Shutting off the motor, Jack and Mr. Hampton climbed out and started for the house. There was no danger in leaving the plane. None of Don Ferdinand’s people would have dared approach Jack’s plane or touch it.
As they walked toward the eucalyptus grove shielding the house from the flying field, a lithe, slender figure, skirts fluttering, emerged from the trees, and began to run toward them.
“Rafaela,” cried Jack, and darting away from his father’s side he ran to meet her.
Mr. Hampton smiled and continued at his own more sober pace. He saw them meet, and saw Jack suddenly take Rafaela in his arms.
That was a surprise.
“Great guns,” he muttered. “I didn’t know affairs were that far along.”
But when he approached closer he saw that Rafaela was crying and that Jack was trying to comfort her.
Jack looked up at him, an expression of dismay on his face.
“I can’t make much out of this, Dad,” he said, “except that Don Ferdinand has disappeared, and Rafaela is dreadfully worried.”
Rafaela pulled away from Jack’s arms quickly at Mr. Hampton’s approach. The latter cast her a sharp glance and noted some slight confusion which his quick perception told him was not due solely to her anxiety over her father’s disappearance. He glanced at Jack, a question in his eyes. Jack grinned shamelessly, and Mr. Hampton had difficulty preserving a sober countenance. Evidently, his handsome son did not object to offering Rafaela comfort in her distress.
Then his thoughts leaped to the words still ringing in his ears, informing him that Don Ferdinand had disappeared. He turned to Rafaela to question her. But at that moment, she emitted a sharp exclamation as she held up a sealed envelope and examined the superscription.
“Why, this is from my father,” she cried.
“From your father?” exclaimed Jack. “Thought you said he had disappeared?”
“I did say he had disappeared,” answered Rafaela, ripping open the envelope. And pulling out the folded sheet which it contained she read it eagerly.
“Ah, this explains it,” she added, dropping to her side the hand holding the note, and facing the two men.
“But come, let us go to the house. It is too hot to stand here in the sun. Besides, you must be thirsty.”
And snuggling her hands under Jack’s and his father’s nearest elbows, she started them marching toward the house.
“You have me puzzled, Rafaela,” declared Jack. “First you declare your father has disappeared and you say in that funny way of yours that you are desolated. Then you get a note from him. What’s the answer?”
Rafaela’s teasing laugh pealed out. “What you say, Jack? ‘What’s the answer?’ Is that some of your American slang? What does it mean?”
Mr. Hampton laughed. Rafaela was a continual delight to him.
“It means,” said Jack, solemnly, “that if you don’t clear up this mystery, I’ll appeal to Donna Ana.”
Rafaela made a grimace. “Oh, that duenna. She sleeps. Not even your airplane wakes her. But when I hear it, I run. ‘Senor Jack will go search for my father who is missing four days,’ I say to myself. As I run, up comes that Pedro with a note. He would stop me. But I am so anxious to ask you to, please, go at once and search for my father, that I take his note and run. He looked after me and scratch his head. I see him, yes sir.”
She looked up slyly, first at Jack, then at his father, and both laughed heartily.
“You’re a little minx, Rafaela,” said Mr. Hampton, pinching the shell-like ear nearest him.
“That makes it unanimous, Dad,” said Jack. “But go on, Rafaela. Now what does the note say?”
“It say we must ask Pedro,” declared Rafaela, as they stepped into the cool patio. She clapped her hands and a swarthy, stolid-faced woman appeared at whom she shot a volley of Spanish, whereupon the woman turned and went back under the colonnade in the direction of the servant’s quarters.
“She will call Pedro, and likewise bring us limeade,” said Rafaela. “Sit down.”
A sound between exclamation and snort came from behind Jack and he whirled around, in the act of slipping into a big comfortable wicker chair. Donna Ana, all in black, was staring at him severely from the depths of another wicker chair in the shade of a pineapple palm. He made her a low bow, while Mr. Hampton walked up and bent over her hand with that touch of Continental gallantry which always flattered the duenna. Then he pulled his chair close to her and began a conversation.
“That’s nice of Dad,” said Jack, in an undertone.
Rafaela glanced at him archly.
“You are learning, Jack,” she said. “That was a pretty speech.”
At that moment Pedro appeared, bowing, in front of Rafaela. Mr. Hampton and Donna Ana moved closer.
“My father,” said Rafaela, tapping the note, “writes only that he is well, and that I should ask you for details.” She addressed him in Spanish, but as both Jack and his father understood the language, they experienced no difficulty in following the conversation.
“Four day ago I send a message to Don Ferdinand,” said Pedro. “It informed him that devil Ramirez had lured away my last man from the mine and asked for instructions. Soon—the next day—Don Ferdinand appears. I am astonished. ‘Your messenger came at night, Pedro,’ said he. ‘I left at once.’ So I say to him, ‘Let us make talk.’ But he answers that he is fatigued and will sleep first. All day he sleeps. That night we talk. The next day he remembers suddenly that he has left you alone, with no knowledge of what had become of him. He does not want you to be alarmed. So he sends you a message. There is none to take it but Pedro. Here I am.”
With a bow as graceful as a cavalier’s Pedro ceased.
“But my father.” Rafaela’s little foot in its tiny black slipper was tapping on the flagstones. “But my father, why did he not return?”
There was a scarcely perceptible pause before Pedro replied. Then he said: “He has work to do.”
“Pedro, there is something you are keeping back from me,” declared Rafaela firmly. “Tell me. Where is my father now?”
Shrugging, Pedro spread out his hands, but he did not answer.
Jack thought he understood. Stepping forward impetuously, he laid a hand on Pedro’s shoulder, and faced him. “Look here,” he said. “No tricks. If anything has happened to—”
Pedro glared blackly, but Rafaela laughed.
“Oh, Jack, you are so—so funny,” she declared. “You mustn’t suspect Pedro. He is my father’s most trusted man.” And to Pedro, she said soothingly: “This gentleman didn’t understand, Pedro. He but worries about my father. If he knew, he would not hurt your feelings.”
Pedro made a slight bow to Jack. “I forgive the young Senor’s mistake,” he said.
Jack sighed and shook his head. “But, Rafaela, what then?”
“You do not know my father,” she explained. “I fear he has done something rash and ordered Pedro not to tell me for fear I would be worried. Is it not so, Pedro?”
The latter shrugged. It was an eloquent shrug. It said plainer than words that Rafaela was correct.
The girl was silent a moment, sitting with chin cupped in hand, staring thoughtfully at the paving at her feet. Then she glanced up quickly, understanding in her eyes.
“This Ramirez of whom you speak? Where is he?”
“He marches toward Nueva Laredo,” said Pedro.
“And my father has gone in pursuit of him alone,” said Rafaela. It was more a challenge than a question.
Pedro hesitated. Rafaela stamped her foot. Pedro made haste to confirm her words.
“Only, Senorita, he goes not alone. A dozen men he brought with him to the mine—these lazy fellows who grow fat here on his bounty. Yet they are good fighters and will lay down their lives for him. And all are well armed.”
“I knew it,” said Rafaela, with conviction. “And he told you not to tell me. Well, that is all, Pedro. Rest now before you go back to the mine. For I suppose you will want to return?”
“Si, Senorita. I was not to tell, but you found out. I never could keep secrets from a woman.” Pedro’s resignation was so comical that involuntarily all laughed. “And when I return,” he added, “I shall want twelve more good fighters.”
“You shall have them,” promised Rafaela. And with a bow Pedro disappeared.
“Now,” said Mr. Hampton, when he had departed, “this is a pretty kettle of fish.”
“‘Kettle of fish?’” Rafaela looked inquiry.
“Some more slang,” laughed Jack. “Dad is worse than I. He means here is a lot of trouble.”
The maid now appeared with a great silver pitcher and a tray of glasses, a little table was pulled forward, and about it all four sat, sipping limeade, and discussing the news brought by Pedro.
“I don’t think it would be worth while to question that fellow, Pedro, again,” said Mr. Hampton, finally, after the situation had been thrashed over. “He’s told us all he’s going to tell. And I don’t see, Rafaela, that there is anything we can do. Your father knows his own business, and I consider he is pretty well able to take care of himself. As far as I can see, this fellow Ramirez, whoever he is, is preparing to stir up trouble, and your father is trying to stop him. Jack and I are Americans, and we can’t very well take a hand in a Mexican family row.”
Jack looked disappointed. Nothing would have suited him better than to step into his plane and fly southward in search of Don Ferdinand for the purpose of placing himself and his airplane at the latter’s disposal. Still, his father was right.
“However, Rafaela,” he supplemented, “I’m going to see that your radio station is in good running order before I leave, and you must tell your boy to keep in touch with me. Then, if you want us in a hurry, we’ll be at your command.”
That evening Pedro set out at dusk with twelve mounted and heavily armed men at his back. They were the pick of the young fellows about the place. Standing a little apart from Mr. Hampton and Donna Ana, Jack and Rafaela watched the departure. Pedro rode up for final instructions.
“Tell my father to be careful,” said Rafaela. She was worried, but held her head high, exhibiting the same firey spirit of her father. The ghost of a smile came to her lips. “Not that he will heed,” she said.
“And, Pedro,” added Jack, “tell Don Ferdinand when you see him that if I can help with my airplane—for scouting—or—or something, why, to send a messenger here and have me called by radio.”
Pedro nodded, then with his rapscallion yet loyal crew whirled away. Soon the dustcloud raised by their departure settled, and they were lost in the shadows of the night. The remaining Mexicans, who had gathered to watch, dispersed. The tinkle of stringed instruments came from the Mexican quarters. The Hamptons, Rafaela and Donna Ana turned back to the patio. There they sat conversing until time to retire, and the next morning Mr. Hampton and Jack took their departure.
During ensuing days Jack paid strict attention to his experimental work. He maintained daily radio communication with Rafaela, learning that there had been no further news from her father. But he made no more trips below the line. Tom Bodine tried to lure him away into the mountains on a fishing expedition, but he turned a deaf ear, leaving the older man disconsolate.
“Allus a-potterin’ ’round with that radio stuff,” said Tom contemptuously, lounging in the doorway of the radio shack. He made a clear-cut figure, like a Remington painting of the Old West, against the background of blazing sunshine and desert seen through the open doorway. “Don’t know why yo’re so crazy ’bout it, Jack,” he said turning away. “Bringin’ the noises o’ the world into the desert, that’s what yo’re a-doin.’ Some day ye’ll regret it, when ye ain’t got no place to go where ye kin have peace an’ quiet.” And he stumped away, with Jack’s laugh ringing in his ears.
But Jack’s experiments in simplification of the Super-Heterodyne were progressing satisfactorily, and he was pushing the work eagerly in order to have something with which to surprise Frank and Bob on their arrival. He had developed a special transformer which he felt assured was superior to anything then on the market. By its use he was receiving stations from coast to coast, with crystal clarity, loud speaker volume and minimum interference. Every day he logged each station and later singled it out again with the same dial setting. And every day’s patient experimentation found interference decreasing and volume and clarity growing stronger.
Then came the Saturday to which he had been looking forward as the last day on which to get everything in shape for the arrival of his two pals, who were expected on the morrow. But as he worked away that morning in the radio shack, he suddenly heard his call. It was the usual hour at which he was accustomed to call Rafaela, and as his eyes travelled to the clock he experienced a sense of guilt. So immersed in his work had he been that he had ignored calling. Doubtless, this was Rafaela summoning him.
But when he answered, a man’s voice replied: “That you, Jack?”
Jack stuttered. He could hardly believe his ears. Why, it couldn’t be—Yes sir, it was, it was! And so eagerly that he could hardly make himself heard, he shouted: “Hel-lo, Bob.”
“Here, get away. Give me a chance,” Jack heard coming through the air. That was Frank. There was the sound of a scuffle. Then loud and clear and triumphant came Frank’s voice: “The big bully. Tried to keep me away. Wanted the first word. But I—Ouch, leggo.”
Again the sound of scuffling, and then first Frank and then Bob shouted into Jack’s ears.
Wherever they were, the two were certainly larking. Finally, matters became pacified and then Jack got in a question as to where they were calling from.
“From Laredo,” Frank informed him, “from the flying field. Decided to come around this way to reach you in order to stop off and see a bull fight. Say, Jack, they tell us tomorrow will be the finest bull fight in months across the line in the Mexican town. We wanted to get you to come down. I thought of this stunt of asking the army flyers to let us call you—”
“That’s a tall one, Jack,” cut in Bob. “It was my bright idea.”
Another scuffling bout. “Great Scott,” said Jack to himself, his face in one broad grin of delight, “they’ve been penned up in a train for days and they’ve just got to let off their animal spirits. Only hope they don’t tear things to pieces for the army men.”
“Tell you what, fellows,” he said, when again matters had been pacified. “I’ll get Dad and we’ll fly down late this afternoon. Look for us about sunset. Then we can all go to the bull fight tomorrow.”
“That’s the idea,” endorsed Bob. “We want you, old scout. Kind of miss you, you know, and that sort of thing.” Bob was growing facetious to hide his deeper feelings. “Besides,” he concluded, “my father is here, too, and he sort of wants to foregather with your Dad.”
“Can’t blame him, can you, Jack?” cut in Frank. “Think of his having to put up with Bob so many days.”
“Hey, you fellows, cut that out, and listen to me,” expostulated Jack, as sounds reaching him indicated the friendly wrestling bout was being renewed. And when he once more had Bob’s ear, he told him to look up Captain Cornell.
“Shucks, Jack, you’re late,” said Bob. “It was Captain Cornell who gave us the run of the place soon as we told him we were your friends and that it was you we wanted to radio.”
“Yes, Jack,” added Frank, “he told us to be sure and get you to come to Laredo for tomorrow’s bull fight. Said he promised to take you to see a good one, and that this promised to be it.”
As soon as the conversation was ended, Jack declared a truce to work for the time being and set out at a run for the house. Hardly had he gotten beyond the door of the shack, however, than conscience smote him for not having communicated with Rafaela. Turning back, he endeavored to call her but was unable to get any response. “Some Mexican kid pulled out a couple of wires again, I guess,” he muttered. “Well, everything must be all right or she’d have called me. No use worrying. Besides, Dad will want the news.”
And, abandoning his efforts to raise Rafaela’s station, he set out on the run for the house.
Bursting into the comfortable living room, he found his father seated in a broad deep chair in front of the low table on which he was accustomed to do his writing, and gazing up at Tom Bodine who sat on a corner of the table at ease.
“Just talking about what we’ll have for dinner, Jack,” said Mr. Hampton, smiling at him. “Name your preference. Tom says he may not be able to give us Mexican dishes like Ramon, but that since Ramon deserted and left him the post of cook he’ll feed us American style. Now last night we had—”
“Yes,” grinned Jack, “I know what we had; beef and eggs, and night before eggs and beef. But old Tom needn’t worry his head about how to vary the menu tonight, because you and I won’t be here.”
“Won’t be here?” Mr. Hampton stared.
“No sir,” said Jack, “we’ll be eating at the Hamilton Hotel in Laredo.”
The astonished glances of the two men were his only answer, and after enjoying their mystification a moment Jack proceeded to enlighten them.
“We’re going to fly to Laredo to meet Frank and Bob and Mr. Temple,” he said. “They’ve just radioed from the army flying field. Went to Laredo in order to stop over and see the bull fight tomorrow.”
“Waal,” said Tom, sliding off the table, and preparing to depart, “I kin see there’s goin’ to be hotter days even than we been havin’ around here. Give ’em my best, Jack. An’, say, better bring a cook back with ye. I’ll ride inta Red Butte an’ git some fresh supplies.” At the door he paused to fling over a shoulder: “Don’t let the bull git ye.” Then he disappeared.
Jack laughed. “Come on, Dad,” he urged, “put your writing away and come on out to the hanger. We’ll have to go over the old bus an’ get her in tip-top shape for the trip.”
Pretending reluctance, yet reluctance belied by the eager twinkle in his eyes, Mr. Hampton complied. And together they headed for the hanger, where each donned voluminous coveralls and went about the work of greasing and oiling, and the tightening of struts and stays.
As they worked away, each busied upon a different part of the plane from the other, each intent upon his own thoughts, there was little opportunity for conversation. But as his fingers flew about the tasks which he performed almost mechanically, Jack’s thoughts were flying, too.
He started in by thinking of Bob and Frank. They had been separated more than six months, the longest period of separation for years. Communication between the two at Yale and Jack in the Southwest had been steady and continuous. Yet, after all, what good were letters? Six or seven months made a good many changes in a fellow. What were they thinking about, how were they dressing now, had Bob fully recovered from the broken collarbone incurred in the game against Harvard last Fall, was Frank putting himself in trim for the Summer tennis season in which he stood an excellent chance to rank high among the national leaders? All these and many more questions of like nature ran through Jack’s thoughts.
And then, unconsciously, his thoughts drifted away from his companions to Rafaela. Why hadn’t he been able to obtain a response to his call that morning? Had affairs down there taken a new turn? If so, what? And then, suddenly, apparently without his having previously considered the matter, the mysterious disappearance of Ramon popped into Jack’s mind. He gave a final turn to a loose nut and, wrench in hand, stood up and called to his father.
“What is it, Jack?” Mr. Hampton was crouched down, examining the lock nut on one of the wheels, and did not look up.
Jack walked around to the front of the plane and leaned against the fuselage, tossing up and catching his wrench.
“I say, Dad. Just thought of something.”
“What?”
“About Ramon.”
“Well, what about him?”
“Why, just this,” said Jack. “Maybe he, too, has gone away to join this mysterious individual Ramirez. Rebels must eat, and a good cook like Ramon ought to be in demand.”
“You may be right, Jack,” said his father, after a moment’s consideration. “But, somehow,” he added, glancing up, “I have a suspicion—well, you can hardly call it that, because I have nothing to go on—say, a feeling that the mysterious Ramirez isn’t contemplating revolution.”
“What makes you think that?” Jack demanded in astonishment. “Especially after what Don Ferdinand said.”
“I can’t explain it,” said Mr. Hampton, going back to his task. “And I don’t know what he can be about if it isn’t the stirring up of another revolution. But, there it is. What you might call a hunch.”
Jack regarded his father’s bowed head with a puzzled frown. Then he straightened up and moved briskly away. “Well, this isn’t getting the bus ready for her trip.” And he went to work again.
Whitey appeared from somewhere presently, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and announcing he had been up all the night attending a dance at the Horsethief Canyon School. He was put to work, but was more hindrance than help. At noon they knocked off work to take a cup of coffee and a hastily-thrown-together sandwich. Tom had taken the flivver and gone to Red Butte for supplies. Then they returned to work again.
After the plane had been lubricated and overhauled, it was trundled out onto the field, where, while it strained against the wheel blocks, Jack warmed it up. Everything was running sweet and true. It was now the middle of the afternoon. Jack once more attempted to raise Rafaela’s station, but again without success.
“All right, Dad,” he said. “May as well go.”
Mr. Hampton was already aboard. Jack climbed into the cockpit, Whitey dragged the wheel blocks out of the way. Jack saw to it that the motor shutters were open, the spark properly advanced and the altitude adjustment was correct. Already, during the warming-up process, he had satisfied himself that the motor was working at its best. So now he threw up his hand as a farewell signal to Whitey, and slowly eased the throttle on. Five minute’s later, after a perfect take-off he was well up and heading east.
It was not yet dark when Jack reached the Laredo air-drome. He dropped downward, sure of his welcome. Skimming the fence on the western end of the sandy flying field, he leveled off a foot above the ground. A second later, he dragged back on the stick, and the plane came down for a perfect three-point landing of wheels and tail-skid.
As Jack stood idling, running out the gas, a little group which had been watching his descent broke up into its component parts. The members came running, and a sound of cheering reached his ears.
Big Bob Temple led, with the slighter Frank close at his heels. More sedately, Captain Cornell who had been with them approached in the rear, in companionship with Mr. Temple.
As Jack and his father reached the ground, the two youths in the lead literally fell on them and a great to-do of back-thumping and handclasping went on. Mr. Hampton was first to disentangle himself, and moved to greet his old neighbor and lifelong friend, Mr. Temple, who stood aside watching with amused gaze the boisterous greetings of the youths. Greetings over, Mr. Hampton turned to the army flyer who expressed warm pleasure at seeing him.
All three youths by now had their arms over each others’ shoulders and were doing a dance reminiscent of an Indian war fling. Not until they were breathless did they separate, whereupon Jack moved to greet Mr. Temple and Captain Cornell.
“Don’t bother about your plane,” said Captain Cornell. “I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
He beckoned to several members of the airdrome crew who took the wings on either side and guided the ship into line with a number of De Havilands.
“They’ll go over it for you,” said Captain Cornell, “and see that it’s in ship-shape for going up whenever you want it.”
“Fine,” said Jack, “that’s mighty good of you.” So eager was he to get away with Bob and Frank that he had given no thought as to what he should do with his plane.
Thereupon, with a brief word of farewell, the three sallied off arm in arm, Jack in the middle, toward where a taxi waited to take them into Laredo.
“We’ll see you all at dinner,” called Bob.
His father nodded understandingly. When he saw the taxi whirl away in a cloud of dust, Mr. Temple turned to his companions with shaking head and twinkling eye.
“We really oughtn’t to let them go out of sight,” he said. “If they don’t get into mischief, it’ll merely be due to the fact that they’re too busy talking. Well, come on, I’ve another taxi here, George, and we’ll follow to the Hamilton Hotel and have dinner. Captain Cornell has consented to honor us with his presence.”
The three men thereupon climbed into another taxi, and followed toward the town.
Mr. Temple’s prophecy of resultant mischief was not fulfilled, however, for, aside from the fact that the room occupied by Bob and Frank looked as if a small cyclone had struck it, no damage had resulted from the reunion of the three inseparables. They were sprawled about the room in various stages of undress, sweltering in the oven-like heat, despite the coming of darkness and the whirling electric fan. And their tongues were going at such a great rate, as Jack attempted to put his comrades in touch with the mysterious happenings of recent days while they were informing him of the doings of themselves and other of his friends at Yale, that Mr. Temple put his fingers in his ears.
“Well, get it out of your systems, fellows,” he said. “And then spruce up. We dine in a half hour. Meet us in the dining room, and be sure to be on time.”
When the boys entered the dining room of the hotel, they found the three men already there and seated at a table for six. The room was crowded, every chair taken. But the three empty chairs at their table had been turned down, and the head waiter had shooed away interlopers. All three youths had now filled out into big men, even Frank who was the slightest of the three. In their flannel trousers and lightweight blue serge coats, with fresh vivid faces, alive and eager, they made a pleasing sight. And many was the approving glance thrown at them by grizzled and tanned old-timers whom they passed on their way.
“Been duding up,” said Captain Cornell, with a grin. He himself in his flyer’s uniform made a distinguished figure.
The boys sank into the chairs pulled out for them, and conversation became general as the dinner progressed.
“What’ll we do tonight?” asked Jack, as the dinner neared conclusion.
“How about seeing the sights?” proposed Captain Cornell, who apparently considered himself in the light of guide to the party.
“Of Laredo?” asked Jack. “Not much to see, I guess, is there?”
“No. Of Mex town—of Nueva Laredo across the line.”
“What is there to see?”
“Oh,” said Captain Cornell, “for one thing, a sight that has vanished from our own country—the open saloon. I gather that we are all teetotalers, but that needn’t bother us. An occasional bottle of ginger ale will be our passport. Then, too, we can toss a little change to the dance hall girls for putting on their turns. And we can take a look at the gambling—take a whirl, too, if you desire. I remember once dropping a quarter in one of those machines and turning up a full house on the cards. Paid me five dollars,” he concluded reminiscently.
“Golly,” said Jack, eyes shining, “sounds like the Old West—just like the days of ’49 in California.”
“Yes, it is like the Old West—but with a difference,” said Mr. Hampton. “The dance halls, saloons and gambling houses of the Old West were operated for the recreation of a stern and hardy breed of men. Those of Nueva Laredo, like those of Juarez, Mexicali and Tia Juana, however, are operated mainly for the American tourists who roll across the Line in their motor cars. I’ll tell you,” he added, “I’ve gone slumming so often that I don’t care about it. But you boys may as well see what things are like, and if Captain Cornell consents to pilot you I don’t see why Temple and I shouldn’t be permitted to stay here and take things easy.”
Mr. Temple nodded, a look of relief in his eyes.
“I’ll tell you, George,” he said, confidentially, “Bob and Frank have been a trial to me. If I can get away from them for awhile, I have no objection to letting Captain Cornell assume the responsibility.”
The young army flyer laughed.
“I’m afraid I’ll be a poor chaperone,” he said. “But I’ll do my best.” And he rose.
The others pushed back their chairs and rose, too. As they moved toward the door, a voice hailed Captain Cornell from a side table, and he spun about to find a huge sun-burned and grizzled man in flannel shirt and cowboy boots rising to greet him, showing two big revolvers at his hips as he stood up. They talked a moment or two, the big man’s voice booming and Captain Cornell’s lower-pitched, the words of both indistinguishable.
After a good look at the flyer’s companion, the party moved on toward the lobby where presently they were rejoined by Captain Cornell.
“That was Jack Hannaford of the Rangers,” he said. “We fellows of the Border Patrol work together with them a good deal. Jack has been famous along this Border for forty years. Said he understood that after tonight Uncle Sam is going to close the International Bridge at 9 o’clock at night, after which hour any Americans in Nueva Laredo will have to stay there until the next day. So this will be your last chance to see what Mex town is like at night, because you’d be hardly likely to care to spend the night there.”
“Why is that?” asked Mr. Temple.
Mr. Hampton was about to answer but Captain Cornell forestalled him.
“To cut down this business of Americans going across the Line and making a wild night of it,” he said.
Mr. Hampton nodded. It was the answer he himself had been about to propose.
“Come on, then,” said Jack. “Let’s hurry. If the word is generally known, it’s likely to be a big night at Nueva Laredo, isn’t it?”
“Quite likely,” agreed Captain Cornell. “Excuse me a minute, while I order a taxi.” And he stepped to the desk.
While he was absent, Mr. Temple with a look of some anxiety lectured the youths on the necessity for avoiding trouble in Nueva Laredo.
“Oh, Dad,” said Bob, a bit impatiently, “we’ll be all right. Nothing is going to happen. Why, it’ll be just like Coney Island. Besides we’re able to take care of ourselves.”
“Huh.” Mr. Temple snorted. “Why, even while I’ve been looking at you, you’ve gone and got into trouble that took you a year to shake off.”
There was a general laugh. Then up came Captain Cornell to bear the youths away.
“Taxi’s waiting,” he said. “Well, good-bye. Look for us around midnight.”
But at the door he paused in sudden thought. “Tell that taxi to wait a bit, fellows,” he said. Frank obediently crossed the sidewalk and told the driver of the rickety vehicle to wait for them. When he returned a conversation was going on which informed him that Captain Cornell had decided to doff his uniform before entering Mexico.
“We’re about of a size, Captain,” Bob was saying. “Come on.” And he bore him away.
Frank turned to Jack for an explanation and was informed Captain Cornell had decided not to wear his uniform because it would bring undue notice in Mexico and might induce some rowdy to start a fight.
The others returned in a very short time, the flyer attired in a companion suit to Bob’s, and then climbing into the taxi all four set out for the International Bridge.
“I thought I was big,” Captain Cornell said to Bob, “but you’re bigger. Certainly the coat isn’t too tight.” And he flexed his arms. “Well, here we are.”
As he spoke the taxi nosed out upon the bridge, going at a snail’s pace and stopping alongside of the first official. A number of other similar stops were made, in order to satisfy a variety of officials, both American and Mexican. Then they rolled off upon a narrow, rough, unpaved street lined with little saloons. They were open-front establishments, and from them came a glare of light and a blare of noise. Up and down the sidewalks, under wooden canopies, pushed and surged a noisy crowd. Taxis and private cars sped recklessly up and down or shot from side streets at dizzying speed.
“Whew,” said Jack, “you know you’re in a foreign country all right.”
“Good-bye, Uncle Sam,” cried Bob gaily, looking back and waving his hand. Then a cry of alarm burst from his throat, he leaped to his feet, and the next moment was hurled into Jack’s lap as the taxi was struck from the rear with a sickening crash and went careening drunkenly across the uneven roadway to end up against an iron pillar supporting a sidewalk canopy.
Captain Cornell was first to emerge from the taxi which had lost its left front wheel in the impact against the pole and canted downward like a ship sinking by the head. He emerged as if shot from a cannon, for the crazy door had been wrenched open by the shock, and he had been tossed through the aperture. Alighting on hands and knees, he quickly got to his feet and turned to see how his companions fared.
“Anybody hurt?” he sang out, peering inside.
From the heap, three muffled voices filled with various degrees of mirth answered that their owners were not in desperate straits, and he experienced a sense of relief. Any or all of his charges well might have been seriously injured. But as he saw them struggling to untangle themselves, he grinned through a split lip caused by his face brushing the sidewalk.
“Lucky for me,” he thought. “Wouldn’t have dared face their fathers.”
Then he felt someone plucking his sleeve and whirled about. A mixed crowd of Mexicans and tourists drawn by the crash hemmed him in, and over the heads of the crowd he could see several be-spangled dance hall girls from a nearby resort standing on tiptoe to behold.
The tug came from his taxi driver.
“Hey, you hurt?” asked the flyer, rubbing futilely at the smudged knees of his—or, rather, Bob’s—white flannels.
“Naw, except lost a little breath,” said the latter, a hardened night hawk. “Wheel stopped me,” he added. “But, say, who pays for this? If you don’t wanta pony up yerself, better help me ketch the old hombre what rammed us. There he goes.”
He pointed to a high-powered, long-snouted touring car of midnight blue, with shining German silver trimmings, gleaming in the street. A uniformed driver had just finished inspecting his car for possible damage, and was climbing back to the driver’s seat. From the rear, a shrill voice in broken English shrieked adjurations to the chauffeur to hurry.
“Old billy goat in the back’s all excited,” explained the jehu. “Been a-chasin’ somebody, I gather, an’ rammed us in ’is hurry. Payin’ no attention to us.”
“Here, that won’t do. We want an explanation, anyhow,” declared the army flyer, firmly.
“Wait here, I’ll be back,” he said.
And thrusting aside several Mexicans who stood in his way, he made a run for the big car just as it got into motion. The crowd stared in astonishment. One or two tourists raised a cheer. The jehu leaned on his tilting taxi with a sour grin riding his features. Bob emerging from the taxi at that moment, one hand raised to caress a considerable-sized bump on his head, saw Captain Cornell make a flying leap and land on the running board of the other car, just as the chauffeur picking up speed stepped on the gas and it leaped ahead.
“Hey, where you goin’?” yelled Bob.
But if any reply was vouchsafed by the doughty flyer, the speed with which the big car got under way neutralized it. Bob made a step forward into the street in astonishment, but the jehu’s hand on his arm arrested him.
“Easy, pal,” said the latter. “I wanta be paid for me damage. Stick around.”
Bob laughed. “You’ll be paid. Don’t worry. But where did Cap—where did our friend go?”
The jehu explained. Frank and Jack, little worse for the accident, with the exception of minor body bruises, joined Bob on the sidewalk, and likewise received the benefit of the explanation.
“Old fellow was in a tearin’ hurry to git some body seems he was a-chasin’, far as I could make out,” said the jehu.
“Well, Cap’ll be back,” laughed Bob. “Nothing to do but wait.” He gazed at the crowd surrounding them, half a hundred or more, and sighed. “Worse than Fifth Avenue,” he said. “I guess any time an accident happens, no matter where it is, a crowd gathers.”
The crowd parted to make way for a Mexican policeman, swarthy, medium-sized, heavy-mustached, swinging a long nightstick and with the handles of two six-shooters protruding at his sides. He started to question them haltingly in broken English, but at his first words Jack addressed him in Spanish. The policeman’s face lighted up, and he nodded violently as Jack continued in a voice so low that the crowd could not hear. Then he turned and with voice and club-thrust began to scatter the crowd.
The tourists seeing the show was over, so to speak, turned away, and the Mexican barflies shuffled off. Finally, the crowd was dispelled, and the policeman returned and Jack shook hands with him gravely, only a slight twitching at the corners of his mouth betraying to his companions that he nursed a secret sense of amusement. Then, swinging his stick in a jaunty salute, the policeman made off with a “Mil’ gracias, senor,” to which Jack responded with “Buenos noches.”
“How much d’ye give ’im?” asked the jehu, leering wisely and spitting into the street.
Jack was inclined to resent the familiarity, but shrugged and replied:
“Five dollars.”
“Huh.” The jehu shrugged. Then he straightened out of his slouch as his roving eye caught sight of something in the street, and he pointed. “Say. What d’ye know? Bringin’ him back.”
The boys gazed in the direction indicated. There rolling up behind them was the big car which had bumped them and which had been boarded by Captain Cornell. They turned to it eagerly, as it rolled to a halt at the curb. Then the biggest surprise of all greeted them, for out stepped first Captain Cornell and after him an even more familiar figure—at least to Jack. The latter could hardly believe his eyes. He halted a moment in astonishment, then sprang forward with a cry of:
“Don Ferdinand.”
“You know this hombre?” demanded Captain Cornell, eyes popping.
Don Ferdinand, for he it was, stared a moment, then threw himself at Jack. Throwing his arms about the big fellow, he clasped him with Latin exuberance, then backed off.