Page:Weird Tales Volume 6 Number 4 (1925-10).djvu/41

on his confidence, though that took some time.

One night I was working in my tent. I was almost in despair, because I could make so little headway in what I had come to regard as my life work. I was hampered still farther because so much of the city and inscriptions were overgrown and defaced; and my expedition was too small to undertake any serious excavations. I was alone, you understand, with the natives I had hired. I prefer to work alone. Monty, the Indian boy, came in. His native name was unpronounceable, so I had renamed him Montezuma, which speedily shortened to Monty. An idle thought came to me; Monty was an Indian, perhaps a diluted descendant of these very Mayas; he might know something about another Mayan city, some ancient tradition almost lost sight of, the superstitious reverence gone in the rush of years. I leaned back in my camp chair.

"Monty," I began, "this is quite a city we're studying, isn't it?"

His stolid brown face barely moved. "Yes, sir." He went placidly on straightening the tent.

"But I've decided it isn't so very good after all. It isn't very big. These people who built it weren't so much; it isn't worth wasting time on."

His beady eyes flashed a bit. "But if you could see the real city, sir."

I tried to make my voice very casual. "There isn't any other city. This is the only real Mayan city and it's pretty poor. Everyone says it's the only city."

"They lie, sir; this isn't the biggest city."

"Oh, come now; how can I believe that?"

"My father said so, and he had it from his father. The real city is south."

"Oh, south? How far south?"

"A long way."

That wasn't much help. The electric torch lighted the tent only in patches. I could not see Monty's face distinctly. He might be lying; but why should he lie?

"Well, I don't believe it."

"I could show you. I could find the way from my father, though we have never been there. It is big, much bigger than this." He was talking with unusual animation.

"You could take me there?" I tried to sound bored.

He had sunk back into almost his accustomed apathy. "My father might know. I know nothing," he muttered.

"Listen, Monty." I leaned forward. "If you will take me to this city of yours I'll give you a watch, a real watch, and your father one, too."

Monty was moved but cautious. "I'll go see my father," he compromised.

We packed up the next day and returned to Campeche. Monty disappeared into the brush and I waited for three days, the longest three days I have spent. It hardly seemed credible that such luck was mine; to find the greatest city of the Mayas! There must be some catch somewhere.

When Monty returned he was willing enough to show me the city, not particularly interested one way or another; and he did want the watch. His directions were vague: to follow the coast to a certain point with islands, then go up a river. That was all he would say, but he persisted that he could find it. I left Monty to hire the natives and sailed for New Orleans to charter a steamer and buy new equipment. Perhaps you wonder why I believed Monty; at times I do myself. It must have been intuition. There are times when I wish I never had questioned him or followed him; but at other times—well.