"What became of the huge stone under which the snakes were hidden, Mauricio?"
"I do not know," replied the Indian; "I have never heard. Maybe it crumbled to pieces after awhile, or maybe it disappeared as suddenly as it came."
"I went over there this morning, or, rather, Francisco and I did," said Walter, "and we believe, at least I do, that there is nothing peculiar about the spot at all. You can see there have been a great many fires there--that is why nothing grows."
"No Indian would make a fire there," said Francisco.
"No, I would not," said the boy. "I would be afraid."
"I would just love to try it," said Walter. "If we were going to stay longer I would."
"And then maybe you would be burned up, like the bad brave of long ago," said Mauricio, laughing.
"Well, we've had one experience to-day; that is enough, Walter," said his mother. "I am not afraid anything might happen, but do not think I would allow you to go against all the traditions of the place. The legend is undoubtedly obscure, but _something_ must have happened there. We have had evidence enough to-day that there are some rattlesnakes about and that the valley deserves its name. I do not think I can ever look at a rattlesnake's skin again."
When they left the valley the road wound up a long, moderately steep ascent overlooking another valley similar to the one they had just left, but much smaller.
"One might truly call this a hidden nook," remarked Mr. Page.
"And that is what they call it," said Mauricio, '_El Valle Escondido_'--the hidden valley. "Over there at the edge of the brush is a camp."
When they came nearer they met several Indian children with long, slender reeds in their hands.
"They have gathered them by the stream, and they are taking them to be softened," explained Mauricio. "It is of those that they make baskets."
"The famous Indian baskets?" inquired Aunt Mary.
"Yes," replied Mauricio. "There under that tent is a woman weaving one, and just across sits a man making a mat."
They now saw that they were in the midst of a genuine Indian camp.
"Do those people belong to Cupa?" asked Mr. Page of Mauricio.
"No," he replied; "they are the Volcans--they live up there behind the mountains, but come here in the summer to get the reeds. Always at this season you will find them here. They come and go."