Flame of Diablo (5 page)

fierce currents and little fish that can eat

a horse and rider before a man can utter

a last prayer, and leave only the bones.

And there is
el tigre
who kills, and many

snakes. Also
bandidos
and other evil

men,' she added, crossing herself.

'Perhaps it is all so, but there are those

who say the reason why the Flame of

Diablo stays hidden is that it is guarded

by the old gods who were worshipped

before the
conquistadores
came to this

place, and that all who seek the Flame

are accursed.'

In spite of herself, Rachel felt a long

cold shiver run the length of her spine. It

was all very well to tell herself robustly

that only the very credulous would

believe such a tale, but here in this alien

land, in the very shadow of the pagan

mountains, it was difficult to dismiss

Isabel's recital as nonsense.

'And you think Mark has gone to this

dreadful place?' she asked, steadying her

voice.

Isabel's eyes met hers frankly. 'I did not,

because Miguel talks much to your

brother, telling him of the dangers. But

now you come and tell us that he has not

returned to Gran Bretana, and I worry,

because he told Miguel that was what he

planned to do. I think perhaps he only

told Miguel this to put his mind at ease,

so that he would not blame himself for

having told him the legend. There are

many such stories, you understand. I

think Miguel did not believe Marcos

would take him seriously.'

'Mark's a geologist,' Rachel said,

passing her tongue over her dry lips. 'I

suppose he might think that if this mine

existed he had as good a chance as any

of finding it.' Or of dying, her mind ran

crazily on. Of being drowned in a river,

or eaten by piranha fish, or shot by

bandits, or even swept off a mountain

ledge by a giant condor. Hadn't she read

somewhere that they sometimes attacked

unwary travellers?

Isabel's cold little hand crept into hers.

Her great dark eyes looked enormous

suddenly, too large for her pinched face.

'What will you do,
senorita?'

'I don't know,' Rachel said rather

helplessly. 'After all, we have no real

proof that that's where Mark has gone,

although it does seem more than likely.'

'If and when I ever do come back, I'll be

rich. I'll have so much bloody money, I'll

make you eat every word you've said.

And I shan't come back until I've got it.'

The words seemed to sting and burn in

her brain. Through Miguel Arviles,

Mark now knew of the possible

existence of an emerald mine which

could fulfil his wild promise. Also

through Miguel he could know of a way

to get any gems that he found out of the

country. Generations ago there had been

a wild streak in the Crichtons. Perhaps

this streak had been reborn in Mark,

blinding him to all aspects of the

perilous game he was playing but its

high stakes.

Rachel smiled reassuringly into Isabel's

anxious eyes.

'I expect I shall go back to England

myself,' she said untruthfully. 'After all,

we may be making mountains out of

molehills.'

'Que quiere decir eso?'
Isabel's brow

wrinkled. 'What is this molehill?'

'It doesn't matter,' Rachel assured her. 'I

—I'll inform the authorities here that

Mark—seems to be missing, so that they

can keep an eye open for him, but there

isn't much more I can do.'

'No,' Isabel agreed, but so despondently

that Rachel was tempted to throw

caution to the winds and tell her that she

intended to set out for Diablo herself the

following day. But she restrained

herself. Isabel might fear her father's

wrath, but Rachel felt sure that would

not prevent her telling Senor Arviles

about her plans if she got wind of them,

and he, Rachel did not doubt, would take

steps to prevent her from doing anything

so foolhardy.

She soothed her conscience by telling

herself she did not want to cause the

Arviles family any more anxiety on her

behalf. But she knew in her heart that

this .was not altogether true. Perhaps it

was not only in Mark that the forgotten

wild streak had surfaced.

I'm going to Diablo, she told herself,

even if it means coming face to face with

the devil himself.

CHAPTER TWO

The bus rounded the bend with a lurch

that almost had Rachel flying out of her

seat. She controlled the startled cry

which had risen to her lips, and settled

herself

more

firmly.

The

other

passengers seemed used to coping with

the bus's vagaries, she noticed. Across

the aisle, an Indian woman continued to

feed her baby in the shelter of her
ruana,

her coppery face impassive. Rachel had

seen as she boarded the bus that a small

gaudy statue of the Virgin was secured

just above the driver's seat, and there

was a general tendency as the rickety

vehicle rocked round a particularly

hairpin bend, or swayed dangerously

near the lip of some ravine, for the

passengers and the driver to cross

themselves devoutly.

Rachel could sympathise with this

evidence of devotion, but she couldn't

help wishing at the same time that the

driver would keep both hands on the

wheel.

She could understand now why the hotel

clerk had stared at her in horror when

she had enquired about buses, and

strongly advised her to hire a car

instead. Apart from her concern about

the cost, she had not been keen to accept

his advice. From what little she had seen

of the drivers in Bogota, most of them

seemed to regard a car as a symbol of

their
machismo
and behave accordingly,

Rachel possessed a driving licence, but

she doubted her ability to compete, and

now that she had seen the standard of the

road up to Asuncion, she was glad she

had not tried. She tried to imagine

meeting one of these buses on one of

those bends, and shuddered inwardly.

The window she was sitting beside was

covered in dust, but she couldn't really

be sorry. At least she was being saved

those stomach-turning glimpses of some

of the valleys they had passed—a sheer

rocky drop down to a wrinkled snake of

a river. And snakes were another feature

of the journey that she did not want to

contemplate.

This whole trip was madness. She knew

that now. What the hell did she think she

was doing charging up a mountainside in

company with a religious maniac

masquerading as a bus driver, several

crates of chickens and a goat?

She had seen the look of horrified

disbelief come into the hotel clerk's eyes

when she had asked him which was the

nearest town to Diablo, and the most

direct means of getting there. He had

done his level best to dissuade her,

protesting that such places were not for

the
senorita.
Then he had tried to

persuade her to hire a car, but had made

the basic mistake of pointing out that at

least then she would be under the

protection of the driver. Something in the

way he had said this had needled Rachel

unbearably.

She had said clearly and coldly, 'I can

look after myself, thank you,
senor.'

It had been a briefly satisfying moment,

but he still thought she was mad. She had

seen it in his face as he turned away to

deal with another guest. And now she

tended to agree with him. She had never

sat on a more uncomfortable seat, and

she doubted whether the bus itself had

any springs. If she survived the journey,

it would probably be as a hopeless

cripple, she decided, as the base of her

spine took another hammering.

It had been easier than she expected to

persuade the Arviles family that she

intended

to

return

to

England

immediately, in pursuit of the errant

Mark. Isabel had been disappointed that

she would not even spend a couple of

days with them, and Rachel regretted the

necessity of deceiving the girl. But she

wondered secretly if the
Senor
and the

Senora
might not have been quietly

relieved at her departure, or could they

genuinely have wanted yet another

English visitor upsetting the smooth

tenor of their life? Certainly she could

not have faulted their hospitality.

She had tied a coloured handkerchief

over her shoulder-length honey-coloured

hair, and donned an enormous pair of

sunglasses, but even so she knew that her

fair hair and skin were attracting more

attention than she desired from the

mainly
mestizo
and Indian passengers,

and she guessed that few tourists must

travel

by

this

route—particularly

blonde, female English tourists.

She wondered if Mark had taken the

same frankly death-defying route before

her, and had tried to put a few halting

questions to the driver before they had

set off, but he had stared at her

uncomprehendingly, so she had given it

up as a bad job.

The bus seemed to be descending again,

and slowly as well. Peering down the

bus, Rachel could detect a huddle of

buildings ahead of them, and guessed

they had reached Asuncion.

At first it seemed to bear a depressing

resemblance to other small settlements

they had passed along the way, with

groups of tumbledown shacks lining a

small rutted highway, but with a

triumphant blast of its horn the bus

wound along the road, avoiding groups

of children and animals apparently

attracted from the shack doorways to

watch its passing, and turned into a large

square. Here some attempt at least had

been made to paint and generally

refurbish the buildings and there was a

small market in progress. Presumably

this was the final destination of the

chickens and .the goat, Rachel decided,

watching their descent from the bus

without a sense of overwhelming regret.

They had not been the quietest or the

sweetest-smelling

of

travelling

companions.

As she alighted in her turn, she found the

bus had stopped outside a building

which seemed to be Asuncion's sole

hotel. She glanced up at its peeling

facade rather doubtfully. It wouldn't

have been her first choice as to

overnight stop, but beggars could not be

choosers, and besides, there was 'an

outside chance that Mark might have

stayed there.

The reception desk was deserted when

she got there. Rachel set down her small

suitcase and looked around, then rapped

impatiently on the desk with her

knuckles. Almost as if her action had

been a secret signal, a roar of masculine

laughter broke out quite close at hand.

Rachel jumped, then relaxed, moving her

aching shoulders experimentally.

'I wish I could share the joke,' she

muttered crossly.

Just then a door down the passage from

the desk opened, and a man emerged. He

paused before closing the door behind

him and tossed a clearly jovial remark in

Spanish over his shoulder, which was

greeted with yet another burst of

laughter. Then he spotted Rachel

standing at the desk and his face changed

in a moment, becoming both -surprised

and solemn.

'Senorita?'
His tone as he approached

was civil, but Rachel felt she was being

very thoroughly assessed, and that there

was a strong element of disapproval in

his assessment.

She produced her phrase book, and