Yet tragedy had struck in those few brief minutes! Bob shivered, not with physical fear, but in the uncanny feeling that everywhere there were eyes watching his every move. He couldn’t see anybody, yet the feeling persisted. Putting it down to taut nerves, and deciding that the best thing for him to do was to get back around the corner and out of sight Bob turned and ran back to his former vantage point. There he paused for another look down the Calle Libertad. What irony, he thought! Liberty Street!
Seeing no signs of life behind him, he started to retrace his steps toward the commandeered flivver, over the route which he and Captain Cornell had so recently covered. There was only one thing to do, and that was to act as Captain Cornell had directed. Get into that flivver, race madly for the Bridge, abandon the car out of sight of the Bridge police, and then get a taxi to the American side and there telephone Captain Murray at the flying field.
“He’ll know what to do,” Captain Cornell had declared.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” was beating in Bob’s brain. He began to run.
“Senor, Senor,” a voice called. Bob turned his head. It was the Mexican lad with whom he had been talking only a short time before. “Senor,” said the boy, coming to the fence as Bob slowed his pace, “are you not going to inspect my radio?” There was entreaty in his voice. But it was not the lad’s pleading which caused Bob to pale as if smitten. Great Scott, why hadn’t he thought of this before? Why, he could radio the American flying field from this station, and while rescuers were on their way, could keep the house into which his friend had been dragged, under surveillance.
“Look here,” said he, swinging up to the fence, and leaning across with his hands gripping the pickets, “my friend is in trouble. Will you help me?”
“Senor, what do you mean? How can I help?”
“Let me use your radio to call for assistance for him.”
Bob’s eyes bored into the lad. How far dared he trust him?
A shrewd look crossed the Mexican youth’s features. He looked up at Bob, towering above him.
“Is it something about the house of the Japanese?”
“Yes, it is.”
Bob leaped the fence. If the lad gave him permission to use the radio, well and good. If he didn’t, well—Bob’s lips set into a grim line. Now that he saw this way out of his dilemma, he intended to use it whether the youngster objected or not. But, instead of objecting or of showing fear, the boy, on the contrary, was all eagerness to help.
To him this was the call to adventure. He sensed the presence of a mystery, and he was all a-quiver to have a hand in it. Seizing Bob by a sleeve, he turned and sped toward the open door of the little house.
“Come, come, Senor,” he cried. “If my radio can be of service, use it.”
In two steps they were across the threshold and in a spotlessly neat room sparsely furnished, with a shining array of instruments along one side wall, upon which Bob’s eye instantly fell. But before making for the radio table, Bob turned to the boy and asked: “Your mother?”
“She visits her sister. I am alone.”
Ignoring everything else in the room Bob crossed the intervening space in two great strides and flinging himself into the waiting chair began hastily running his eye over the instrument board in front of him. His host was at his shoulder, explaining in quick prideful phrases. Impatiently Bob stopped his flow of words with upraised hand. He was trying to think.
“What street is this?”
“Senor, but—” The boy’s thoughts did not follow so readily. “Oh, the Street of Our Lady of Guadalupe.”
“Huh. And that street back there”—pointing—“the one where you said was this secret passage into the Japanese house?”
“The Avenue of the Presidents.”
“Good enough,” said Bob. “Thanks.” And he swung the transmitter toward him. “Say, you know the calls of the stations around here?”
“Senor, there are none except my own.”
The boy swelled out his chest like a pouter pigeon, and Bob had hard work cloaking a grin.
“I mean across the Border. What’s the call of the American flying field?”
“Senor, it doesn’t broadcast. I do not know. But is it the flyers you would call? Are you an aviator? Is your companion an aviator? What has happened? You have not told me.”
“Hold your horses,” said Bob, at this flood of questions, lapsing into English. “Thou shalt be told,” he added hastily in the youth’s own speech. “All in good time. Meantime, there is a man to be aided.”
“And do you call a Doctor?”
“Yes,” said Bob, grimly. “A couple of them.”
And at that a plan of procedure which his mind had been busy upon all the time that he had been answering the boy’s questions took shape and, picking up a hammer and a metal bar, he began striking them together in front of the broadcaster.
“Clang, clang,” rang the strokes in the little room, until it sounded like a smithy. The boy stood with open mouth. It was hot, and the perspiration poured down Bob’s face in runlets. But still he hammered on. Once he paused to pick up the headpiece from the table and clap the phones to his ears. Then he resumed operations. For a moment or two he would bang away, then wait, listening; then he would start banging again.
At last the boy could not restrain himself any more. He plucked Bob by a sleeve.
“Senor, what is it?”
“Morse,” flung out Bob. “Keep quiet a minute. Think I’ve got ’em.”
He listened, and a triumphant grin overspread his features. Then, rapidly, with hammer and metal bar, he again resumed telegraphing. Finally, laying his makeshift key aside, he spoke rapidly into the transmitter. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, “speed up.”
From that ordeal Bob sat back with a smile of triumph upon his face. Hot it was, beastly hot, and the very tautness of his nerves during the time when he had sought unavailingly to gain the attention of the American aviation field had brought out the perspiration stinging on his body. But he had succeeded, he had gained the ear of a wireless operator and help had been promised him in as short a time as it would take to journey in high-powered motor cars to his present whereabouts. Therefore, he could afford to forget the wretched discomfort of his body, and did so.
Why he had used the Morse code he could not have told. Something had impelled him to do so, some warning or inner prompting not to call in English lest, perchance, there should be someone tuning in on the Mexican side of the Border who would hear and understand. A certain risk he must run in using Morse, yet a considerably lessened risk.
And at any rate, he had been understood. His message of pleading had been received at the flying field. Of that he was certain. And now help would come, help for the rescuing of his comrade from the sinister house into which he had been dragged.
But how long before the American aviators, rushing to the rescue, would arrive? They had said no time would be wasted in attempts to obtain the aid of the police of Nueva Laredo, but that they would come post haste. Yet still a measure of time must intervene. The flying field was some miles distant from Laredo. There might be delays at the Bridge. Bob’s smile of triumph slowly faded to give way to a look of worry.
Young Juan Salazar watched him with puzzled frown all this while. He was too polite, seeing Bob’s pre-occupation, to interrupt with questions. But they crowded to his lips. There were so many things that he wanted to know. This likable young American was in trouble, his companion in worse case. And Juan had a healthy boy’s curiosity to learn all about it. Yet still Bob sat silent, his eyes bent in a growing frown upon the floor, and still Juan held his peace while the flies buzzed in the unscreened room for all its cleanliness. Until at length the younger lad no longer could restrain himself and cried out:
“Senor, can you not trust me? What has happened?”
At that Bob woke with a start from his moodiness and looked at Juan a long minute while the thoughts upon which he had been pondering dropped into the background. Could the boy be trusted? There was a ring of sincerity in his tone, an honest scorn in his references earlier to the house which harbored Ramirez. Yes, he could be trusted. So then Bob got up from his chair and strode to the door, and back again, and once more sat down in an endeavor to still the nervousness preying upon him.
If there were only something he could do, he thought, to while away the dragging minutes before help could arrive. And at that he leaped from his chair with a sharp exclamation. There was something he could do; of a certainty, there was. And what was more, it was something which ought to be done. Fool that he was not to have thought of it earlier?
“Juan,” he exclaimed sharply, “we are in trouble of the worst sort. You have been a good lad and have helped me much with permission to use your radio. Are you willing now to help more?”
“Trust me,” said Juan, drawing himself up proudly. “You are in trouble. And if I can be of help—”
“You can, indeed,” Bob interrupted. “Listen. This is a mess. It’s too long to explain now. We would waste valuable moments in doing so. Juan, there are evil men in that house. They have captured my companion and dragged him within. Me they did not see. I do not believe they know I am in the vicinity. My friend is an American Army aviator. I have called for others who will be here shortly from the Laredo flying field. I gave them your address, and directed them to approach by the Avenue of the Presidents.
“Attend now,” he said sharply. “Until they come we must keep watch to see whether anyone leaves that house. There are two entrances: the front of the house and this secret tunnel through the deserted house on the Avenue of the Presidents of which you have told me. I shall return to the corner of Calle Libertad and keep watch upon the front of the house, and do you post yourself so as to command a view of the secret exit.
“And now let us go. We have wasted too much time already. They may already have gone. Though, if their automobile is still before the house, I shall feel fairly assured that they are still within.”
And concluding, Bob took young Juan by an arm and firing a piercing gaze upon the other’s flushed face, demanded:
“Will you do it?”
“Oh, yes, Senor.”
“Then, come, let us go.”
“But,” Juan frowned deprecatingly.
“But what?”
“The rescuers. If they come—”
“They will come by the Avenue of the Presidents. You must hail them and bring them here and summon me. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Senor.”
“Then go. And I’ll take up my position.” And hurrying Juan with him, Bob flung out of the house. The lad sprang one way and Bob another, and both ran along the deserted street without anyone to observe them or to marvel at this strange haste on a day so hot that even the scattered pepper and madrona trees, the dust of the roadway, and the drowsing mean little houses seemed cooked into lifelessness.
Back at his corner Bob peered forth with beating heart, eager to see if the car was still there, fearful of finding it gone. Had the latter been the case, he would have been at a loss, indeed, to know what next to do. Poor lad, it had all come upon him so suddenly that he was filled with self-reproaches and revilings. But the car still stood at the curb, and there was no more sign of life along the Calle Libertad than on that street at his back.
So then he crouched there by the corner of the mud-walled house and gave himself up thoroughly and completely to bitter reflections. The role in which he found himself was one altogether new. Many a time had he been in tight places with his comrades, Frank and Jack. In fact, wherever they went and whatever they did, trouble seemed to follow them as inevitably as tides beat on the shore. But never that he could recall had he been placed in a passive position. And big Bob, who was not given overly much to deep thought, but was accustomed when in difficulties to hew his way out by main strength or at least to make the attempt so to do, groaned aloud.
The next moment he looked around fearfully, to see if he had been overheard. His nerves were jumpy. This atmosphere of the dead was getting on him. Especially, when he knew that all was not as quiet and deserted as the appearance of the streets would seem to give warrant. There was at least one house in which lurked sinister men. And if in one, why not in another?
But nothing not seen before met his gaze, and once more he returned to his vigil, while once more his thoughts played with the subject. Should he have let Captain Cornell venture forth alone upon his stroll past the house beyond? When the flyer was struck down without chance to offer a blow in self-defense, should he have gone forward as he had started to do and make attempt at rescue? Had he been coward to halt and turn back? But here good sense came to the fore and assured him that he had done the wisest thing. And good sense argued, moreover, that he had done more—he had, in fact, done the very wisest thing possible under the circumstances in calling the aviation field by radio.
And so, somewhat heartened, he turned his thoughts to speculation upon what mischief Ramirez intended. What was going on in that shuttered house of the Japanese? Where was Don Ferdinand and had evil befallen him? What had betrayed Captain Cornell to his undoing? Had he said something which aroused the suspicion of Ramirez, causing the latter to signal his men to fell the flyer? Had Ramirez seen and recognized them at the bull fight, and, recalling that, on beholding Captain Cornell face to face, struck on the impulse? He could not know, and shrugged. These were questions that would have to await developments for answer.
And so he stood and watched the length of the street, and wiped the sweat from his face from time to time, while his thoughts raced on their futile questionings. Every now and then he would look at his watch, and each time he would marvel anew at the slow and dragging passage of the minutes. It was not yet time for Captain Murray to arrive. Not by any possibility could he have covered the miles so quickly.
Yet Bob was fretting at the delay. What if Ramirez emerged before Murray’s arrival? And started to depart? Bob could not halt him single handed? And if he took with him Captain Cornell, perhaps bound and gagged, what track of them could Bob keep? The flivver, yes, the flivver. He could and would follow in that, provided they did not pass from sight before he could get to where it was parked on the back street. But even then, the damage would be great. If Ramirez should go any considerable distance, if, for instance, he should elect to go into the country—to some hiding place—how track him without discovery?
All he could do was hope that help would arrive before any possible departure of Ramirez. And while he was thinking upon this, there came to him suddenly the suspicion that Ramirez might suspect he was under surveillance and might leave the automobile before the house as a blind and quietly withdraw with his captive by means of the secret exit. True, young Juan kept watch there. But if that happened, if Ramirez should seek thus to escape, would Juan be able to bring him warning in time for him to take the trail?
He turned at the thought, glancing up the street at his back. And his heart gave a bound, then seemed to stop, then raced on. And he groaned once more aloud. For down the street, pelting as hard as he could come, raced Juan Salazar. There was only one conclusion to be drawn and, as that took shape in his thoughts, Bob deserted his post and began running wildly to meet the Mexican lad. Nor for a moment did he note that behind the boy and close upon his heels came another figure, rounding the distant corner.
But all in a moment Bob saw, and his heart gave a great bound as if it would leave his breast. And then he but ran the harder. Until presently the running form behind young Juan closed up on the latter and drew abreast of him, and then two young fellows, breathing hard, paused and faced each other while from Bob’s lips burst the single exclamation:
“Frank.”
“Do I look like a ghost?” panted the latter, for in his comrade’s eyes was such a gaze of utter astonishment as to prompt the question.
“No,” said Bob slowly. “No-o.” And the color which had drained from his cheeks returned.
“But—” And he passed a hand across his eyes, as if to test whether what he saw was vision or reality. “But,” he added, “how in the world did you come here?”
“In a taxi,” said Frank. And now Bob noted a twinkle in his comrade’s eyes, and he sensed that the latter was enjoying the situation.
He looked aside, puzzled, and noted young Juan standing by, all impatience, bouncing first on one leg and then on another.
“But you, Juan,” he said in Spanish, “tell me. How did you happen to meet this man?”
“Oh, Senor, he and two others came racing in a taxicab along the Avenue of the Presidents. And I, thinking them your aviators, stepped out in the street and called to them to stop. Then they asked where you were, and I explained, and brought this one with me. And the others—they remain to keep watch on the place of which you know.”
Bob made a gesture which seemed to say that he was more deeply bemused than before, and once more turned to Frank.
“Think a minute, old hot head,” laughed Frank. “It was easy. You called the aviation field by radio and—”
But then Bob interrupted, as the light dawned.
“Great Scott,” he cried, punching Frank so hard that the latter reeled backward; “what a boob! I forgot entirely about that belt radio of yours. So you heard me call.”
“Not I?” said Frank, “but Jack. He was wearing it at the time. He remembers Morse better than I because he’s been using it lately. And when he heard you rapping out your call for the aviation field he became excited, and when he heard your explanation and call for help, nothing could hold him. He listened just long enough to get your directions. Then he and his father and I almost fought our way to the exit. For, you see, the bull fighting was still going on and the crowd hated to be disturbed by having us make our way out. We got many an ugly look, and there were cries against the hated Gringoes. I looked for a knife between my ribs every minute. But we managed.
“And then down at the gate there came a taxi cruising along providentially. Jack talked to the chauffeur, who said he could land us at the right place. Lucky you gave such explicit directions. And here we are. The rest you know.”
Bob nodded. He was silent a moment, thinking. This unexpected appearance of help changed the complexion of matters. He must speak to Jack and Mr. Hampton and put them in full possession of the facts. But the corner he had watched must not be left unguarded.
“Juan,” he said, turning to the Mexican boy, “these are not the aviators, but some other friends. We can do nothing as yet. I must consult with the others. Will you take my place at yonder corner and keep vigilant watch?”
“Oh, yes, Senor.”
And young Juan, who was all a-quiver with the thrill of being in the midst of a mystery, sped willingly away.
“Come on.” Bob took Frank’s arm and headed him about.
Around the corner, and some distance removed from the deserted house which marked the exit of the secret tunnel, stood a taxicab drawn up behind the rattle-and-bang flivver which Bob and Captain Cornell had commandeered at the bull ring. Beside it on the sidewalk stood Mr. Hampton and Jack, and at the wheel drowsed the chauffeur. A quick glance showed Bob he was an American, one of the hardened Laredo breed.
Mutual explanations were quickly made, and then the three boys talked excitedly but in lowered voices, while Mr. Hampton listened with a smile of amusement. Hot heads they were, all for trying to gain entrance to the house into which Captain Cornell had been dragged, despite the fact that they were unarmed.
But Mr. Hampton shook his head.
“Why not?” persisted Bob. “All we have to do is to go up to the door and demand that our friend be turned over to us. There are five of us, counting the chauffeur, and Ramirez wouldn’t dare to start anything with such a mob.”
“But if he should—”
“In broad daylight? I don’t think so,” scoffed Bob.
“This isn’t the United States, Bob,” remarked Mr. Hampton. “No, the best we can do is to keep watch to see that they don’t escape, and for that purpose I think we better divide our forces. Frank and I’ll run around to young Juan’s corner in the taxi, while you and Jack stay here with the flivver. We’ll be ready in either case to take the trail, whether they leave by front or rear. Not that I believe Ramirez will leave until after dark, however.”
“All right,” grumbled Bob. “I’ve got sense enough to see that what you propose is really the right course. Just the same, I’d like a little action.”
Mr. Hampton smiled, then his face drew into a thoughtful frown. “I wonder what is Ramirez’s game,” he said.
“And I wonder how he became suspicious of Captain Cornell,” said Bob. “Well, no use speculating. You better get under way, if we are to keep double watch.”
With a nod of agreement, Mr. Hampton turned toward the taxicab, beckoning Frank to follow. But they were not destined to put their plan into execution, for at that moment, Jack halted his father and pointed up the street. All turned to gaze. A powerful motor car, with the top down and spilling over with men, was approaching at high speed. A comet’s tail of dust whirled and eddied behind it. And the driven motor gave off a droning roar that was music to their ears.
“Hurray,” cried Bob, exuberantly, “Captain Murray and his gang.”
He leaped into the middle of the street, waving his arms frantically, and the car slackened speed and rolled to a stop behind the taxi. A half dozen young men, looking fit for anything, leaped to the ground and crowded around Bob.
“Where is he?”
“Where’s the house?”
“Lead us to ’em.”
“Here, fellows, give him air,” said one, jovially, yet with the unmistakable ring of authority in his voice. Shoving aside one of the newcomers who blocked his way, he confronted Bob with out-stretched hand. “I’m Murray, and I guess you’re Bob Temple, aren’t you? Didn’t get the chance to meet you the other day when Cornell had you out at the field.”
Bob looked into keen blue eyes on a level with his own, set in a sunburned face that won his instant liking. Their hands gripped, fell apart. Each felt an instinctive regard for the other.
“All we know is what you gave us through the air,” laughed Captain Murray. “Shoot both barrels as quickly as you can, so we know how the land lies. Then we’ll go into action.”
“Right,” said Bob, “but, first, meet the rest of my gang.”
Introductions followed, while Bob explained how his two friends and Mr. Hampton, overhearing his S.O.S. call to the aviators, had themselves responded. Briefly, he put Captain Murray in possession of the major facts.
The latter nodded briskly at Bob’s conclusion. “First thing,” he said, “you fellows who brought two automatics, kick loose with the spares. Right—” As his brother aviators began arming Mr. Hampton and the three boys. “Now, let’s see. There are ten of us, not counting the chauffeur. I’ll take four and go ’round to the front of the house. Lieutenant Bracewell, do you take charge with the other half of our party at this end. Mr. Hampton, will you and your son come with me. Hartridge, Thorsen. Fine.”
He leaped to the wheel of the big car, and the others piled in behind him. A momentary pressure on the starter button, and the engine began to purr. Then he leaned out to give final instructions.
“Boys, we’re going to get Cornell out of that. But I want you to remember that we’re in a foreign country. If this came out, there would be a pretty mess. However, the outfit we are after undoubtedly is comprised of crooks who won’t air their difficulties, so I think we are reasonably safe from the danger of embroiling the government with the Mexican authorities. However, if any trouble develops, I’ll take the blame. You all are acting under my orders.
“Now, Lieutenant Bracewell, I’m going to pick up this Mexican boy that Bob has stationed around the corner and he’ll point out the house. Then I’m going to go right up to the door and demand entrance. If they turn Cornell over to us, well and good. If they resist and I need help, I’ll blow my whistle. You will be able to hear easily. Meantime, guard this secret exit. Got it?”
Young Lieutenant Bracewell, a slender taunt youngster little older than Bob, nodded. Among the aviators was an easy camaraderie that to Army martinets would have seemed lamentable. Yet co-operation was none the less effective.
Captain Murray released the clutch and the car rolled ahead, gathered speed, whirled around the corner, and disappeared from view.
Wasting no time, the young commander turned at once toward Bob with a question regarding the secret tunnel. Bob explained what Juan had told him. The other nodded.
“Well,” he said, “the best thing for us to do is to get into that house and keep watch right at that trap door. Should the rascals try to escape that way, it will be an easy matter to bag ’em one at a time as they climb out, while if we wait outside for them there is bound to be a fight. And we want to avoid bloodshed, if possible.”
Bob nodded enthusiastic endorsement, and without any more being said the whole party with the exception of the American chauffeur of the taxicab started toward the house. Frank dropped behind for a word with the jehu, then rejoined the party.
“He wants to keep out of it,” Frank said. “He’s all right, but he has to do business in this town and doesn’t like the notoriety. I told him we’d pay him handsomely.”
As they approached the deserted house, Lieutenant Bracewell took the lead and tried the door. It was locked. They looked around for something with which to pry open the lock, but without success.
“Here, no time to waste,” said the young leader. And stepping up, he placed the muzzle of his automatic against the key hole and pressed the trigger. The report was muffled. A strong shove, and the door flew open. There was only one room, and it was empty and deserted. Empty save for a litter of rubbish at one corner, which on examination showed signs of recent disturbance. Lieutenant Bracewell kicked it aside, and then emitted a grunt of satisfaction. A trap door was exposed beneath the litter.
“Over to this side, fellows,” he said, speaking in a low tone, and stepping to the side of the room which would be cut off by the upflung trapdoor from the view of anyone ascending from the tunnel. “No talking now. We’ll give them a nice little surprise party, if they decide to come out this way.”
For a little while, the space of a very few minutes, they were silent, looking at each other. And the hearts of the two youngest of the group beat painfully with suppressed excitement, nor were the three young aviators who clustered close in any better case, as their flushed cheeks and hurried breathing could have told. Until presently the sharp-faced young fellow next to Bob turned his uncovered blonde head and smiled through blue eyes while he muttered impatiently that waiting was too tedious to please him.
“What would you do?” whispered Bob, at random.
“Do?” said the other—young Harincourt, who had stayed a hundred hours in the air, part of it during a storm of lashing rain and wind. “Do?” he repeated. “Why, what but invade the tunnel.”
They spoke in so subdued a murmur that their whisperings were inaudible to the others. Bob stared, fascinated, into the other’s eyes. But before he could make comment on the daring suggestion, there came an interruption from an unsuspected source. The street door was flung open, and the taxicab jehu stood in the doorway. Taut nerves taking alarm, all in the room swung quickly about, and Lieutenant Bracewell strode swiftly to the other’s side.
“Man,” he said, “you took a long chance. We might have plugged you.”
“Huh.” The chauffeur blinked as if not comprehending, and without further comment burst out with: “Did yuh hear the shots?”
“Shots. What shots?” The others crowded close.
“Why, I heard two—three shots from the direction your friends took. Thought you’d be comin’ out a-runnin’ but when you didn’t I bust in to find out why.”
They glanced at each other, eyes lighting with excitement. Then young Harincourt cried breathlessly: “Let’s go.” He started to move toward the door, but Lieutenant Bracewell dropped a hand on his arm, staying him.
“Wait a minute. Captain Murray said we should come only in case he blew his whistle. Did you—” he demanded of the chauffeur—“hear the whistle?”
“Whistle? No.”
“Then we stay.”
Young Harincourt started to protest, but Lieutenant Bracewell silenced him with a wave of the hand. No, more. Gripping the chauffeur by an arm, he drew him within the room, and quickly closed the door.
“Everybody back in that corner behind the trap,” he commanded, lowering his voice to a whisper. “And no noise. If Captain Murray is forcing an entrance to the house, it’s more than likely that the fellows he’s after may try to escape through the tunnel.”
Tiptoeing, the little party, now augmented to six with the advent of the chauffeur, regained its former position. And for a moment none spoke but, instead, all strained to hear any sounds that might arise from the other side of the trap door. But no such sound was heard, nor did whistle blast or distant pistol shot come from without.
Young Harincourt stirred impatiently. Leaning close, he whispered something in Lieutenant Bracewell’s ear over which the latter seemed to ponder a moment. Then a nod of the head gave assent and Harincourt, creeping forward soundlessly, bent above the trap door.
“Great Scott,” Bob muttered voicelessly, “I’ll bet he’s persuaded Bracewell to carry out that crazy scheme. Well, if there’s any kind of battle going on in that house, it’ll be a good idea to take ’em in the rear.”
Bob’s surmise was correct. It was just such a plan which Harincourt had proposed, and to which Lieutenant Bracewell had given assent.
But even as young Harincourt bent above the trap door, there came a sound from beneath it—a fumbling, scratching sound. He fell back precipitately, and the others crowded closer. The next moment the trap began to rise. Tense with expectancy though he was, Bob smiled as the thought occurred to him that young Harincourt should have selected this of all times to launch his coup—should have waited until the very second when the enemy was preparing to emerge. For that it was the enemy, Bob had no doubt. Captain Murray and his aviators, supported by Mr. Hampton and Jack, undoubtedly had gained entrance at the front of the house. Now Ramirez and whatever men he had with him were fleeing through the underground passage. So sure of this was Bob, crouching low behind the shield afforded by the rising trap door, that he was quite prepared to see Ramirez himself climb out.
Young Harincourt and Bob, who had sprung to his side on divining the other’s intention to invade the tunnel, were the foremost members of the little party crouching with drawn weapons behind the trap door. They hardly dared to breath lest some sound escape them which would give the alarm to whoever was about to ascend. For that someone was ascending there could be no doubt. The trap door was not rising because of any supernatural agency. A man’s hand was pushing it up, and a man’s foot was scraping on the steps.
But who that man was could not be seen, for the trap door intervened. Suddenly, however, it slipped from the grasp of whoever was on the steps below and fell back on the floor, almost in the faces of Bob and Harincourt. So close did it come to them, in fact, that they swayed backward, taken by surprise.
“Hey,” cried the man on the steps, in alarm, “don’t shoot. This is your little playmate.”
And he ducked beneath the level of the floor, as he saw the leveled revolvers of the party, all pointing directly at him.
It was Captain Murray.
For a moment, the party on guard was stunned into silence. Then they all crowded forward, peering down into the tunnel and crying to Captain Murray to ascend. This he did, as soon as he noted from their cries that he had been recognized. And behind him came Jack.
“This is a pretty kettle of fish,” he cried, as he gained the floor and looked around, frowning.
“What do you mean?” asked Lieutenant Bracewell.
“Didn’t the rascals come out this way?”
“Not unless they oozed out,” said the other.
He and the others who had been on guard were bewildered at the question, and Bob interrupted with:
“Didn’t you find them in the house, Captain?”
But Captain Murray, ignoring his question, turned with decision and leaped down the steps into the tunnel.
“Come on, everybody,” he cried. “There’s no time to lose. They’re hiding out in the house somewhere.”
And he started running along the tunnel, flashing the rays of an electric pocket torch ahead of him. Not knowing what had occurred but willing to accept the fact that a chance for action lay ahead, Bracewell, Harincourt, the third young airman who had been in the group in the old ’dobe hut, and Bob, jostled each other for places in the line behind him. But Frank drew Jack aside to ask him what had occurred.
“They wouldn’t open to us,” said Jack, hurriedly, “so we fired a couple of shots through the door and then broke it down. Then we raced through the house. It’s a big place of two stories, with ten or a dozen rooms. In one of them we found Captain Cornell, bound and gagged. But no trace of the others, so Captain Murray and I went down to the cellar and found the entrance to this tunnel, without waiting to question Cornell. Come on, let’s hurry.”
And as the way being cleared by the disappearance of young Gordon, the last of the airmen to descend, the tunnel was now open to passage, Jack darted down the stairs. Frank followed at his heels. It was dark, only a faint glow, far ahead, showing where Captain Murray’s electric torch headlighted the procession. The air smelled musty. The walls were little more than a big man’s width apart, and the roof so low that the boys had to stoop in order to avoid bumping their heads as they proceeded. Ahead of them could be heard muttered exclamations as first one and then another, in his eagerness to make haste, ignored the necessary caution and suffered a bump.
“Bend down, and you’ll be all right,” advised Jack. “It’s a straight shoot to the other house, and the floor is smooth. Come on.”
Presently the two boys, who had closed up on the heels of the last of the group ahead, emerged into a cellar where they found the others waiting them.
“All here?” asked Captain Murray, flashing his spotlight from form to form. “All right, let’s go.”
But just as he was in the act of mounting an open stairway to the floor above, and had, in fact, placed a foot on the first step of the ascent, Jack halted him with a hand on his arm.
“Listen, Captain, what was that?”
In the sudden silence which fell on the group at Jack’s low-spoken cry, not a sound was to be heard.
Captain Murray shook off Jack’s grasp on his arm and mounted another step.
“You’re hearing things, my boy. I didn’t hear a sound. Ah!”
The exclamation was jerked from him as, distinct, yet faint, there came a distant thud. It might have been the slamming of a door, or the dropping of some heavy object. What it was, Captain Murray did not wait to hear, but with a cry of “Come, come on, fellows,” he started to bound up the cellar steps, the bullseye of light from his torch showing a closed door at their head.
After him leaped the others, crowding the narrow stairway. But as Captain Murray reached the door and grasped the handle, he came to an abrupt halt. The door was locked. And as the others piled up behind him, there came to their ears the sharp crack of revolver shots, muffled by distance and intervening walls and floors, from somewhere in the body of the house above them.
“Something funny here,” muttered Captain Murray. “We left this door open.”
But in the same breath he was thrust aside and against the stone wall on his left, while a bulky form brushed by him on the right, along the unrailed edge of the stairway, and went crashing, shoulder first, into the locked door ahead. The door reeled under the impact, but still held. However, it was made of flimsy material and once more the big fellow who had taken the initiative crashed into it. The door flew outward, and the human battering ram with it, landing on hands and knees.
It was Bob. He jumped to his feet as first Captain Murray and then the others started forward over the breach which he had made.
“Which way?” he cried.
The spatter of revolver shots, heard when they had been crowded together on the stairway, had ceased. The house was silent about them. They looked at each other, nonplussed. Then Jack raising his voice shouted:
“Dad, Dad, where are you?”
A moment. Then from overhead came Mr. Hampton’s voice in reply:
“Up here, Jack. In the front room.”
There was a faintness in the tone, however, which was far from re-assuring and Jack cried again:
“What’s all the shooting for, Dad? You all right?”
A hollow groan was his only answer. And at that Jack thrust aside Captain Murray, who stood between him and a door leading from the kitchen, into which they had emerged from the cellar stairway, into the body of the house, and darted ahead.
“After him, fellows,” said Captain Murray, setting the example. “That’s the way upstairs.”
Jack in the lead, the rout streamed through a large room bare of furnishings as had been the kitchen, and lighted only dimly by reason of the fact that latticed shutters barred the several windows. Out of this into a long hall leading to the front door, then a sharp turn to the left and up a boxed-in flight of stairs. Heavy boots beat a tattoo on the bare boards.
Filled with terrifying fears on account of his father, Jack was racing madly in the lead, with Captain Murray at his heels, followed by Bob and Frank, and the others streaming after. At the head of the stairway, they turned again to the left, entering a corridor which led toward the street front. On the left, above the dark stairway, was a hand rail; on the right a number of doors opened into rooms, into which those of the party who, unlike Jack and Captain Murray, had not before been over the ground, peered as they ran by. But the rooms were unfurnished, except for mattresses and crumpled coverlets seeming to cover every available inch of floor space; and they were unoccupied, too. The corridor ended at the open door of a larger room than the others which faced on the street, and into this dashed Jack, going straight, with a strangled cry, to the form of his father. Mr. Hampton lay on a greasy mattress, near the front wall, and beside an open window looking out upon the street. His face was white, and his eyes closed, and the left shoulder of his light-colored, summer coat was stained dark.
Jack had no eyes for anyone but his father, beside whom he knelt with a choking cry which caused the latter to open his eyes.
“They got away, Jack,” said Mr. Hampton, painfully. “But you’re safe, aren’t you? I was afraid—”
His voice dropped to an unintelligible murmur, and his eyelids fluttered shut again.