Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читаем полную версию книг бесплатно txt) 📗

    "A pity I won't keep them," replied Zolar sadly. "But I'm afraid I'll have to be content with using the profits from my share of their sale to buy legitimate artifacts for my personal collection."

    Fernando Matos hungrily devoured the sight of the golden army with his eyes while he mentally estimated his 2 percent cut of the spoils. "We have nothing that can touch this in our National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City."

    "You can always donate your share," said Oxley sarcastically.

    Matos shot him a barbed look and started to say something but was cut off by the approach of Colonel Campos. "Lieutenant Ramos reports from the cavern that no objects remain inside the mountain. As soon as he and his men arrive from below, they will load the objects. Then I will be on my way to the airstrip to oversee the transshipment."

    "Thank you, Colonel," Zolar said politely. He didn't trust Campos as far as he could throw the stone demon. "If you have no objections, the rest of us will join you."

    "But of course." Campos looked around the nearly vacated summit. "And your other people?"

    Zolar's deepset eyes took on a cold look. "My brother Cyrus and his crew will follow in our helicopter as soon as they tie up a pair of loose ends."

    Campos understood. He smiled cynically. "It makes me sick to think about all the bandits running loose to rob and murder foreign visitors."

    While they waited for Lieutenant Ramos and his squad to exit the passageway and load the artifacts, Matos walked over and inspected the stone demon. He reached out and laid his hand on the neck and was surprised at the coolness of the stone after it had been absorbing the sun's rays all day. Abruptly, he jerked his hand back. It felt as if the cold stone had suddenly turned pliant and slimy like the scaly skin of a fish.

    He stepped back, startled, and half spun around to hurry away. At that instant he saw a human head rising over the edge of the sharp drop in front of the demon. As a man who grew up in a family of university instructors, he did not believe in superstition and folklore. Matos stood frozen more out of curiosity than fright.

    The head rose and was seen to be attached to the body of a man who wearily climbed onto the surface of the summit. Then the intruder stood unsteadily for a moment and aimed an old rifle at Matos.

    Yuma had lain on a ledge for nearly a full minute, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to slow. When he lifted his head over the rim, he saw a strange looking little man with a bald head and huge glasses, incongruously dressed in a business suit with shirt and tie, staring back at him. To Yuma, the man reminded him of the government officials who passed through the Montolo village once a year, promising aid in the form of fertilizer, feed and grain, and money, but went on their way and never delivered. After climbing over the rim of the slope he also spotted a group of men standing by the army helicopter 30 meters (100 feet) away. They did not notice him. He had planned the climb to terminate behind the great stone demon out of sight of anyone. Except Matos, who unfortunately happened to be standing nearby.

    He pointed his worn and scarred old Winchester at the man and spoke softly. "Do not make a sound or you die."

    Yuma did not have to look back to confirm that the first of his neighbors and relatives were scrambling onto the mountaintop. He realized that he desperately needed another minute for all of his tiny force to reach high ground. If the man in front of him gave the alarm, all surprise would be lost and the rest of his people would be caught in an exposed position on the mountainside. He had to stall somehow.

    Matters were made even worse by the sudden appearance of an officer and a squad of army engineers who walked from a deep fissure in the rock. They looked neither left nor right and headed straight toward what appeared to Yuma as a staggered row of short, golden men.

    At seeing the approaching engineers, the helicopter pilot started up his engines and set them on idle and engaged the twin rotors of the big transport.

    Beside the stone demon, Matos slowly raised his hands.

    "Put your hands down!" Yuma hissed.

    Matos did as he was ordered. "How did you get through our security?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

    "This is my people's sacred ground," Yuma answered quietly. "You are defiling it with your greed."

    For every few seconds gained, two more Montolos climbed over the rim of the ledge behind Yuma and formed a group out of sight behind the demon. They had come this far without causing injury or death, and Yuma hated to start now.

    "Walk back toward me," he ordered Matos. "Stand next to the demon."

    There was a wild, crazed look in Matos's eyes. His lust for golden wealth slowly began to short-circuit his fear. His share would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. He couldn't give it up because of a band of superstitious Indians. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the engineers closing with the helicopter. Dread of losing his dreams created an agonizing knot in his stomach.

    Yuma could see it coming. He was losing the man in the suit. "You want gold?" said Yuma. "Take it and leave our mountain."

    As he saw more men materializing behind Yuma, Matos finally snapped. He turned and began to run, shouting, "Intruders! Shoot them!"

    Without lifting his gun and aiming, Yuma fired from the hip, his shot striking Matos in the knee. The bureaucrat jerked sideways, his glasses flew off his head, and he sprawled heavily on his chest. He rolled over on his back, raising his leg and clutching his knee with both hands.

    Yuma's relatives and neighbors, guns at the ready, fanned out like ghosts in a cemetery as they encircled the helicopter. Lieutenant Ramos, no fool he, instantly took in the situation. His men were engineers and not infantrymen and carried no weapons. He immediately raised his hands in surrender and shouted to his small squad to do likewise.

    Zolar swore loudly. "Where in hell did these Indians come from?"

    "No time to reason why," snapped Oxley. "We're pulling out."

    He jumped through the cargo hatch and pulled Zolar in after him.

    "The gold warriors!" Zolar protested. "They're not loaded."

    "Forget them."

    "No!" Zolar resisted.

    "You damn fool. Can't you see, those men are armed. The army engineers can't help us." He turned and yelled to the pilot of the helicopter. "Lift off! Andale, andale!"

    Colonel Campos was slower than the others to react. He stupidly ordered Lieutenant Ramos and his men to resist. "Attack them!" he cried.

    Ramos stared at him. "With what, Colonel, our bare hands?"

    Yuma and his tribal members were only 10 meters (33 feet) from the helicopter now. So far only one shot had been fired. The sight of the sun glinting off the golden warriors momentarily stunned the Montolos. The only pure gold object any of them had ever seen was a small chalice on the altar of the little mission church in the nearby village of Ilano Colorado.

    Dust began to swirl as the pilot applied the throttles and the rotor blades of the helicopter furiously beat the air. The wheels were lifting off the mountain's summit when Campos finally realized discretion was the better part of greed. He ran four steps and leaped toward the cargo door at the urging of Charles Oxley who reached out for him.