I became impatient.
"Have you no tongue?" I demanded. "Speak! If you don't know the
author of that piece of equine art say so."
"I know, senor."
"You know?"
"Si, senor."
"Then, for Heaven's sake, tell us."
"His story?" pointing to the figure on the rock.
"Yes, idiot!"
Without a sign of interest, Felipe turned twice around, found a
comfortable rock, sat down, rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and
began. He spoke in Spanish dialect; I shall preserve the style as
far as translation will permit.
"Many, many years ago, senor, Atahualpa, the Inca, son of
Huayna-Capac, was imprisoned at Cajamarco. Four, five hundred
years ago, it was. By the great Pizarro. And there was gold at
Cuzco, to the south, and Atahualpa, for his ransom, ordered that
this gold be brought to Pizarro.
"Messengers carried the order like the wind, so swift that in
five days the priests of the sun carried their gold from the
temples to save the life of Atahualpa."
Felipe paused, puffing at his cigarette, glanced at his audience,
and continued:
"But Hernando Pizarro, brother of the great Pizarro, suspected a
delay in the carriers of gold.
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