bushy eyebrows.
“Car-r-r-ramba!” he muttered. “Wait!” he yelled at Bender. “Such a pace will tire out the chariot within the first two miles. I tell you it is a two-day march!”
For answer Bender slammed it into high and stepped on the throttle. The Mexican tried to say something, but the words would not come. He sat on the edge of the cushioned seat, gripping the windshield support with a grip that showed the white skin over his knuckles drawn taut and pale. The car hurtled through the moonlight.
After half an hour the Mexican recovered his faculties sufficiently to glance about him for landmarks.
“This road,” he said, “has no business being here. But perhaps the magic chariot makes its own road as it goes? That mountain over there is where we camped the first day’s march, and the distance from here to the cave is not great. The first march is short.”
Then he became interested in landmarks and seemed to forget the novelty of his means of transportation.
“There,” he said, “is where we lost two men only last week. There was a scouting party of the savages. But we routed them. I charged three of the Indians over against that rock. Their bodies are there yet, if you care to go and look.”
The car roared onward.
“Wait!” yelled the Mexican. “You are turning away from the direction. Over there against that hill is where we are to go. Just under that mesa that sticks up into the moonlight!”
Bender slowed the car, turned it into the native desert. The wheels bit deep into the sand, and he shifted to second.
The Mexican nodded sagely.
“I knew it could not stand that pace,” he remarked. “Mark you, charioteer, you are not accustomed to these desert places. I can tell that from many things. You have probably come from Spain within a fortnight. You will soon learn that things are different here, and the greatest distance is covered by him who makes the less speed at the start.”
Bender said nothing. He was pushing the car through the sand, dodging clumps of sage and greasewood.
I said nothing. It wasn’t my funeral — not yet.
The car ground its way toward the base of the mesa. As the ground got higher it got harder and the laboring engine gave us a little more speed. I knew the radiator would soon be boiling at that rate. Personally, I’d have given the car a rest.
Not Bender. His greed was getting the better of his self-control, and he was pushing the car to the limit.
We covered about five miles before I could smell the motor overheating. Then it fumed like rancid butter poured on a hot stove.
“Better cool her down,” I suggested to Bender.
He nodded and slowed.
The Mexican pointed to the rugged skyline of the mesa. “There to the left and down at the base. There is the entrance to the cave.”
“There is much gold?” asked Bender.
“As much as two horses could carry,” said the Mexican casually. “We have made these savages pay for their rebellion and the massacre of the priests.”
Bender got ready again and his foot jammed the throttle to the floor boards. The wheels lurched and jumped in the sand, the car gathered momentum.
We were way off the road now, out in the desert, away from the line of sane travel. We might find anything here. I watched the line of the mesa grow larger until it loomed above us.
Then the motor halted for a second. Something clicked and from the mechanism came a clatter — clatter — clatter. The wheels ceased to spin and the car slowed.
“Connecting rod bearing,” I said.
“The gold,” commented the Mexican, “is but a little distance.”
And Emilio Bender slammed his foot back on the throttle. Rod bearing or no rod bearing, he was going to get to that gold.
The motor lost power. The rod clattered and banged. I looked for it to thrust through the bottom of the crank case at any moment. But the wheels bit into the sand and we crawled ahead.
For several minutes the car pushed forward. Then there came a terrific noise, a hissing of hot oil on the sand, and the motor froze tight as a drum.
“Busted out the crank case,” I said, not that there was any need for the comment, but I just wanted to remind him that I’d warned him.
Bender cursed, then jumped from the car. “Come on! We’ll walk.”
The Mexican was out of the car before the words were well clear of Bender’s tongue.
“Carajo! It was great magic while it lasted!” And he was striding toward the wall of the mesa, his feet crunching into the sand, his black shadow marching beside him, a mere black blotch of squat darkness.
We followed as best we could. Greed was giving excessive strength to Bender, the hypnotist, and I noticed he didn’t pant or tire, but jog-trotted through the sand at a steady pace, keeping almost up with the fiercely striding soldier.
We arrived at the base of the mesa. The Mexican found some long forgotten trail, and we started up.
It was a hard climb. Cloudbursts, wind and sun had done things to the trail, and the Mexican cursed from time to time.