As Bud and Chow mulled over the situation, Tom decided to test the unknown rifleman’s intentions. He opened the cabin door and fluttered a white handkerchief outside the plane.
The signal was greeted by a shrill laugh. A moment later a white man strode into view, carrying a high-powered rifle in his hands and a knapsack over one shoulder. He wore braided khaki breeches and embroidered shirt, and a pith helmet.
“Brand my armadillo soup, who’s this critter?” Chow demanded. He stared at the newcomer in frank surprise.
“Let’s find out,” Tom replied.
The three Americans stepped from the plane to meet the stranger face to face. He was of medium height, slightly pudgy, and conveyed an air of careless elegance. Before speaking, he took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his face delicately.
THE SACRED STONE 15
“You came along just in time.” Tom smiled and held out his hand.
“Buenos dias.” The stranger shook Tom’s hand with the tips of his fingers.
His grin seemed slightly mocking.
“Are you a Mexican?” Bud asked. He was puzzled by the stranger’s manner.
Also, his brownish-blond hair and light complexion seemed unusual for a Latin-American.
“I was born in Boston,” the man replied in a languid voice. “Actually, I consider myself neither an American nor a Mexican.”
“Meaning what?” Bud asked bluntly.
“Let’s say I prefer to call myself an internationalist.” As Tom and Bud flashed each other quizzical glances, he went on suavely, “I’m down here studying archaeology and philology at the University of Mexico. My name is Wilson Hutchcraft.”
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