On the camino real along the beach the two saddle mules and the four pack mules of Don Senor Johnny Armstrong stood, patiently awaiting the crack of the whip of the arriero, Luis.  That would be the signal for the start on another long journey into the mountains.  The pack mules were loaded with a varied assortment of hardware and cutlery.  These articles Don Johnny traded to the interior Indians for the gold dust that they washed from the Andean streams and stored in quills and bags against his coming.  It was a profitable business, and Senor Armstrong expected soon to be able to purchase the coffee plantation that he coveted.

Armstrong stood on the narrow sidewalk, exchanging garbled Spanish with old Peralto, the rich native merchant who had just charged him four prices for half a gross of pot-metal hatchets, and abridged English with Rucker, the little German who was Consul for the United States.

“Take with you, senor,” said Peralto, “the blessings of the saints upon your journey.”

“Better try quinine,” growled Rucker through his pipe.  “Take two grains every night.  And don’t make your trip too long, Johnny, because we haf needs of you.  It is ein villainous game dot Melville play of whist, and dere is no oder substitute. Auf wiedersehen, und keep your eyes dot mule’s ears between when you on der edge of der brecipices ride.”

The bells of Luis’s mule jingled and the pack train filed after the warning note.  Armstrong, waved a good-bye and took his place at the tail of the procession.  Up the narrow street they turned, and passed the two-story wooden Hotel Ingles, where Ives and Dawson and Richards and the rest of the chaps were dawdling on the broad piazza, reading week-old newspapers.  They crowded to the railing and shouted many friendly and wise and foolish farewells after him.  Across the plaza they trotted slowly past the bronze statue of Guzman Blanco, within its fence of bayoneted rifles captured from revolutionists, and out of the town between the rows of thatched huts swarming with the unclothed youth of Macuto.  They plunged into the damp coolness of banana groves at length to emerge upon a bright stream, where brown women in scant raiment laundered clothes destructively upon the rocks.  Then the pack train, fording the stream, attacked the sudden ascent, and bade adieu to such civilization as the coast afforded.

For weeks Armstrong, guided by Luis, followed his regular route among the mountains.  After he had collected an arroba of the precious metal, winning a profit of nearly $5,000, the heads of the lightened mules were turned down-trail again.  Where the head of the Guarico River springs from a great gash in the mountain-side, Luis halted the train.

“Half a day’s journey from here, Senor,” said he, “is the village of Tacuzama, which we have never visited.  I think many ounces of gold may be procured there.  It is worth the trial.”

Armstrong concurred, and they turned again upward toward Tacuzama.  The trail was abrupt and precipitous, mounting through a dense forest.  As night fell, dark and gloomy, Luis once more halted.  Before them was a black chasm, bisecting the path as far as they could see.