CHAPTER XIII
THE STORM BREAKS
The boys in the little Mexican town, on the day following their meeting with Jimmy Raymond, “the boy pianist,” as Tom called him, began to see trouble. The air of peace and tranquillity was partly gone. Soldiers in great numbers, both mounted and afoot, swarmed through the narrow twisting streets. Slouchy-looking citizens deserted for the time being pleasant lounging places, to assist in the work of placing sand-bags and beams on the roofs of some of the higher buildings.
Walking to the outskirts of the city in the company of Professor Kent, George Parry, and the special correspondent, the boys watched sappers at work digging additional trenches, while to the left of these more breastworks were being thrown up.
“It’s just like living over a powder magazine, with somebody goin’ to touch off the fuse, only one doesn’t know just when,” declared Cranny.
“That’s the delightful part of it,” commented Dick. “Expectancy in a case like this is all the pleasure.”
“Speaking seriously, boys, I think you had better cross the International bridge to-day,” put in the professor. “The United States Consul has advised all Americans to leave the town.”
“I agree with you,” declared Bob. “There is no use in our taking unnecessary risks.”
“Very sensible, indeed,” said George Parry, nodding his head approvingly. “Our business, however, keeps us here. A moving picture of a real, red-hot Mexican scrap ought to prove a winner.”
“How about you, Mr. Edmunds?” demanded Cranny.
A gloomy expression came over the special correspondent’s face. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll stay, of course,” he replied. “Ah! What wouldn’t I give just now for a perfectly good hand! Why—this is just the kind of stuff I get paid to write about.”
“Wasn’t my work satisfactory?” asked Cranny, almost aggressively.
“Satisfactory? Well, I should say so; son, you’re a bird.”
“Then that settles it.”
“Settles what?”
“I’m goin’ to stay here too.”
Tom Clifton, who had taken no part in this conversation, was the only one among the group who uttered any word of approval at this announcement, which Cranny Beaumont made with all the energy of his positive nature.
“No one has anything on you for grit, Cranny,” he said, admiringly.
All the others, however, shook their heads. They pointed out the dangers, the consequences that might result if the Tacoma lad stuck to his resolution, and none was more earnest in his arguments than Ralph Edmunds. Cranny listened to all with a peculiar smile—the Ramblers knew that smile,—it meant defeat for them from the start.
“Mr. Edmunds is goin’ to supply the words an’ I’ll push the pencil,” he declared emphatically. “I’m gettin’ ’em cheap now—by the dozen.”
The newspaper man slapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t know how much I appreciate your offer, Cranny,” he exclaimed. “But won’t you——”
“No, I won’t,” laughed Cranny.
Several times during the day the discussion was renewed, without, however, altering in the least the lad’s decision.
As hour after hour passed without the expected attack materializing, the town resumed its normal aspect, and those of its inhabitants whose systems seemed to require a great deal of sleep went back to that pleasant occupation in the most shady places they could find.
“You chaps can see now what a good thing it was we didn’t make an awful rush for the International bridge,” commented Cranny, as they sat out on the veranda that night. “I’m beginnin’ to weaken on that sleepin’ volcano stuff.”
“I guess it was all a false alarm,” remarked Dick.
“One never can tell what may happen in Mexico, though,” remarked Edmunds, meditatively.
At last the day on which Bob Somers had promised Dave and the others to return rolled around.
Cranny balked again.
“Yes, Bob; I know you made an iron-clad agreement to slip away from Mexico,” he said, “but just recollect, old chap, I didn’t.”
“Actually going to stay here longer?” queried Dick in surprise.
“Bet your life, son. I’ve just bought another dozen pencils—got ’em cheaper yet.”
Of course there was another argument—a long and earnest one. The peculiar smile once more on Cranny’s face warned them of the futility of their efforts; but duty, they considered, required them to plead.
“No, gentlemen, very sorry, I’m sure,” grinned Cranny. “But you see Edmunds has a whole lot o’ articles half finished. I can’t desert him now—I just simply can’t.”
“Mighty good of you, I’m sure, Cranny,” declared Bob, heartily. “And now having used up all my stock of ‘buts’ and ‘ifs’ I’ll quit.”
“Bother the thing,” growled Tom. “I wish to thunder we hadn’t made any promise.”
On this occasion Cranny’s decision did not so disturb his companions’ peace of mind, for now it seemed almost certain that the Constitutionalists had definitely decided to let such a well-defended town alone. Still, Bob Somers could not reconcile himself to the thought of allowing the Tacoma lad to remain there by himself.
“I have a solution to the question, fellows,” he announced.
“Oh, do let it solute at once,” cried Tom.
“I was really the only one to promise Dave to skip back, and the way things have turned out you three chaps are justified in staying.”
“And let you go all the way back alone; no, sir!” declared Dick, emphatically.
“I have another suggestion,” spoke up Tom. “Let one stay here with Cranny, the other ride off with Bob. We can settle it by drawing lots.”
This compromise was instantly agreed upon and carried out. It proved to be an interesting moment—quite a breathless one, in fact, when each held in his hand the slip of paper that was to decide his fate.
Eagerly they were scanned.
“Ah,” murmured Dick.
“Ready, Tom?” said Bob. “It’s time to saddle up.”
The tall Rambler nodded.
“Don’t forget to keep an eye on Jimmy Raymond, fellows!” he counseled.
“Goin’ to do some detective work, Tom?” Cranny inquired with twinkling eyes.
“Maybe,” answered Tom in mysterious tones.
Fifteen minutes later the stableman led out their mustangs. Then while all the Americans and the still smiling hotel proprietor gathered about them, the boys sprang into the saddle.
“We’ll be back in a day or two to get you, Cranny!” sang out Bob. “So-long.”
“So-long,” shouted Tom.
Then followed by a storm of “good-byes” the Ramblers galloped off.
It was market day once more, and the heat of the day not having set in, the plaza presented a lively, bustling scene. No one ever seemed to buy without doing an immense amount of bargaining beforehand, and on every side loud vociferous arguments arose.
“It takes lots of work to sell stuff here,” laughed Tom. “Hey there! look out!” he altered his course just in time to avoid striking a pair of wandering goats. “Wasn’t that a narrow shave!”
At a good pace the two clattered through the town, slowing up when the outskirts were reached.
“There’s no great hurry, Tom,” declared Bob. “We ought to reach the Rangers’ quarters without much trouble shortly after sunset.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Tom. “And we want to save our nags as much as possible.”
The day was a sultry one, with but little air stirring. Often Bob Somers raised his head to study the sky.
“I shouldn’t wonder if a storm is brewing,” he said finally. “I predict we’re in for a good soaking.”
“Let it come!” exclaimed Tom, recklessly. “That’s a heap better than falling in with a lot of Mexican Revolutionists.”
“I’m not bothering about them,” rejoined Bob, with a smile, “not enough at least to make me wish we had crossed the Rio on the International bridge. Guess this trip will be adventureless enough to suit even Dave.”
“Say, Bob,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “isn’t it a wonderful thing about Cranny? I never heard of his wanting to work before; have you?”
“Truthfulness compels me to answer in the negative,” chuckled Bob.
“And what’s even stranger, he seems to do the work just right. Ever hear of anything like that before, eh?”
“A second time, no, Tom.”
“Anyway, it’s a mighty encouraging sign.”
Then Tom suddenly switched off to another subject.
“I noticed a very odd thing about Jimmy Raymond,” he declared. “Every time I happened to mention the Texas Rangers he looked awfully queer. Honest he did, Bob. I’ll just bet he isn’t staying in Mexico for nothing!”
“I hope everything is all right with Jimmy,” declared Bob. “He’s too jolly nice a chap to be in any serious scrape.”
“That’s so, Bob, but the Rangers are going to hear all about him from me.”
Owing to the hard traveling the two relapsed into silence. The ponies climbed slowly over a series of rounded hills, and in single file pushed their way through deep ravines choked up with vegetation.
The heat and sultriness seemed to be increasing, though the strata of cloud on the horizon, so faint as to be scarcely discernible, remained practically stationary.
“Oh, for a nice breath of air,” said Tom at last. He looked at the steaming mustangs compassionately. “Honest, it seems to be harder on these poor beasts than it is on us.”
At the same point where they had reached the boundary of Mexico, they crossed the Rio Grande and entered the United States.
After taking a good rest under the pleasant shade of a grove of cottonwoods the two headed in a northwesterly direction, riding over a rugged, barren country.
On one of the hills they halted to look back in the direction of the little border settlement situated at the terminus of the railroad. It was hidden from view, however, by intervening ridges, though its presence could be easily detected by faint clouds of smoke hovering above it.
“That’s the last sign of civilization for a few days, Tom,” remarked Bob.
Once more they jogged along in silence, taking many a glance at the threatening-looking sky.
Slowly the character of the country began to change. When Bob Somers at last reined up in the middle of a grass covered valley and realized that, from this point on, most of the traveling would be over an undulating plain, he exclaimed with a great sigh of contentment: “By George! This is a welcome change, eh, Tom?”
“Well, rather,” replied the other.
Dismounting, the lads staked their ponies; then each, after taking a long drink of tepid water from his canvas water-bottle, sought the nearest patch of tall grass, into which he threw himself at full length.
A strange brooding silence hovered over the scene. Even the chanting of the insects was silenced.
The storm approached much more slowly than either had anticipated, though clouds of a palish white were now piling up in magnificent rounded forms, the modeling of which suggested all the delicacy of sculptured marble. Through a broad flat tone of murky gray at the base coppery gleams of electric flame were flashing in zigzag streaks.
“And to think there’s no umbrella shop near at hand,” chirped Tom. “Yes, we’re in for it, sure! Ready, Bob?”
The ponies, already showing signs of nervousness, snorted when the boys sprang astride their backs. By this time the faint, almost continuous booming of thunder, constantly growing louder, told the travelers that their respite from the wrath of the elements would be only of short duration.
At length, as the clouds approached nearer, the majesty of the scene impelled the lads to halt. A breath of air was stirring the leaves and grasses, a few wisps of clouds—the advance guard,—were flying swiftly overhead.
“Look!” cried Tom, in awesome tones.
Vast, yellowish columns of dust in the midst of which branches and boughs whirled in circling flights were advancing with great rapidity, shadowing the whole earth beneath. Rain-drops pattered down.
“Don’t be scared, old chap,” Tom patted his prancing pony’s neck. A forked tongue of lightning, at that instant striking the prairie, had illumined the landscape with a weird, unnatural bluish glare.
When the crashing thunder came the rain was falling steadily, and the cooling drops, beating and splashing down, proved most grateful to both riders and steeds.
The next moment the wind was making them bend far over on their horses’ necks to escape its blasts. The piled up masses of clouds were now sweeping across the zenith, and the yellowish glow over nature became replaced by tones of a lowering gray.
“Here it comes!” yelled Bob. “Look out, Tom!”
Beyond, everything was shut from view by an advancing curtain of driving rain. As it swept on, accompanied by a gale of shrieking wind, ponies and boys braced themselves to withstand the shock. They were now in the midst of the full fury of the storm. Every instant bluish forks, darting forth like serpents’ tongues, criss-crossed against the clouds or struck the prairie. Peals of thunder crashed and reverberated in a series of appalling shocks which soon rendered the frightened ponies almost unmanageable.
Bob Somers could see his companion ahead only as a shadowy, indistinct form, sawing hard on the bit to keep his frightened horse from bolting.
He too had trouble. Now and again he spoke in soothing tones to his mustang, though the sound of his voice was almost drowned by the dull even thudding of the rain and the blasts of wind.
A gleam of lightning, flashing through the darkness with startling brilliancy, caused his thoughts abruptly to change. Bob uttered an exclamation. He had seen the bolt strike the prairie just beyond. The force of the thunder which immediately followed made him fairly gasp and his pony to plunge wildly ahead. But before the reverberations had ceased Bob Somers made an alarming discovery. Unmindful of plunging horse and beating rain he managed to stand up in his stirrups and yell desperately with all the power at his command:
“Look out, Tom! Look out!”
Sweeping down upon them from the rear was a herd of stampeded mustangs, and they were perilously close at hand.