# Viva La Pay Day

By SEVEN ANDERTON

When the Federals matched the Central American rebels'
chief weapon, it was up to three Yankee adventurers
to save the day—and incidentally the pay roll!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Argosy All-Story Weekly March 30 1929.]

The three Americans serving with General Juan Banzilla's rebel army sat at breakfast. Their table was a flat rock, lying before their faded and much patched tent, pitched at the edge of a small natural clearing in the semitropical forest. The clearing was being used as a landing field for an old Curtiss scout plane, now moored to several driven stakes in the center of the field.

The Yankees assembled about their rock table were as sweet a trio of trouble-hunters as ever fought for the fun of fighting. Ace Faulkner, besides being the pilot of the Curtiss, was the acknowledged leader of the outfit.

He was a born adventurer. He had one of those lean, wiry and disease-proof bodies with which nature equips the men she creates to find pleasure in wandering far trails and enduring hardships. Faulkner's sandy, unkempt hair was coarse and very thick. Deep-set blue eyes looked from beneath his bushy brows. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and wide mouth told of laughter that came easily and often.

Faulkner's two buddies were Red Larrabee and Jonas Peters. Red Larrabee was a big, good-natured soldier of fortune. The map of Ireland was on his face and his hair was of the reddest that ever thatched human skull. He was always hungry and usually eating.

Jonas Peters was a grizzled ex-lumberjack. He was about forty, but his wandering life had given him the appearance of at least ten more years. He was one of those rare chaps who enjoy grumbling, but who grumble in such a manner that others can enjoy it also.

They looked like the rough-and-ready adventurers they were, as they sat at breakfast in the gray dawn. All wore clothing bought primarily for service and which had seen plenty.

"I reckon we'll have to take down this blasted tent," grumbled Jonas Peters. "We advance every day just enough to have to take the durned tent down and move it and put it up again."

"We are lucky that we ain't advancing in the other direction twice as fast," chuckled Red Larrabee. "What are you growling about?"

"I've drove tent stakes until my hands are sore and I've got a permanent hump in my back from pulling 'em up," answered Jonas.

"If all the tent stakes you have driven were laid end to end," grinned Red, "the line would be almost as long as the wail of woe we've listened to since you wandered into camp."

"Go to blazes!" said Jonas. "You—"

"Listen," interrupted Ace Faulkner, rising suddenly.

Silence fell over the group. To their listening ears came the faint but unmistakable sound of an airplane motor. Faulkner turned and started up the slope toward the rocky crest of a ridge that rose just east of their tent. The others followed.

Standing on the crest of the ridge the Americans watched a trim plane approaching from the southeast. Faulkner was observing the ship through a pair of glasses. Red Larrabee had rolled a tortilla into a cone and filled it with frijoles before leaving the table. He munched at this portable breakfast while he watched the plane speeding along against the eastern sky.

Others had heard the plane, and the ridge was swarming with ragged rebels. The plane began to circle and then disappeared below the treetops some two miles to the east. It had alighted in the Federal camp.

"Looks like you are going to have some competition, Ace," observed Red.

"Damn!" grumbled Jonas Peters. "Just when it had begun to look like we were in sight of pay day, Toreda gets a plane. If he's going to drop bombs on us, I hope he drops one on that confounded tent before we have to take it down again."

Just then a ragged messenger came running up to the group of Americans. He spoke to Faulkner in Spanish.

"General Banzilla wishes to speak with Señor Faulkner at once," he announced. "The general waits at his tent."

Faulkner followed the messenger, and the others turned back toward their interrupted breakfast.

The long ridge upon which Banzilla's three thousand ragged rebels were entrenched was the first foothill of the towering peaks of the Central American Rockies, which loomed behind them.

The rebel chief was on the verge of victory. From the foot of the ridge now held by his army, level farm and timber land stretched ahead all the way to the ocean, twenty miles distant. More than two-thirds of the little Latin republic was now under Banzilla's rule, and the day seemed almost at hand when he would establish himself in the president's mansion at the capital.

The war had reached the stage where deserters from the Federal forces were beginning to straggle into Banzilla's camp, seeking service and food under his banner. There could be no surer sign of approaching victory.

But a fly had appeared suddenly in the nectar of Banzilla's success. The rebel chieftain had watched with dismay while that plane had alighted in the camp of General Toreda, commander of the Federal forces.

There was a worried look in Banzilla's intense dark eyes as he sat over the remains of his breakfast and talked with Ace Faulkner. Banzilla was that rare combination, an idealist and a soldier. Educated in the United States, he spoke English as well, if not better, than Faulkner did. He was really fighting for the interests of his downtrodden people, and they were beginning to realize it.

"You say that plane is a good one?" Banzilla asked.

"It was a De Haviland," answered Ace. "I looked her over through my glasses and she appears shipshape. Her motor was working like a watch."

"Has more speed than your plane?"

"Easy."

There was silence while the brooding eyes of Banzilla looked hard into the steady blue ones.

"It would not be wise to fight that De Haviland in the air—you could not perhaps shoot it down?" Banzilla asked at last.

"The chance would be darned slim," admitted Ace. "I can try, of course."

"We could not shoot him down from the ground?" asked Banzilla.

"Not unless he comes down to where we can reach him with a machine gun," said Faulkner. "He will not be likely to do that."

"He will drop bombs on us," brooded the rebel chief.

"Undoubtedly," nodded Ace.

"Is it not hell," asked Banzilla, "that those pigs should get a plane when the victory is within our grasp?"

"Fortunes of war," smiled Faulkner.

"What shall we do?" asked the chieftain.

Faulkner slowly rolled and lighted a cigarette.

"If you want my advice," said the Yankee, "I suggest that you move your men off this ridge and scatter 'em out, so there will be fewer of them messed up if that D. H. starts laying eggs in our neighborhood."

"A good idea," nodded Banzilla. "And then?"

"And then wait and see what happens while I try to dope something out," answered Ace. "I don't mind admitting that I have little desire to go up and mix with that baby, if he knows how to handle that D. H. at all. When I've had time to watch him in the air a little while, I may change my mind. I'm as keen about winding up this fuss as you are. It's been months since I have seen the color of gold."

Banzilla nodded gloomily. He realized keenly that only their patriotism and their faith in him had kept his soldiers fighting without pay for so long. During the past six months, since the captured territory behind his lines had begun to yield crops, the army had been well fed. Money, however, was out of the question.

"I know," said the rebel chief slowly. "But I have been fair. Every man who serves me knows that pay day must wait on victory. In the country behind us the women, children and old men have harvested and stored crops that must also wait on victory before they can be turned to gold. It is urgent that we win quickly, but now comes this doubly damned airplane to the camp of Toreda. We must do something."

"Right you are," nodded Faulkner. "And to begin with, you'd better scatter your men. Get 'em off this ridge. Scatter 'em good in the timber. Leave only machine guns on the ridge and have shelters of bowlders and rocks built for them. While you are attending to that I'll go talk with Larrabee and Peters."

Faulkner walked away down the ridge and Banzilla moved to call a conference of his staff. The rebel leader had much faith in the judgment of the Yankee flyer. Faulkner had been through four years of the World War and was battle-wise.

Banzilla had found him in the capital more than a year before, looking for trouble and excitement. Learning that Ace was a flyer, Banzilla had put his cards on the table. The rebel chief was at that time in the early stages of his plot to head a rebellion.

Faulkner had listened and then returned to the States, where he invested his all in the old Curtiss. He flew it back to the little Latin republic at the appointed time and placed it at the disposal of Banzilla, who had promised him a neat profit on the plane when the rebels were victorious.

It was largely due to the plane that Banzilla had been able to push his way steadily down from his mountain stronghold to his present position within two days' march of the capital. The old Curtiss had been the deciding factor in battle after battle. The Federal army outnumbered the rebels two to one.

The Federals had artillery, while the rebels had only rifles and machine guns. But the Federals had no airplane, and Faulkner, circling over their position with the Curtiss loaded with bombs, demoralized their defense, forcing them to retreat before the relentlessly crowding rebels.

Between battles Faulkner flew the plane to Mexico, bringing back ammunition for the machine guns and rifles. Banzilla realized that Faulkner and the Curtiss equalled in value all the rest of his army.

Now the Federal forces had acquired a plane—and a newer and speedier plane than the old Curtiss. It was a worried rebel chief who set about preparing to defend himself against the air attack that was sure to come.

It lacked an hour of noon when the D. H. appeared over the territory in which the rebels had sought cover. In the rocky and timbered expanse behind the ridge Banzilla's army was scattered wide, hidden beneath hastily constructed shelters. Nests of rock protected the machine guns scattered along the top of the ridge.

The enemy plane meant business. Flying between two and three thousand feet the D. H. scouted back and forth over the rebel position several times. Then hell broke loose!

Twenty-four bombs came raining down as the plane sped above the territory in which the rebels had taken refuge. When the enemy craft had banked over and headed back toward its base, a count revealed that its toll was eleven dead and seventeen wounded. Only the fact that the rebels had scattered had kept the list of casualties so small.

"This ain't so good," growled Red Larrabee as the Americans emerged from their hastily constructed shelter. "That buzzard certainly raised plenty of hell hereabouts."

"This ain't so good," growled Red Larrabee.

"Did you notice how he handled that ship?" asked Ace. "That's no spiggoty pilot. He's a flyer. He's gone back for more eggs. I'd go up and give him a scrap, but the old Curtiss wouldn't have a chance. She's so near to falling apart that I've been flying her for the last month with one hand on the joystick and the other on the rip cord of my parachute."

"It's sure tough," grumbled Red. "I'd like to hit that buzzard with a cannon ball. He's liable to delay pay day for a long time."

"He intends to keep us holed up while Toreda's crew swarms over that ridge to give us fits," said Ace. "We've got to do something about it."

From where first aid was being administered to the wounded, General Banzilla now came hurrying toward the Americans.

"This is maddening," cried the chief. "Can we not retaliate in some manner?"

"If I had the chance of a rabbit at a greyhound track," answered Ace, "I'd go up and have a try at him. As it is, I don't see how it would help any for me to commit suicide."

"Better hole up again," cried Red Larrabee, pointing to the east. "He's coming back."

All scuttled for cover. In five minutes the D. H. was again overhead. Twenty-four more bombs played havoc in the position occupied by the hiding rebels. Again the enemy ship wheeled back toward its base.

"That's enough of this," growled Ace Faulkner, crawling from the rock shelter.

"Look at the Curtiss!" cried Red in agonized tones.

A bomb had struck beside the anchored plane. What was left would never fly again.

"Damn," muttered Ace, "and our ammunition is low!"

The loss of the Curtiss as an ammunition carrier was a severe blow, even though it could not have been used in combat against the other ship.

Banzilla again came hurrying up, beside himself with impotent anger. In the six hours since breakfast time, Fate had dealt him a cruel blow. His army that had been so near victory was now in a half demoralized state. A few more strafings such as the two that had just passed would precipitate a panic among the ragged patriots. They hadn't the stuff in them to hold together under such odds.

"Mother of God!" cried the rebel chieftain, tears of rage in his eyes and a quiver in his voice. "Are we to be beaten by those pigs after all these months of winning?"

A bald-headed old Mexican in a greasy apron made of flour sacks came panting up to inform Banzilla that one of the bombs from the D. H. had landed squarely in the camp kitchen. The nearly finished dinner had been scattered to the four winds.

"Hell!" cried Larrabee. "That ought to be reported to this here League of Nations. It's an overt act—uncivilized warfare, that's what it is."

"Your belly needs a rest anyhow," said Jonas. "You've et extra meals until you're at least two months ahead of the rest of us. We're lucky we've still got our appetites."

"Señor Faulkner," entreated Banzilla. "What can we do now? Our plane is ruined."

Faulkner had been standing in silence with eyes fixed on a large flat rock that lay on the ground near by. It was oblong in shape, about twenty feet long, twelve feet wide and a little more than a foot thick. It was evidently a slab that had broken loose from the formation on the crest of the ridge and slid down with the erosion caused by heavy rains.

"I've got an idea," said Ace, turning to the raging Banzilla. "Call about twenty husky men over here quick."

In a few minutes the men the Yankee had asked for were at hand. Speaking in Spanish, Faulkner ordered them to stand the big rock on edge. It taxed the strength of as many men as could lay hold of the slab to accomplish the task, but they did it. When the stone was on edge and propped there with poles, Faulkner inspected the spot upon which it had lain. The soil was soft sandy loam washed down from the side of the ridge. Again the flyer spoke to Banzilla.

"Instruct your men to dig a pit six feet square and six feet deep in the center of the spot this stone covered," said Ace. "It must be finished before that plane comes back again. Have other men bring buckets and carry every bit of soil taken from the pit and dump it in one of those holes yonder where bombs exploded. I want no one to suspect that the pit is there when the stone is dropped back in place."

Banzilla instructed the men and left them in charge of a sergeant. Then the rebel chief and the Americans moved away and began a conference.

"Here is what is happening," said Faulkner. "Toreda's troops are advancing while the plane keeps us driven to cover. When they are near enough the plane will pepper that ridge in an effort to put our machine guns out of business, and then the Federals will rush us. It will be a massacre, unless we do something to prevent it. We drove Toreda off that ridge yesterday, and he intends to take it back to-day. The best thing we can do is to let him have it."

"You mean we must retreat?" cried Banzilla.

"Yes," nodded Ace.

"Dios!" wailed the rebel chief. "That I should be forced to retreat before Toreda's swine!"

"Better armies than this have retreated," said Ace grimly. "Toreda has very neatly turned the tables on us. He now has a plane and we have none. Besides that, his artillery that I have been keeping muzzled can now get in its work. We've got to back up."

"I sure hate to be backing away from pay day," growled Red Larrabee.

"If we are to retreat, why do we dig this pit?" asked Banzilla.

"When we see that plane coming back, Red and me are going to get in that pit," said Ace. "Then the rest of you see that the stone is dropped on it and the ground fixed so no one will suspect that we are under it. Then you, General, must order a retreat to that next ridge, two miles west. See that the men stay scattered while retreating. When the ridge is reached dig in and make a stand. Red and me will put that plane out of the game before morning."

"What's the idea of burying us under that stone?" asked Red.

"This natural clearing is the only landing spot for a plane in miles, except the one the Federals are now using," explained Ace. "When we retreat before their rush they will move up and camp here for the night. It will be too late to push any farther before to-morrow. They will use this landing field for their plane. We'll be in the pit under that rock and we'll have one of our big bombs with us. And we'll have our trench knives so we can dig out of our hole when things quiet down for the night. We will put on Federal uniforms from that bunch we stripped off those soldiers we buried the other day. We'll manage in some manner to get the bomb under that D. H., then we'll make a run for it. In Federal uniforms we'll have a good chance to escape."

Banzilla's eyes were glittering with delight. He flung his arms about Faulkner and hugged him joyously. Then he turned toward Red Larrabee, but Red backed hastily away.

"You will do that, my heroes?" cried the rebel leader. "You will blow up this so devilish plane? Amor de Dios! Victory shall be ours, and I will reward you with much gold."

"It's time to move, not talk," said Ace. "That D. H. will be coming back before we know it. Red, tear out and get two of the largest Federal uniforms you can find in that escort wagon, and hurry back here with them. Jonas, go and fetch one of those big bombs and a coil of fuse. I want to have a confab with General Banzilla before he starts his retreat."

The men hurried off on their errands and Faulkner drew Banzilla aside.

"May I suggest a move on your part to-night?" asked Ace.

"Suggest!" cried Banzilla, showing symptoms of again embracing the tall flyer. "Amigo, you may command! Remove that plane and you shall be secretary of—"

"Hold it," interrupted Ace. "I don't want to be secretary of anything. I'll be satisfied if I can hustle pay day along. What I want you to do is order that retreat as soon as Red and me are safe in that pit. Retreat to that next ridge and make a stand there until dark. As soon as it is good and dark move your troops back this way. Get within a mile of this spot, or a little nearer if possible. Then hold your army quiet until you hear an explosion. It will be our bomb under that D. H. It'll come some time between midnight and dawn if we are lucky. As soon as you hear the explosion, advance with everything you've got. Give 'em hell! Drive 'em back over this ridge! After we set off that bomb, Red and me will hunt cover—get back in our pit if we can—and wait until you have captured the ridge."

Banzilla was aquiver with delight.

"It shall be done, my hero," cried the general. "But remove that cursed plane and we shall crush Toreda's dogs before he can get another."

"You'd better," said Ace grimly.

Banzilla hurried toward his shelter, calling excitedly for his staff. The men, working like beavers, had the pit almost dug. Red and Jonas came hurrying up. Jonas carried a huge bomb made of a gallon tin can, in the center of which was a quart can stuffed with dynamite. The space between the two cans was packed with metal slugs and stones tamped with fine sand. About six inches of fuse protruded from one end. Jonas also carried a coil containing about ten feet more of fuse. Red carried two Federal uniforms.

The shovelers were climbing out of the finished pit. Faulkner jumped down into it. He took the bomb and set it carefully in one corner of the pit. Red tossed down the uniforms.

"Got plenty of ammunition for your revolver, Red?" asked Faulkner.

"Belt's full," answered Red.

"Got your trench knife?"

"Yes."

"Matches?"

"Yes."

"Then hop down."

Red jumped into the pit. Banzilla came trotting up and smiled down at the two Yankees.

"That plane is coming again," he announced.

"Start your retreat," said Faulkner. "Remember our plan. Have some men drop this stone over this hole and smooth up around it before they leave, so that our hiding place will not be suspected."

At Banzilla's command a group of men approached and laid hold of the huge rock.

"See that they do a good job of smoothing up, Jonas," said Faulkner.

"Hadn't we better get a chisel and mark 'Rest in Peace' on this slab?" asked Jonas.

"Never mind," grinned Ace. "Guys who've been in a lot worse shape than Red and me have got out of worse places than this."

"Yeah? F'r instance?"

"Well, there was Jonah," chuckled Ace, squatting down beside Red as the huge slab fell into place.

At first the pit seemed darker than the inside of any whale. Then their eyes became accustomed to it and the two Yankees could see each other dimly. The faintest bit of light penetrated under the lid of their prison.

"Hell!" muttered Red. "We can't smoke in here."

"No," answered Ace. "And as soon as this bombing fit is over we must talk only in low whispers and be darned careful when we move."

It was but a few minutes later when the bombing began. The explosions came faintly to the ears of the two Yankees. The trembling of the ground was very slight.

"Just as I guessed," muttered Ace. "He's bombing the top of the ridge to clear it for Toreda's advance."

The buried pair fell silent, counting the explosions.

"Twenty-four," said Ace presently. "That's all. Now we must be quiet. Toreda's gang will be here soon."

Ten minutes later sounds that came faintly to the ears of the pair told them that the Federals had swarmed over the ridge.

"I'll bet Toreda's tickled pink," whispered Ace, his lips within an inch of Red's ear. "It's the first time he has regained any ground since this war started."

"Yeh," whispered Red. "Sounds like they are making camp up there."

"Sit still," answered Ace. "I'm going to dig our exit out nearly to the edge of the stone so we can hear what's going on a little better."

Opening the blade of his trench knife, Faulkner felt for the wall and began digging well up against the rock roof. He held his hand to catch the loosened dirt and then placed it silently on the floor of the pit. After thirty minutes of stealthy work, he had dug a hole about three feet in circumference as far toward the edge of the rock as he felt was safe.

Faulkner wormed the upper half of his body into the tunnel he had dug and lay for some time listening. Then he again sought Red's ear.

"They are pitching Toreda's own tent right beside this rock," he breathed. "The old boy is directing the job himself. I heard them tell him of finding our wrecked plane. He seems in a merry mood. He gave orders that the wreck of the Curtiss be removed and the field cleared quickly, so the D. H. can land."

When Faulkner had backed out of the hole after a second trip, his voice was throbbing with excitement.

"That gang is plumb drunk with success," he breathed into Red's ear. "They are going to camp here for the night and lay plans for a further advance to-morrow. President Alvarado himself is to be here for the staff conference in an hour. Word of their victory was sent to the capital, and the old boy sent back word that he is coming to Toreda's headquarters immediately. They are having supper up there now. It'll be fun to listen in on their powwow."

"It would be more fun to swipe a plate full of their frijoles," whispered Red. "Why didn't we bring some grub into this hole? I'm as hungry as a she wolf with nine pups."

"Tough," answered Ace. "Sit tight and we'll eat later. I'm going back to my listening post."

Faulkner was lying in the tunnel and listening when President Alvarado arrived. The dictator was welcomed with a great hubbub. Ten minutes after the arrival of the despot, the conference was on in Toreda's tent. From the sound of the voices and the names he heard, Ace knew that there were at least a dozen officers present.

Alvarado heard the accounting of the day's activities with great glee. He was overjoyed when told that the Curtiss plane with which the rebels had harassed Toreda's forces had been wrecked. He complimented the pilot of the D. H. profusely and promised him rich reward. The pilot was addressed as Specht. He had a deep guttural voice and an accent which betrayed him a German.

The assembled staff listened to Specht's report of the position taken by the retreating rebels.

"They think it is all over but Banzilla's funeral," Ace whispered when he was again at Red's side. "They plan to move up before daylight to the foot of the ridge, on top of which they think Banzilla will be intrenched. Then this Specht, in the D. H., is to strafe the ridge at dawn and Toreda's army will charge up the hill right on the heels of the bombardment. Toreda's forces will move toward the ridge at three o'clock. They will run into Banzilla's troops about halfway there, unless we can blow up that D. H. and start Banzilla's attack before Toreda gets his move started."

"How much time do you suppose we have?" asked Red.

"I heard Toreda say it was nine o'clock," answered Ace. "That gives us six hours. Sit still awhile. I want to think over what I heard."

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed in silence. Then Ace laid his hand on the arm of his red-haired buddy. Red leaned nearer.

"Listen," whispered Ace. "I got a plan."

For ten minutes Ace whispered into his buddy's ear. Then Red groped in the darkness for Faulkner's hand and shook it.

"Sure, and your name ought to have been Napoleon," whispered Red.

"Can you do your part?" breathed Ace.

"It's a damned sight easier than yours," came the whispered reply, "and I'll get to eat sooner."

"Sit tight," cautioned Faulkner, opening his trench knife as he turned again toward the partly dug exit.

Ten more minutes passed while Ace worked stealthily. Then he closed the knife, took his revolver in his hand and wiggled into the hole. It was not long until he returned to Red's side.

"All's quiet on the Potomac," he whispered. "The camp's asleep. I didn't even see a sentry. There isn't one close by, anyhow. It's moonlight, but the shadows are as black as coal. Our tunnel opens in the shadow of Toreda's tent. It's only a few yards from the mouth of the tunnel into the brush behind the tent. I can hear snoring in the tent. Be careful not to make a noise. Get Banzilla back onto that ridge and tell him my plan. Now crawl out and be on your way. I'll take the bomb and crawl into the exit as soon as you are outside. If anything goes wrong, fire two shots in quick succession. I'll get to the plane with this canned explosion, if it's the last thing I ever do."

"If I run into a sentry I'll eat him," muttered Red, groping for the exit.

When Red had gone, Faulkner found the bomb and pushed it ahead of him as he wiggled into the hole that led to the outside. Lying with head and shoulders out of the hole, Ace looked about, eyes and ears tensely alert.

Bathed in the brilliant light of the tropical moon, Toreda's camp slumbered peacefully. Two hundred yards away sat the trim D. H., almost on the spot where Faulkner's Curtiss had been wrecked. Lying about dying camp-fires, Toreda's men slept.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. There was no sound. Drawing the bomb after him, Faulkner slid back into the chill, damp darkness of the pit. Red had made his departure from the camp in safety. Ace sat down for his long, lonely wait.

After what seemed to Faulkner like a week, sounds indicating that the camp was awakening reached his ears. Soon the night was alive with activity. A light showed under the wall of Toreda's tent. Officers and orderlies came and went. Faulkner waited with every nerve tense. What if some of that hostile crew saw the telltale hole under the edge of the rock? He gripped his revolver and prayed for luck. If only the Federal army would get away quickly!

Half an hour passed and the sounds began to diminish. The Federals were on their way for their early morning attempt to crush completely Banzilla's forces.

President Alvarado had spent the night in Toreda's tent. Faulkner heard a voice asking whether the president and the general would have some breakfast while they waited for dawn.

"No," answered Alvarado. "Let the kitchens advance with the rest of the troops. We will eat with our victorious army on the site from which we will soon drive Banzilla."

Soon quiet reigned in the clearing. The only sound was the voices of five men: President Alvarado, Toreda, Specht, the German pilot, and two others, in conference in the tent. Faulkner crawled into the tunnel to hear better, pushing the bomb ahead of him.

"The plane is in readiness?" asked Toreda's voice.

"Yes," answered Specht. "The bombs are in place and all is ready."

"Good," answered Toreda. "It will be dawn within an hour. My brave soldiers will be in readiness at the foot of the ridge where those rebel pigs wait to be torn to pieces. After you have bombed the ridge you will fly over the scene until you see that our troops are in possession. You will then come back here and report, so that el presidente and the rest of us may join the victors at breakfast."

"I understand," said Specht.

Faulkner had crawled stealthily from the tunnel and now crept around to the front of the tent. He placed the bomb he carried on the ground and gripped his ugly Colt forty-five in his right hand. With his left he flung back the tent flap and stood facing the five startled occupants.

"Whoever moves, dies!" snapped Ace in Spanish.

The group sat as if frozen. Only one of the men had his back to the door. The rest stared in mingled fright and astonishment at the grim Yankee. The muzzle of the forty-five covered the startled quintet. They were seated about a small folding table upon which stood a bottle of liquor and glasses. An oil lantern hanging from the ridge pole lighted the tent. Faulkner stared at the features of the German pilot.

The German sat on the far side of the table, facing Ace, his hands out of sight below the table. Suddenly one of them flashed into view. It held an ugly Luger. There was hate in the German's eyes.

Faulkner's trigger finger contracted and the forty-five roared. So did the Luger, but it was a moment late. Its bullet struck the swarthy officer who sat with his back toward Ace. The Latin sprawled backward, clutching at the ragged hole in his breast.

Specht swayed, then slumped forward across the frail table, knocking the liquor bottle into the lap of President Alvarado. The German's hands clutched at the table top and then relaxed.

"Hands up—high!" ordered Ace.

The three who were still able obeyed. The president's face was a sickly yellow. Ace herded them from the tent after he had relieved them of weapons.

Dawn was creeping over the clearing. Not another soul besides Ace and his three prisoners was in sight. About fifty yards from Toreda's tent the D. H. stood poised for flight. The three prisoners stood silent, hands reaching high. Ace grinned at Toreda and Alvarado and spoke to the other officer.

"Do as I command, hombre," he snapped, "and I'll give you a chance to get away without any holes in your precious skin. How about it?"

The fellow's swarthy face was pale. "Sí, sí," he chattered. Ace tossed the man his trench knife.

"Cut all ropes off that tent," he commanded.

The swarthy officer got busy and soon stood before Ace holding a dozen lengths of tent rope.

"All right," snapped Faulkner. "Trot over there to the plane, all of you. Pronto!"

As the sudden dawn of the tropics spread over the land, General Banzilla lay on his stomach behind a breastwork of rocks on top of a long ridge. Beside the rebel chief lay Red Larrabee and Jonas Peters.

Two miles to the east, against the roseate sky, a trim plane appeared above the tree tops and came toward the ridge. There was a stir as the waiting group saw the D. H. rise.

"If that's Ace," said Red, "this here war's about over."

"And if it ain't Ace," answered Jonas, "I know damned well it's over."

Nearer and nearer came the speeding plane, the watchers on the ridge growing more and more anxious as it approached. Then something white fluttered from the plane and floated downward. It was the signal Faulkner and Larrabee had agreed upon.

"It's Ace," cried Red.

A sound that was like a sob came from the rebel chief. A moment later orders were being called softly along the ridge. Now the D. H. was above them. It swept along the length of the ridge and then turned and swept back. On its return bombs began to drop from the plane to make a little hell out of the forest just behind the ridge. Twelve of the death-laden objects dropped in quick succession. There were, however, no rebels where those deadly missiles fell.

Suddenly Federal soldiers swarmed from the timber half a mile below and came charging up the grassy but untimbered slope that led to its top. Cocksure, they plunged ahead, certain that all they had to do was massacre a demoralized band of rebels already torn to pieces by the bombs from the plane. They could see the plane turning back to drop its other twelve bombs to cover their charge up the hill—at least that is what they expected to happen.

Then that rocky crest suddenly blossomed with puffs of smoke! The angry rattle of machine guns mingled with the spiteful crack of high powered rifles. The Federal line wilted like grain before a sickle.

Down plunged twelve more bombs from the D. H., striking squarely on the charging Federal lines. For five minutes death swept that hillside, and then yelling rebels, led by the almost deliriously happy Banzilla, swarmed from cover and gave chase to the fleeing stragglers. Never was rout more complete.

Far overhead circled the D. H., following leisurely until the rebel army had returned to the site from which it had been driven on the previous day. Standing in the center of the clearing, Red Larrabee waved a signal that all was well.

The plane banked, circled twice and landed. Prone on its wings, lashed securely in place, lay two bound captives, General Toreda and President Alvarado. When they were dragged from the ship and recognized by Banzilla, speech failed the rebel chieftain.

Tears streamed down Banzilla's cheeks, and he sputtered sounds meant to indicate joy as he embraced everybody he could catch.

"The durn fool's got hysterics," said Jonas Peters.

"Hysterics, hell!" growled Red Larrabee, beside him. "He's got hydrophobia. He ought to be muzzled before he bites somebody."

Late the following day, Banzilla, at the head of his tattered victors, marched into the capital. The little Latin city had surrendered joyfully. Well to the rear of the parade that marched through the bunting-decorated streets toward the president's mansion moved three grinning adventurers—Ace Faulkner and his buddies.

"This wasn't near as big a war as the one where we learned about 'em," grinned Red Larrabee. "But these spiggoties sure take it plenty serious."

"Hell!" growled Jonas Peters. "The fun's all over now. I don't see what they are celebrating. Listen to the durned fools. Viva la libertad! Viva Banzilla! You'd think that little brown runt won this war. Why ain't they hollerin' some viva's about Ace? Listen to 'em yell!"

"Viva la pay day sounds better to me," Ace Faulkner chuckled.

THE END.