11
River Run
Indiana Jones stood atop the moving train car and gazed past the menacing scowl of 'thin man', ignoring for a moment the muzzle of the handgun that the murderous little man kept leveled at his mid-section. There, about a quarter of a mile ahead he could see the rushing waters of a small River passing beneath a low trestle bridge; probably a high tributary of the Tambo, he thought.
Jones mentally measured the distance from the bridge to the water and made his decision. He could make it. Despite the swirling rapids and white water that were evident even from a distance, he still thought it would be his best option. The longer he just stood there, the more likely he was going to die; either shot...again, stabbed, or more likely both.
Indy was a good swimmer, and trusted in his abilities. Sizing up his two assailants, he would have to think that that neither of them was likely to be very agile in the water, especially the fat one. And it was doubtful they would follow anyway.
The archaeologist knew that the water would be cold, but he also knew that with the swiftness of the current he could probably make it miles downstream before these two could get off the train to even try and pursue him. By then he'd be long gone. Then he could just follow the Tambo to the coast. It would be about four hundred miles shy of Callao, but maybe he could pick up a steamer in Mollendo or Matarani.
All of these thoughts passed through his mind in the span of two seconds time.
But two seconds was also the limit of 'thin man's' patience, and he screamed at the archaeologist again, "Deme la Ma'scara!"
"Come and get it!" Jones baited, and held the golden mask up in the air. He needed to stall for time as the train wound its way toward the bridge.
Behind him, 'heavy' took two steps forward.
Jones whirled towards him and held the mask out as if about to throw it off the train, "Stop right there!" Indy warned.
'Thin man' spat forth with a torrent of rapid Spanish and 'heavy' stopped.
Jones turned back to him. He eyed the front car of the train to gage the progress towards the bridge, and then spoke to 'thin man' again, "Look, if I give you the mask...," he let his sentence trail off. "If you give me the mask Doctore' Jones, then I will let you live! I will let you leave the Andes with your life; just like my ancestors let you leave the mountain with your life."
"Don't insult the Incas." Jones shot back, "they wouldn't claim the likes of you."
"I said shut up with your estupide' jokes Doctore' Jones! This is your last chance gringo! Give me the mask, or die!"
The front of the train was now passing over the bridge.
Jones once again held the mask up in the air, noting how 'thin man' followed it with his eyes in much the same way that a dog does when teased with a tasty table scrap. All he needed was just a little more time for the rear car to pass over....
'Thin man' brought his left hand up to support the gun in his right. He stopped ogling the mask and stared once again into the steely brown eyes of Indiana Jones. Closing one eye, he aimed the gun carefully at the archaeologist's chest and grimaced. Jones knew that this time he wouldn't miss.
"The choice is yours Doctore' Jones."
"Alright!" Indy said, stalling for the few seconds more that he needed, "Alright, I'll give you the mask," he paused for a moment longer and adjusted his feet in preparation for the jump, "but you'll have to come to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York to get it..."
With that, Jones leaped off the top of the train car, one hand held tightly to his fedora, the other clutching the mask of Payahuatac. His legs cart wheeled in the air for balance as he sailed down towards the rushing waters of the river. Spanish curses and wild gunshots competed with the wind whistling in his ears.
The jarring plunge into the icy water was accompanied by a sudden excruciating pain in his left arm. Jones distinctly heard the cracking of bone as his left humorous broke. What felt like a lightning bolt shot from the area of his upper arm and straight into the pain center of his brain. He involuntarily cried out, sucking in a mouthful of cold mountain water. Through the haze of the jarring pain and the numbing cold of the water Indy clearly realized that the impact of striking the water had most probably finished the job started by the .25 caliber bullet.
The water was rougher than he'd expected, and faster. He was carried along by the force of the river. He was pushed, pulled, and throttled along by the rushing rapids of the high mountain river, impatient to complete its long journey to the Pacific. He pounded and bounced off of the rocks that formed the basin of the powerful waterway, each impact sending jolts of pain into his left arm which now hung useless at his side. The only condolence was that the rocks here in this part of the river were rounded and smooth. Were the rocks any sharper, the torrential pace of the rapids would cut him to pieces.
He had been only half right about his assailants not following him. While the fat man had indeed just stood, stupefied as Jones had leaped from the train, 'thin man', after firing off some wild shots had succumbed to the crazed lust for gold that was more a trait of his Spanish ancestors than any Inca blood.
The wiry little criminal had leaped off the train and into the waters of the river just seconds after Jones, and just seconds before the train car completed its passage over the bridge. He had missed killing himself on the rocks of the banks by just a few meters.
Now he pursued Indiana Jones; pursued him through the violent and tumultuous waters. He bounced and impacted off of the same rocks as his quarry, but without the accompanying jarring pain that the archaeologist suffered. With the use of both his hands, he had the advantage, and he gained on Jones, keeping his eyes focused on the fedora clad head that bounced up and down in the churning waters ahead.
It didn't take him long to catch up.
Within a few short moments he caught up with Indy and grabbed the golden mask. Jones held tight to it with his right hand while he vainly tried to bring his left arm up to take a swing...but he could not lift his left arm; it continued to hang limply in the water.
The two men struggled for the mask even as they struggled to maintain their own balance in the maelstrom of white water. 'Thin man' repeatedly struck Jones in the face. The one armed archaeologist had nothing to counter with and took the blows stoically while he bobbed on through the water, alternately gulping and choking. But he held on to the mask.
Then 'Thin man' tried a new tactic. He wrenched the satchel off of Indiana Jones' shoulder, worked his way around, and wrapped its long leather strap around the archaeologist's neck, pulling it tight. Jones gasped for air as the leather strap cut into his neck and cut off his airway. In a moment all respiration was blocked. Fear and panic set in a moment after that.
Indy knew he would die if he didn't break the strangulating grip that 'thin man' held. But with only one arm it wasn't much of a contest. 'Thin man' held on for the kill, pulling tight with both hands but watching closely to Jones' grip on the golden mask.
Indy had to do something quickly or die. In a sudden motion he swung the heavy mask of Payahuatac backward toward his attacker. The dazzling, gold and jewel encrusted artifact struck squarely into the beak-like nose of 'thin man'. This time, the sound of breaking bone pleased the archaeologist, struggling for his life. The impact of Payahuatac's fury crushed 'thin man's' nose and he involuntarily released his death grip on Indiana Jones. His hands went to his face now gushing red into the foaming white waters. Indy kicked his feet hard to gain separation and put distance between him and his persistent attacker.
Both men tumbled over a small falls, and the water suddenly began to get even rougher than before. Jones and 'thin man now each fought separate battles with the churning river. They both struggled hard to gain control of their own movements, but it was in vain. The water took control and hurtled them down its rough course; a course that now included more and more sharp angled rocks and stones that cut and tore at their flesh.
After another small falls they found themselves in a deadly course of raging waters. All thoughts of anything but survival were driven from their minds as all control was lost to the river. They lost sight of each other. Jones nearly passed out from the pain in his left arm, but fought on with the tempest of rampaging water, struggling to reach the rocky bank.
The rocks were more than just sharp here. Each jutting, angular patch of rocks on this stretch of the river and its banks held the potential to be lethal considering the force with which the two men were thrown forward by the relentless and pitiless waters.
Up ahead, Jones caught a glimpse of a promontory of rock jutting out toward the center of the river from the left bank, with a reciprocal rock formation on the right bank. Between them was what could only be described as a watery vortex of death where the furious power of the rushing water was concentrated into a narrow neck of chaos, with ugly black rock formations that poked up through the foaming maelstrom like rows of shark teeth. The archaeologist fought for his life to reach the river's bank before being thrown to this certain death.
Using Payahuatac's mask as both a paddle and a rudder, Jones fought to guide himself closer to the left bank, and its promontory of rock. But then suddenly, as if in a car that just shifted into high gear, he accelerated out of control towards the vortex that churned between. Desperately the archaeologist thrust out his one good arm. His hand still gripped the mask tightly with aching fingers.
Once again, as before in the tomb, the mask seemed to come to the aid of Indiana Jones and save his life. The golden edge of the mask lodged into a ledge in the rock of the left bank. The rock cut into the softer gold of Payahuatac's death mask and gripped it like an anchor. Indy held on for his life. A few painful moments later he climbed up on to the rocky promontory and collapsed.
A sobering thought brought him back to full consciousness.
His satchel with the Inca treasure map was gone.
River Run
Indiana Jones stood atop the moving train car and gazed past the menacing scowl of 'thin man', ignoring for a moment the muzzle of the handgun that the murderous little man kept leveled at his mid-section. There, about a quarter of a mile ahead he could see the rushing waters of a small River passing beneath a low trestle bridge; probably a high tributary of the Tambo, he thought.
Jones mentally measured the distance from the bridge to the water and made his decision. He could make it. Despite the swirling rapids and white water that were evident even from a distance, he still thought it would be his best option. The longer he just stood there, the more likely he was going to die; either shot...again, stabbed, or more likely both.
Indy was a good swimmer, and trusted in his abilities. Sizing up his two assailants, he would have to think that that neither of them was likely to be very agile in the water, especially the fat one. And it was doubtful they would follow anyway.
The archaeologist knew that the water would be cold, but he also knew that with the swiftness of the current he could probably make it miles downstream before these two could get off the train to even try and pursue him. By then he'd be long gone. Then he could just follow the Tambo to the coast. It would be about four hundred miles shy of Callao, but maybe he could pick up a steamer in Mollendo or Matarani.
All of these thoughts passed through his mind in the span of two seconds time.
But two seconds was also the limit of 'thin man's' patience, and he screamed at the archaeologist again, "Deme la Ma'scara!"
"Come and get it!" Jones baited, and held the golden mask up in the air. He needed to stall for time as the train wound its way toward the bridge.
Behind him, 'heavy' took two steps forward.
Jones whirled towards him and held the mask out as if about to throw it off the train, "Stop right there!" Indy warned.
'Thin man' spat forth with a torrent of rapid Spanish and 'heavy' stopped.
Jones turned back to him. He eyed the front car of the train to gage the progress towards the bridge, and then spoke to 'thin man' again, "Look, if I give you the mask...," he let his sentence trail off. "If you give me the mask Doctore' Jones, then I will let you live! I will let you leave the Andes with your life; just like my ancestors let you leave the mountain with your life."
"Don't insult the Incas." Jones shot back, "they wouldn't claim the likes of you."
"I said shut up with your estupide' jokes Doctore' Jones! This is your last chance gringo! Give me the mask, or die!"
The front of the train was now passing over the bridge.
Jones once again held the mask up in the air, noting how 'thin man' followed it with his eyes in much the same way that a dog does when teased with a tasty table scrap. All he needed was just a little more time for the rear car to pass over....
'Thin man' brought his left hand up to support the gun in his right. He stopped ogling the mask and stared once again into the steely brown eyes of Indiana Jones. Closing one eye, he aimed the gun carefully at the archaeologist's chest and grimaced. Jones knew that this time he wouldn't miss.
"The choice is yours Doctore' Jones."
"Alright!" Indy said, stalling for the few seconds more that he needed, "Alright, I'll give you the mask," he paused for a moment longer and adjusted his feet in preparation for the jump, "but you'll have to come to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York to get it..."
With that, Jones leaped off the top of the train car, one hand held tightly to his fedora, the other clutching the mask of Payahuatac. His legs cart wheeled in the air for balance as he sailed down towards the rushing waters of the river. Spanish curses and wild gunshots competed with the wind whistling in his ears.
The jarring plunge into the icy water was accompanied by a sudden excruciating pain in his left arm. Jones distinctly heard the cracking of bone as his left humorous broke. What felt like a lightning bolt shot from the area of his upper arm and straight into the pain center of his brain. He involuntarily cried out, sucking in a mouthful of cold mountain water. Through the haze of the jarring pain and the numbing cold of the water Indy clearly realized that the impact of striking the water had most probably finished the job started by the .25 caliber bullet.
The water was rougher than he'd expected, and faster. He was carried along by the force of the river. He was pushed, pulled, and throttled along by the rushing rapids of the high mountain river, impatient to complete its long journey to the Pacific. He pounded and bounced off of the rocks that formed the basin of the powerful waterway, each impact sending jolts of pain into his left arm which now hung useless at his side. The only condolence was that the rocks here in this part of the river were rounded and smooth. Were the rocks any sharper, the torrential pace of the rapids would cut him to pieces.
He had been only half right about his assailants not following him. While the fat man had indeed just stood, stupefied as Jones had leaped from the train, 'thin man', after firing off some wild shots had succumbed to the crazed lust for gold that was more a trait of his Spanish ancestors than any Inca blood.
The wiry little criminal had leaped off the train and into the waters of the river just seconds after Jones, and just seconds before the train car completed its passage over the bridge. He had missed killing himself on the rocks of the banks by just a few meters.
Now he pursued Indiana Jones; pursued him through the violent and tumultuous waters. He bounced and impacted off of the same rocks as his quarry, but without the accompanying jarring pain that the archaeologist suffered. With the use of both his hands, he had the advantage, and he gained on Jones, keeping his eyes focused on the fedora clad head that bounced up and down in the churning waters ahead.
It didn't take him long to catch up.
Within a few short moments he caught up with Indy and grabbed the golden mask. Jones held tight to it with his right hand while he vainly tried to bring his left arm up to take a swing...but he could not lift his left arm; it continued to hang limply in the water.
The two men struggled for the mask even as they struggled to maintain their own balance in the maelstrom of white water. 'Thin man' repeatedly struck Jones in the face. The one armed archaeologist had nothing to counter with and took the blows stoically while he bobbed on through the water, alternately gulping and choking. But he held on to the mask.
Then 'Thin man' tried a new tactic. He wrenched the satchel off of Indiana Jones' shoulder, worked his way around, and wrapped its long leather strap around the archaeologist's neck, pulling it tight. Jones gasped for air as the leather strap cut into his neck and cut off his airway. In a moment all respiration was blocked. Fear and panic set in a moment after that.
Indy knew he would die if he didn't break the strangulating grip that 'thin man' held. But with only one arm it wasn't much of a contest. 'Thin man' held on for the kill, pulling tight with both hands but watching closely to Jones' grip on the golden mask.
Indy had to do something quickly or die. In a sudden motion he swung the heavy mask of Payahuatac backward toward his attacker. The dazzling, gold and jewel encrusted artifact struck squarely into the beak-like nose of 'thin man'. This time, the sound of breaking bone pleased the archaeologist, struggling for his life. The impact of Payahuatac's fury crushed 'thin man's' nose and he involuntarily released his death grip on Indiana Jones. His hands went to his face now gushing red into the foaming white waters. Indy kicked his feet hard to gain separation and put distance between him and his persistent attacker.
Both men tumbled over a small falls, and the water suddenly began to get even rougher than before. Jones and 'thin man now each fought separate battles with the churning river. They both struggled hard to gain control of their own movements, but it was in vain. The water took control and hurtled them down its rough course; a course that now included more and more sharp angled rocks and stones that cut and tore at their flesh.
After another small falls they found themselves in a deadly course of raging waters. All thoughts of anything but survival were driven from their minds as all control was lost to the river. They lost sight of each other. Jones nearly passed out from the pain in his left arm, but fought on with the tempest of rampaging water, struggling to reach the rocky bank.
The rocks were more than just sharp here. Each jutting, angular patch of rocks on this stretch of the river and its banks held the potential to be lethal considering the force with which the two men were thrown forward by the relentless and pitiless waters.
Up ahead, Jones caught a glimpse of a promontory of rock jutting out toward the center of the river from the left bank, with a reciprocal rock formation on the right bank. Between them was what could only be described as a watery vortex of death where the furious power of the rushing water was concentrated into a narrow neck of chaos, with ugly black rock formations that poked up through the foaming maelstrom like rows of shark teeth. The archaeologist fought for his life to reach the river's bank before being thrown to this certain death.
Using Payahuatac's mask as both a paddle and a rudder, Jones fought to guide himself closer to the left bank, and its promontory of rock. But then suddenly, as if in a car that just shifted into high gear, he accelerated out of control towards the vortex that churned between. Desperately the archaeologist thrust out his one good arm. His hand still gripped the mask tightly with aching fingers.
Once again, as before in the tomb, the mask seemed to come to the aid of Indiana Jones and save his life. The golden edge of the mask lodged into a ledge in the rock of the left bank. The rock cut into the softer gold of Payahuatac's death mask and gripped it like an anchor. Indy held on for his life. A few painful moments later he climbed up on to the rocky promontory and collapsed.
A sobering thought brought him back to full consciousness.
His satchel with the Inca treasure map was gone.