Chapter XXIX

The mad pace at which Teresa urged her horse put her own skill as a rider to the severest test. But she had been in the saddle constantly since the day of the landing more than a year ago. She was now a veteran cavalryman, and this was a race against time for human life, and against an infinite tragedy. The Inca’s stupendous ransom had been paid. It had made her brother a millionaire. It had made her rich. It had made every soldier in the expedition rich. The monarch had proved himself a man whose word was unimpeachable. That he should be so basely betrayed by the Spaniards was to her proud young spirit a thing of nameless horror.

She thought of his stately mother and pain stirred her horse faster. She had grown to admire this mother beyond all the native women she had known. There was something inherently charming in the Dowager’s regal bearing. Her love for her son was overwhelming. In him had centered now all her hopes and dreams. She was inordinately proud of his achievements. She lived only in the hope of his liberation. His death would be a blow too cruel to contemplate. At its thought she dug the spurs into her horse’s flanks again and the fiery animal leaped ahead, his sides dripping.

Teresa leaned low and in soothing words stroked the beautiful white neck. The horse uttered a low whinny in answering acceptance of her apology and stretched his neck again for the race. A storm had hurled trees across the road where it led through a forest, but he leaped the barriers and sped on, his silver-shod hoofs flashing in the moonlight.

He waded through rivers with an astounding instinct for the shallow leads of the fords. But at a broad deep stream whose smooth surface glittered in the moonlight he stopped short, shook his mane and touched the water gingerly with his slender hoof. Teresa sprang to the ground, caught his flowing tail in her right hand and stroked his foaming haunches with her left. He swam the stream, and they began the last lap of the race. There were no mountain stairs to climb. The road north led up the valley between the _cordilleras_. She thanked God for this.

She stopped at the lights of a village, warmed herself for a few minutes and asked news of De Soto. To her amazement she discovered that he had stopped here for the night.

She found the house in which he was lodged without difficulty, roused him from a sound sleep and told him the news of the Inca’s trial and Molina’s fears.

“They’ve dared to put him on trial before I could report?” he asked in amazement.

“Yes, and we fear that he may die before you can reach Caxamalca.”

“We’ll make it. The distance is only thirty miles. We’ll leave your horse with the _curaca_ in charge of one of my men. Take his fresh horse and we’ll ride.”

In half an hour the squadron, forming in single file, began a desperate ride for the Plaza of Caxamalca.