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Title: The Radio Boys with the Border Patrol

Author: Gerald Breckenridge

Release date: March 7, 2018 [eBook #56695]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RADIO BOYS WITH THE BORDER PATROL ***




Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






[Illustration: The motor was already well tuned, everything was working
satisfactorily.]




                             THE RADIO BOYS
                         WITH THE BORDER PATROL


                         By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE

                               Author of
“The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border,” “The Radio Boys with the Revenue
   Guards,” “The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty,” “The Radio Boys
 Search for the Incas Treasure,” “The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska
 Expedition,” “The Radio Boys in Darkest Africa,” “The Radio Boys Seek
                          the Lost Atlantis.”

                         [Illustration: Radio]


                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                         Publishers    New York


                                  THE
                           RADIO BOYS SERIES

                A SERIES OF STORIES FOR BOYS OF ALL AGES
                         By GERALD BRECKENRIDGE

  The Radio Boys on the Mexican Border
  The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty
  The Radio Boys with the Revenue Guards
  The Radio Boys Search for the Incas’ Treasure
  The Radio Boys Rescue the Lost Alaska Expedition
  The Radio Boys Seek the Lost Atlantis
  The Radio Boys In Darkest Africa
  The Radio Boys with the Border Patrol

                            Copyright, 1924
                         By A. L. BURT COMPANY




                                CONTENTS


  I. The Army Flyer.                                                   3
  II. “That Devil Ramirez.”                                           11
  III. Don Ferdinand Disappears.                                      24
  IV. Word from Don Ferdinand.                                        33
  V. Off to Laredo.                                                   42
  VI. Hit from the Rear.                                              52
  VII. Don Ferdinand Again.                                           61
  VIII. “Important Developments.”                                     70
  IX. The Bull Fight.                                                 80
  X. Ramirez!                                                         91
  XI. Commandeered.                                                  102
  XII. A House of Mystery.                                           111
  XIII. Captain Cornell Investigates.                                121
  XIV. A Novel S. O. S.                                              130
  XV. Bob Has an Idea.                                               139
  XVI. Setting the Trap.                                             148
  XVII. Through the Tunnel.                                          158
  XVIII. The Enemy Strike.                                           166
  XIX. Captain Cornell Strikes a Clew.                               173
  XX. Don Ferdinand Explains.                                        182
  XXI. On Ramirez’s Trail.                                           193
  XXII. To the Rescue.                                               202
  XXIII. Ramon Talks.                                                213
  XXIV. Jack Surrenders to the “Enemy.”                              223
  XXV. Conclusion.                                                   231




                 THE RADIO BOYS WITH THE BORDER PATROL




                               CHAPTER I.
                            THE ARMY FLYER.


The tall, sun-browned man whose active sinewy figure belied his fifty
years closed the switch, whipped off the headphones and smiling fondly
turned to his visitor.

“Let’s go out to the field, Captain Cornell,” he said, “and you’ll see
as pretty a landing as any flyer in the Southwest can make. That was my
boy Jack. Radioed he’d be here in ten minutes.”

The uniformed army flyer from the Laredo flight of the Border Patrol
smiled and nodded. Younger than Mr. Hampton by many years, in fact but
half his age, he yet found his host a congenial spirit. Since his forced
landing that morning on the terrace which the Hamptons had cleared on
their Southwestern ranch, the two men had found much in common to
discuss. Already they were fast on the way towards becoming real
friends.

Together they stepped from the radio shack into the hot sunshine. After
the comparative coolness of the interior with its whirring electric fan,
the outdoors was like a furnace. League on league the mesquite covered
plains stretched away to the distant needle-like peaks of the westward
range, unbroken by building of any sort; by tree or moving object.

Behind them, however, lay the group of ranch buildings. There was the
long low main structure, built of timbers and ’dobe, thick-walled, with
cool interior and a shaded patio built about a spring. To one side rose
a spindling tower at the foot of which crouched the radio shack. On the
right was the corrugated-iron hanger, radiating heat like an oven in
shimmering heat waves; and towards this the two men made their way.

“You certainly do yourself well here,” said Captain Cornell, looking
from the beautifully levelled landing field, with its hanger and piped
gas flares for night lighting, to the radio tower and the comfortable
ranch house. The stables and corrals were out of sight in a draw, hidden
by the dwelling.

Mr. Hampton nodded.

“Why not?” he asked. “I have all the money I need and more. Besides, as
I told you, Jack is out here experimenting for the radio people, and
they paid for doing over my little station and equipping it anew.”

By now they had reached the landing field, and Mr. Hampton raising his
voice shouted: “Ho Tom.”

A figure, followed by another, rounded the corner of the hanger. Tom
Bodine and his new assistant had been lounging on the shaded side.

“A great old-timer,” commented Mr. Hampton in a low voice as Tom Bodine
approached in response to his beckoning wave of a hand. “Tell you some
time about how he saved the lives of Jack and his pals, Bob Temple and
Frank Merrick. It was down in old Mexico, when the boys were all several
years younger.”

The flyer noted with approval the sinewy muscular figure of the
ex-cowpuncher who approached without self-consciousness, alone, his
assistant having dropped back. Grizzled, sun-browned, walking with the
rolling gait of the man who had spent a lifetime in the saddle, Tom
Bodine looked what he was—an outdoor man of the wide open ranges.

Mr. Hampton introduced them, and the two men shook hands. Each noted
with a pleasurable thrill the firm grip of the other.

“Jack radioed he’d be landing soon,” said Mr. Hampton.

Through puckered eyelids his sharp blue eyes swept the sky to the south.
A haze which had filled the sky for days, telling of sand whipped off of
the Mexican desert hundreds of miles away by a wind storm, obscured the
air.

“There he comes,” he said suddenly, pointing.

The gaze of the others followed. Heads nodded. They, too, saw the
distant speck which betokened the approaching plane.

“Guess I left him plenty of room for landing,” said the army man,
casting a glance towards his own De Haviland near the hanger.

“Yes, suh,” said Tom, not withdrawing his gaze from the sky. “I wasn’t
here when you come down, but afterwards I wheeled yo’r bus to the south
end. See? She won’t be in Jack’s way. Besides, that boy could land on a
nickel a’most.”

There was such obvious pride in his voice that again Captain Cornell
smiled discreetly. To himself he said that he wished people felt that
way about him. But he did not do himself justice. He was one of the
best-liked men of the Border Patrol.

On came Jack, the thrumming of his motor clearly heard by the watchers
below. When almost overhead, the tune of the motor changed, and Captain
Cornell’s practised ear could tell that Jack had throttled down to eight
or nine hundred revolutions. He was nosing down. His plane was shooting
earthward.

When little more than a thousand feet up, the plane was thrown into a
tight spiral. Then Jack began circling downward.

“Pretty work,” muttered the army flyer. And Mr. Hampton overhearing
could have gripped the other’s hand in his pleasure. The way to his
heart lay through praise of his motherless son.

At two hundred feet the plane was seen to straighten out, and then Jack
leaned overside and waved a greeting. He dropped down within fifty feet
and then, with wide-open motor, roared along above the field towards the
north end. There he turned for the landing.

“Always a ticklish task for a young flyer,” commented Captain Cornell,
as the three men stood grouped and motionless, watching, while waiting
beside the hanger could be seen the figure of the mechanic. “But he
certainly handles himself like a veteran. Look at that,” he commented,
as Jack shot downward in a shallow glide. “Beautiful.”

Jack levelled off a foot or so above the ground. Then tail-skid and
wheels dropped to the hard-packed sand for a three-point landing.

“Beautiful,” the army flyer commented again, as he and Mr. Hampton
started forward, with Tom Bodine rolling-leggedly alongside.

Tom and the mechanic who approached from the other side took the wings
and guided the idling ship towards the hanger, but Jack waved them away.

“Let her go boys,” he said. “I want to run the motor out of gas.”

Obedient they stepped back. Then in a few moments, Jack snapped her off,
and stepped out of the cockpit.

“Hello, Dad,” he called. “Got your message about Captain Cornell having
honored us, so here I am. But if I hadn’t been taking Isabella for a
ride when you radioed this morning, you wouldn’t have gotten me. Their
radio’s out of commission. Tell you about it later. But here I am
running on and you haven’t introduced us yet. Captain Cornell, I guess,”
he added, turning squarely towards the army man, and holding out his
hand.

“And mighty glad to meet you,” asserted the other, as their hands met.
“Pretty landing,” he added.

Jack flushed under the praise, but so tanned was he like all the others
that it would have been hard to distinguish the mantling blood in his
cheeks.

“Oh, that was nothing,” he demurred. “But still it’s mighty nice of you
to say so. Excuse me a minute while I talk with Tom. Something I want
him to fix up.”

So saying, he strode off to where Tom Bodine and his mechanic were now
trundling the plane into the hanger.

Captain Cornell saw a square-shouldered lean youth, hard as nails,
almost six feet tall, with an open and ingenuous countenance who bore
himself with an air of confident assurance. When Mr. Hampton earlier had
been elaborating on Jack’s merits and capabilities and had told him
somewhat of the confidence reposed in his son by the great radio trust
which had commissioned him to carry out experiments in research and
engineering problems, the army flyer had been inclined to discount the
tale to a certain extent on the ground of parental partiality. But now
he experienced an instinctive liking for Jack, and felt that in all
likelihood Mr. Hampton had not been exaggerating.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jack’s quick return.

“Whew,” said Jack, tearing off his helmet and letting his damp hair blow
in the light wind. “This heat is terrible. Haven’t had a day like this
for ages. Big storm working up from the south, I’m afraid. Certainly was
cooler up above. Well come on, let’s get out of the sun. Besides, I want
something cool to drink. Then you can tell me how you happened to land
here, Captain Cornell. And, I’ll have something that will interest a man
of the Border Patrol, or else I’m mighty badly mistaken.”

“Why, Jack, what do you mean?” questioned his father, striding beside
him towards the house.

“Sounds mysterious,” commented Captain Cornell, on Jack’s right.

“That’s what it is, too—mysterious,” said Jack. “Something brewing down
there in the mountains behind Rafaela’s home that I don’t understand.
Neither does her father. But let’s get inside where it’s cool, and I’ll
tell you all I know about it, which isn’t much.”




                              CHAPTER II.
                         “THAT DEVIL RAMIREZ.”


With laughing apology for an ever-present appetite, Jack declared he
must have food as well as the cooling limeade set out for him on the
table in the shaded patio. So Ramon of the grizzled bushy hair and the
drooping mustache and brown-paper cigarette was summoned from the
kitchen, and with remarkable celerity he had salads and cold meat for
all three on the table.

While he ate, Jack, out of politeness, questioned Captain Cornell
regarding the accident which had forced him down, learning it was due to
a leak in his gas tank which Tom Bodine already had soldered.

“I would have been on my way, thanks to your father filling my tank,”
explained the army flyer, “but I am merely on my way back to Laredo,
with no particular reason for getting there in a hurry, and so I decided
to stay and give myself the pleasure of meeting you.”

He paused, regarding Jack curiously. Certainly this unassuming,
quiet-mannered young fellow, scarcely out of his ’teens, did not
resemble the taker of hair breadth chances whom he had pictured mentally
as a result of listening to Mr. Hampton’s descriptions of some of the
escapades enjoyed by Jack and his two pals, Bob Temple and Frank
Merrick, in South America, Africa, the Far North and at home. Neither
did he look like a scientist, yet Mr. Hampton had assured Captain
Cornell that his son was out here performing abstruse research
experiments in radio for the benefit of the great radio trust.

Jack’s blue eyes twinkled, and looking at his father he shook his head
as if in humorous disgust.

“Been boring visitors again, Dad, with your reminiscenses,” he said. “So
that’s your idea of hospitality, hey?”

And turning to Captain Cornell, he added:

“You know how it is with fond parents, Captain. Don’t mind him. And
don’t hold what he says against me.”

“All right, I won’t,” laughed the other. “But, if I may be pardoned for
seeming personal, how is it you happen to be here without your pals?
Your father spoke of you three as being inseparable.”

“Well, you see,” explained Jack, “I was a year ahead of the other
fellows at Yale. I took my degree in engineering at Sheffield in the
Spring. The others are plugging away on their Senior year. They’ll be
through in a matter of six weeks or so, and then they’ll be out to spend
the Summer with me.”

“I didn’t get a chance to explain all your history, Jack,” interpolated
Mr. Hampton with a laugh.

“I see.” Captain Cornell nodded. “And what do you all intend to do then?
Get into more adventures? Things are pretty quiet along the border
nowadays.”

Jack looked up from his salad, his face grown grave.

“Not so quiet as you might think, Captain,” he said. “That’s what I
intended to tell you about.”

His father and the army flyer sat forward alertly, with a sudden
scraping of chair legs on the flagstone paving of the patio.

“What do you mean, Jack?” asked Mr. Hampton.

Jack pushed back his plate and slumped down comfortably in his chair,
his crossed ankles resting on the curbing of the fountain.

“Something I learned at Don Ferdinand’s today,” he said.

Don Ferdinand was an irascible yet lovable old Spanish aristocrat living
in the Sonoran mountains of old Mexico below the border. Several years
before Jack and his father had made the old Don’s acquaintance under
strange circumstances. Don Ferdinand was immensely wealthy and lived in
feudal state in a palace in the wilderness, surrounded by many
retainers. At that time he had been in opposition to the Obregon
government. Seeking to embroil Mexico and the United States and thus
further his plans for unseating Obregon as President, he had made a raid
across the border and carried Mr. Hampton away captive. He then had sent
word to Mr. Temple, his prisoner’s partner and the father of Jack’s big
pal, Bob Temple, to the effect that Mr. Hampton would be held for
ransom. Don Ferdinand had figured that Mr. Temple would appeal to the
American government and that thus trouble between the Obregon government
and the United States would be engendered. But Jack Hampton and his pals
undertook to rescue the older man without public appeal, and penetrating
the Sonoran wilderness they managed to accomplish their object. Since
then Don Ferdinand and Mr. Hampton had become fast friends. As for Jack
and the Senorita Rafaela, they had corresponded with each other, and now
that Jack was back in the South-west, he had spent more and more time
below the border.

After his remark, Jack sat silent an appreciable space of time. Finally,
his father becoming impatient broke out with:

“Well, well, Jack, go on. You say something happened down at Don
Ferdinand’s today, and you get us all excited. What was it?”

“I don’t know that you could really say something happened,” said Jack,
choosing his words carefully. “But Don Ferdinand got pretty warm under
the collar. Anyway, I’ll start at the beginning—it wasn’t much, and yet
it might mean a lot—and I’ll give it to you as I got it.”

Old Ramon came slithering, across the flagstones in the moccasins which
he always wore because of tender feet, and Jack cast a glance at him and
then ceased speaking until the Mexican had deposited the coffee cups and
departed with the luncheon plates.

“Don Ferdinand told me not to speak of this to anybody whom we couldn’t
trust thoroughly,” he said, by way of explanation, and with a nod
towards the departing figure of Ramon he added: “The old man is a good
_hombre_ so far as we knew. But Don Ferdinand was insistent that I
shouldn’t let out a word before any Mexicans.

“It was mighty warm down there, with that hot wind blowing, and I hadn’t
slept well. Too hot for comfort. Pitched and tossed all night. Flew down
yesterday afternoon,” he threw out for Captain Cornell’s understanding.
“So the old don, Rafaela and I were sitting in the patio this morning,
trying to keep cool. He was asleep, I expect, because, he hadn’t said a
word for a long time. So was the old duenna in the background somewhere.
Rafaela and I were talking in low voices, so as not to disturb the
others.

“A man came into the patio, a rough-looking, villainous fellow. I did
not remember ever seeing him about the place, but then there is a
veritable army of retainers always hanging about, a sort of feudal lot
of dependents; so that wasn’t strange. Anyway, Rafaela knew him, for,
when he made a low bow and stood there with his high-crowned sombrero in
hand, she spoke to him sharply, asking what he wanted. He replied that
he wanted to speak to Don Ferdinand, and Rafaela waked her father.

“Don Ferdinand took a good look at the man, then he jumped up out of his
chair.

“‘You, Pedro, what are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘So far from the
mine? Has anything gone wrong?’

“Pedro came closer, said something in a low voice. Then Don Ferdinand
cast a quick glance toward Rafaela and me.

“‘Ah, Senor Jack,’ he said, ‘a thousand pardons. Permit me— There is a
little matter of business to attend to.’ And with a bow to me he made
off toward his office, Pedro at his heels.

“Well,” said Jack, leaning back, “I didn’t think much about the
incident. These fellows are always so mysterious anyhow, about the
merest trifles. I didn’t even ask Rafaela who the fellow was. She
herself volunteered the information, saying he was foreman of a silver
mine far back in the mountains which Don Ferdinand owns. For a long
time, the old don had refrained from working the mine. He had sealed it
up during the troubled years following the Madero revolution, although
when Diaz had been President it had been a big producer. Now he had
resumed operations again.

“‘Some little trouble at the mine brings Pedro,’ said Rafaela. ‘Oh, you
men with your business. But look, Jack,’ she added, in a low voice,
‘Donna Ana sleeps.’

“I looked around. The old duenna was snoozing so hard, it would have
taken an earthquake to wake her.

“‘The heat’s got her,’ I said, for it certainly was hot, even there in
the shaded patio.

“I guess Rafaela thought me pretty dense, by the way she looked at me.

“‘Is that all you can think about?’ she asked. ‘But, you think about the
heat—well, wouldn’t it be fine to go flying? So nice and cool?’

“Then I tumbled. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s go.’

“We tiptoed out of the patio like a couple of conspirators. The old
duenna never stirred. Don Ferdinand wasn’t in sight. Neither was anybody
else at the front of the house. And out behind, in the quarters, I
expect everybody was taking a siesta. Anyway, we couldn’t hear a sound.

“So off we trotted across the lawn and disappeared among the eucalyptus
trees—you know, Dad, cutting off the house from the don’s landing
field?”

Mr. Hampton nodded, a reminiscent light in his eyes. He was remembering
the scene which had become so familiar during his period of captivity
several years before.

Captain Cornell opened his eyes. “A landing field?” he demanded,
incredulously.

“Oh, yes,” explained Jack. “Several years back, when the old don was an
unreconstructed Mexican rebel, he had a couple of airplanes in his pay.
Several of his aviators even stole ours—that is Bob’s and
Frank’s—airplane. But we got it back. The airplanes are gone, as well as
most of the rebel army Don Ferdinand was feeding at that time. But the
flying field remains. It’s in pretty good shape too.

“Anyhow,” he continued, “Rafaela and I popped out on the field, and I
put her in the plane. Then I stirred up a couple of sleepy Mexicans whom
I’ve trained to help me. We got her going, and after I’d warmed her up,
we took off for a spin.

“And, say, Dad,” he added, in a burst of enthusiasm, “that girl’s one
good sport. She certainly loves to fly. One of these days I’m just going
to have to teach her. Trouble is, they never let her go up. This was
only her second or third flight. And, my, how tickled she was over
stealing away from her duenna.”

Mr. Hampton tried to look reproving but failed lamentably. Nevertheless,
he warned: “Just the same, you mustn’t do that again, Jack, without her
father’s consent. What if something happened, some accident?”

“Oh, shucks,” said Jack, “I didn’t fly high with her, and I didn’t take
off until the old bus was tuned up and running like a watch. Anyhow,” he
added, hastening to change the subject, “it was a good thing I went up
because it was then I got your radio message, saying Captain Cornell was
here and asking me to come home. The don’s station was out of order
again. Some Mexican kid is always monkeying with something or other and
putting the whole works out of commission. When it’s working, Rafaela
says, they get all the big stations. And”—he laughed—“she says it’s a
regular thing for all the Mexicans to turn out since I installed that
loud speaker for them, and dance on the flying field at night to the
band music they pull out of the air.

“Well, anyhow, back we flew, and I landed her safely and left the motor
idling while we walked up to the house. I intended to see her home, say
good-bye to the don, and come back.

“The old duenna was still asleep. But just as we stepped back in the
patio Don Ferdinand appeared in a state of pretty high excitement. I
thought for a minute he was going to comb me for taking Rafaela up in
the plane without permission. But, no; he wasn’t even aware that we had
been flying.

“‘What’s the matter, father?’ asked Rafaela, anxiously. ‘Has anything
happened? Did Pedro bring bad news?’

“The old don walked up and down a few steps, clasping and unclasping his
hands behind his back. ‘Just when the mine was beginning to pay again,’
he mourned.

“‘Tell me what is the matter, father,’ demanded Rafaela.

“He halted and faced us. ‘Matter? Matter?’ said he. ‘Matter enough. That
devil Ramirez has lured all my men away. They laugh when Pedro begs them
to stay and say they will follow Ramirez who will make them rich. Pedro
cannot get anybody to work.’

“‘But you can send other men,’ said Rafaela.

“‘Bah,’ said Don Ferdinand. ‘You are just a girl. What do you know about
such matters? If Ramirez takes some men, will he not take others?’

“Rafaela shrugged and spread out her hands. ‘But you are rich, father.
You need not worry about the mine.’

“‘Foolish child,’ said Don Ferdinand, and he appealed to me. ‘Women do
not know,’ said he. ‘Why does Ramirez lure my men away, if not to make
revolution? And revolution will upset everything again. Bah, we have had
enough of revolutions.’”

Mr. Hampton interrupted with an abrupt but hearty laugh.

“Isn’t that just like him? He wants no revolutions unless he makes them
himself. When I think of several years ago—” And he laughed again.

Jack smiled, too. “That’s what I thought, Dad,” he said. And then,
becoming serious, he added: “Anyhow, there is another revolution
brewing, Captain Cornell, it is liable to make trouble for you fellows
of the Border Patrol.”

The army flyer nodded. His face wore a puzzled frown.

“Ramirez?” he said. “Ramirez? Never heard of him. And I know most of the
trouble-makers by name, besides. Your friend Don Ferdinand referred to
him as ‘that devil Ramirez,’ hey? Did he explain further?”

“No,” said Jack. “He just cautioned me not to speak of this to any of
our Mexicans, and said he would have more news for me later. Then I came
away. I don’t know,” he added thoughtfully; “I don’t know but what he
contemplates lighting out after Ramirez himself. He’s quite an intrepid
old fellow, you know.”

The conversation thereupon became more general, Captain Cornell
questioning Jack regarding his radio experiments. They walked out to the
radio shack. And there Jack launched into an enthusiastic description of
his work. He was seeking, he said, to work out some of the fundamental
problems demanding solution as a result of the tremendous increase in
both broadcasting stations and receivers.

“There are six or seven such problems,” he said. “First, we must have a
radio receiver which will provide super-selectivity—a receiver which
will enable the Operator to select any station he wants to hear, whether
or not local stations are operating. Such selectivity must go to the
theoretical limits of the science. Here”—pointing to a litter on a work
bench which was only a meaningless jumble to the flyer—“is a pretty
close approach, or it soon will be,” he corrected himself, “to what I
want. It will be a super-sensitive receiver, giving volume from distant
stations as well as selectivity.”

Here and there he went about the shack, taking up or lying down pieces
of apparatus, and keeping up a running fire of comment which made the
flyer’s head swim.

He was working, he said, on the problem of achieving a “non-radiating”
receiver—one, which, no matter how handled, wouldn’t interfere with a
neighbor’s enjoyment. He was trying to improve the complicated
Super-Heterodyne in sensitiveness and selectivity, so that anybody could
have access to its wonders, regardless of whether he possessed any
engineering skill.

And at that point, Captain Cornell groaning humorously clapped his hand
to his head and staggered toward the door.

“Great Scott, Mr. Hampton,” he appealed, “call him off, will you? I
didn’t know there _was_ so much to radio. I’m willing to believe your
son’s the greatest radio engineer in the world, but tell him to have a
heart. Understanding about airplanes is as far as my feeble intelligence
will carry me. I can’t cram radio into it, too.”

The Hamptons both laughed, and followed him outside. There, with a look
at the sky, Captain Cornell gave a sudden startled exclamation.

“I’ll have to be getting along,” he said. “Just enough daylight going to
be left for me to get to Laredo. Besides, I don’t like that look in the
South. One of these desert siroccos playing away off there somewhere.
And who knows when it may take a notion to come wandering up here? Will
you folks help me get away?”




                              CHAPTER III.
                       DON FERDINAND DISAPPEARS.


Tom Bodine had seen them start across the field, and by the time they
reached the side of the big De Haviland used by the Border Patrol flyer,
the motors were gently idling. Tom, clambering out of the cockpit
announced proudly that everything was ship-shape.

Captain Cornell’s face beamed as he took his place in the front cockpit.
This was real service. He liked Tom, good man. He liked these Hamptons,
too. His practiced eye ran over the dials in front of him, noting that
air pressure, temperature, and oil pressure were correct. The big bomber
breathing fire from its exhaust pipes as it strained against the wheel
blocks was like a great bird eager to take the air.

A sudden thought came to Captain Cornell, and leaning out he shouted
through cupped hands in order to make himself heard above the roar of
the warming motor:

“I’ll look up Ramirez’s record in Laredo and give you a call on the
radio if I learn anything.”

Jack shook his head. He couldn’t hear. Captain Cornell throttled down
and repeated his words.

“All right,” shouted Jack. “And if I can be of any help, call on me.
And, say, Captain,” he added as an afterthought, “I’ll be dropping in on
you at Laredo one of these days. Dad and I want to see a bull fight.
Maybe you’ll take us over into the Mexican town.”

“Surest thing you know,” the flyer called. “Come on a Sunday.”

Then with the battery charging and the motor firing sweetly, he threw
off one switch of the double-ignition system in order to listen for
breaks in the twelve-cylinder Liberty. The same operation on the other.
Both running true. A wave of the hand, in farewell, and he eased the
throttle on. Slowly the tachometer climbed up the scale, showing
increasing revolutions.

The flyer nodded to Tom and Jack at the wings. They disappeared and then
popped out, dragging the wheel blocks. Tom’s assistant stepped away from
the tail. Then the big ship started forward easily, smoothly, and within
thirty yards the tail-skid left the ground. Motor roaring without a
break, the De Haviland ran a bit farther, then took the air. Driving
along a little above the ground, it shot upward. Then a right bank and
the flyer circled the field, making sure his great plane was running
true before letting her out for Laredo. Twice around the field, and then
away shot the ship.

“Some bus,” said Jack.

None of the little group had said a word up to then.

“Lot more trouble to work her than your little racer, Jack,” said Tom
Bodine with the freedom born of years of friendship.

Jack nodded. “Some day I’m going to ask Captain Cornell to let me handle
her. If I ever see him again,” he added, as he and Mr. Hampton returned
toward the house.

But Jack was to see Captain Cornell again, and that right soon.

In the meantime, he spent the next several days engaged on his radio
experimentation. Mr. Hampton saw little of him, except at meals. But the
older man was himself engaged, being deep in the writing of a technical
engineering paper. So the time did not hang heavy on his hands.

Jack reported one night enthusiastically that his research had
definitely established that the complicated Super-Heterodyne could be
simplified to the point where anybody, “even a child,” he said with such
a tone of scorn as to make his father smile, could work it. Then he
plunged again into his experiments.

Four or five days after the unexpected visit of the army flyer, Tom
Bodine returning from a ride into Red Butte, ten miles away, brought a
bundle of mail. Mail at the ranch was always an event, so Jack was
summoned from his radio shack to the house, and he and his father
abandoned their various pursuits for the time being.

“Oh, I say, Dad, here’s a letter from Frank,” cried Jack, pouncing on a
bulky missive, and slitting it open. “Now to hear the news from home.”
And with the stiff sheets crinkling, he threw himself down in a deep
leather chair while his eyes started to devour the page.

The next moment he bounded to his feet with a whoop.

“Hurray, Dad,” he shouted, “Guess what! The fellows have both passed
their exams. Now they have nothing to do for six weeks, when they’ll
have to show up for Commencement. They’re coming out to spend the
intervening time with us.” His eyes skimmed the pages. “Been planning on
this for a long time but kept it a secret. Bob wasn’t sure he could
pass, but he crammed. Got a creditable rating. And Mr. Temple’s coming,
too. What do you know about that, Dad?”

And tossing the letter upon the table, Jack grabbed his father by the
shoulders and began whirling him around the room. Not until he had
kicked over several chairs and bumped into the table with a crash that
brought a howl of pain did he come to a halt. Then Mr. Hampton looked at
his flushed face and shining eyes and shook his head.

“Yes, Temple told me the same thing here,” he said, extending the letter
he himself had been reading. He shook his head. “Poor Temple and I.
We’ll have our hands full.”

“They’ll be here— Let’s see.” Jack retrieved the letter from the table,
turning to the date. “Why, they’ll be at San Antone the twentieth. And
this is the seventeenth, isn’t it? I lose track of time out here. Stay
in San Antone a day, and then come on to Red Butte. Golly, Dad, they’ll
be here in five days.”

The next day Jack announced he was going to carry the news to their
friends in Mexico. They would be glad to hear it, he said, especially
Don Ferdinand who had taken a great liking to big Bob Temple because of
the way in which the young athlete had performed prodigies of strength
in the rescue of Mr. Hampton, several years before. Don Ferdinand had
been the victim, but he was a game loser. And because of the warm
friendliness which had developed between the two parties since that
bygone time, he could afford to smile at all that had happened now.

“Why don’t you go along with me, Dad?” Jack suddenly suggested. “Do you
good to get away from your poky old writing. Come on. Blow the cobwebs
out of your brain.”

“Believe I will,” said Mr. Hampton, after a moment or two of thought.
“Wait till I tell Ramon we won’t be home for dinner. He’d feel hurt if
we didn’t let him know. Besides, I’ll need my helmet and goggles.”

While he was absent, Jack and Tom Bodine tuned up the motor of Jack’s
two-seater, of which Tom stood in considerable awe, yet which he
teasingly referred to as “Jack’s air flivver.”

Mr. Hampton returned wearing a puzzled expression. He explained that he
had been unable to find Ramon. This was strange, as the old fellow
seldom stirred from his kitchen. He inquired of Tom whether the latter
had seen him since breakfast. Tom shook his head in denial, but his
tow-headed assistant, a youngster from Red Butte, who approached in time
to overhear the question, spoke up.

“Yes sir, Mr. Hampton, I seen him light out toward Red Butte ’bout an
hour or two ago. He come out o’ the back o’ the house soon after
breakfast. I was out here where I sleep”—nodding toward the hanger. “He
was hobblin’ right fast on them bad feet o’ hisn. Stops by the road an’
along comes that Mexican feller in town what runs the flivver at the
station, just like he had a date t’ meet Ramon. So the old feller gets
in an’ away they go toward Red Butte.”

Mr. Hampton’s face cleared.

“Oh, I suppose he wanted to go to Red Butte to order supplies,” he said.
“But it’s queer he didn’t say something about it at breakfast. Well,
come on, Jack. Let’s get going. You fellows will have to feed
yourselves, Tom. I think there’s plenty of food in the storehouse, and I
know how well you can cook flapjacks. So I guess you won’t starve before
Ramon gets back. We’ll be back tomorrow. Don Ferdinand wouldn’t let us
come back tonight, I know.”

Thereupon, at a nod from Jack, Tom and his assistant who was known as
“Whitey,” withdrew the wheel blocks. The motor was already well tuned,
everything was working satisfactorily. Jack glanced up at the
wind-indicator, noting that the take-off would be south, just as he was
headed. Then he advanced the throttle smoothly, being careful not to
over-feed the motor, and the graceful light plane instantly started
forward in response.

A quick shoot forward, then up. When his altimeter showed he was up
twelve hundred feet, and with everything running smoothly, Jack dropped
the flying field behind and headed away for the distant mountains within
which lay Don Ferdinand’s feudal estate.

Before starting he had suggested that his father should endeavor to call
Don Ferdinand on the radio from the plane. The German who once, in the
don’s belligerent days, had operated the radio outfit, long since had
taken his departure. But Jack had instructed Manuel Sanchez, an
intelligent young fellow of Don Ferdinand’s retainers, in the operation
of the radio station. He had even overhauled the two-way station himself
recently. If Manuel had succeeded in restoring the outfit to working
condition since Jack’s last visit, Mr. Hampton might be able to get a
response.

However, no response was received. And at the end of an hour and a half
of flying over bare untrodden desert country giving way to foothills,
Jack finally crossed the top of a low range and their destination
appeared in the valley below.

Jack swooped downward and leveled off a foot above the ground of the
flying field. Nobody came running, but that was nothing unusual. Since
Don Ferdinand had dispensed with his airplanes, the field was deserted.
Only when Jack departed after a visit could the men whom he had trained
to help in the take-off be found at hand. His hand dragged back on the
stick, and he dropped to the hard-packed sand for a perfect three-point
landing, wheels and tail-skid hitting together.

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.”




                              CHAPTER IV.
                        WORD FROM DON FERDINAND.


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.




                               CHAPTER V.
                             OFF TO LAREDO.


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.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                           HIT FROM THE REAR.


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.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                          DON FERDINAND AGAIN.


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.

“If you are acquainted with this man, Senor Jack,” he said excitedly,
pointing to Captain Cornell, “tell him I will pay for any damage, but he
must let me go. It is necessary. Ah, alas, though,” he groaned, “I fear
it is now too late. That devil has escaped again.”

Jack was bewildered. Finding Don Ferdinand here, in Nueva Laredo, when
the last heard of him he had disappeared from his home! All he could do
was to stare in astonishment. But Don Ferdinand who had spoken to Jack
in Spanish was wringing his hands in despair. Jack could not understand
why.

Bob and Frank, who had not seen the old Spanish aristocrat for a number
of years, had been slow to recognize him. But the conversation and
Jack’s use of the older man’s name brought back recollection. They
crowded forward and greeted him. He seemed like a man in a daze.

Then understanding suddenly came to Jack. Don Ferdinand had declared
“that devil has escaped again.” The light dawned. He had been chasing
that fellow in pursuit of whom he had left home and gone to the mine.
What was his name? Ramirez! Yes, Ramirez, that was it!

“Was it Ramirez, Don Ferdinand?” he demanded eagerly, elbowing Bob aside
to face his friend.

“Ssh.” Don Ferdinand put his finger to his lips. “Too late,” he said,
low-voiced. “He has escaped me. But let us not talk about it here. Come,
get into my car. But first I’ll pay this gentleman for his taxi,” he
said, pulling out a wallet. “Only,” he added glaring at Captain Cornell,
“he is a violent man. He put a revolver into my face and commanded me to
order my driver to return here.”

“Sorry,” apologized the flyer. Remembering his conversation with Jack at
the ranch regarding Don Ferdinand and his trouble at the mine with “that
devil Ramirez,” he also was putting two and two together out of the
conversation between the old aristocrat and Jack.

“Oh, I say, you two must be friends,” declared Jack, proceeding to
introduce them. “As for the damage to the taxi—” And leaving the
sentence unfinished, he reached for his own wallet.

But Don Ferdinand forestalled him. He thrust into the jehu’s hands a
sheaf of bills the size of which made the latter’s eyes bulge.

“Is that sufficient?” he snapped in English.

The taxi bandit made a grotesque bow.

“For that price,” he said, “the ol’ boat’s yourn.”

Don Ferdinand never even smiled, but beckoning the four young fellows to
follow, climbed into his car. Bob and Frank hung back, whispering. Then,
just as Jack was about to enter behind Don Ferdinand, they halted him.

“Say, Jack, we haven’t seen anything yet of the town,” explained Frank.
“And we’d like to. No use running away when we just came. As for the
taxi we can always get another to take us back across the Bridge, I
guess. Explain to Don Ferdinand, and then let the four of us knock
around as we intended to do.”

Jack considered, turning to Captain Cornell with a question in his eyes.
The latter nodded. He was young enough to enjoy a sightseeing tour and,
since they had all escaped unscathed from the crash, saw no reason to
return with their original purpose unfulfilled.

So Jack explained the situation to Don Ferdinand, adding that they were
staying at the Hamilton Hotel on the American side of the River, with
Mr. Hampton and Mr. Temple. He urged that Don Ferdinand, if he intended
to return across the River, call on those two older men—both of whom
were friends.

“Tonight I cannot, Jack,” said Don Ferdinand. “I am staying with friends
who expect me. This is their car. But tomorrow I shall give myself the
pleasure of calling upon you.”

“Good,” said Jack. “But”—as an afterthought—“come to the hotel before
three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, as we all would like to come back here
to see the bull fight.”

The old Don agreed to do so. Then with a bow all around, he gave the
word to his chauffeur, and the latter pulled out into the street, backed
and headed for the International Bridge.

Jack stood at the curb, gazing thoughtfully after the departing car.

“Now I wonder what brought him here, and I wonder about this mysterious
Mr. Ramirez,” he said.

He had told Bob and Frank before dinner about the mysterious events
transpiring at Don Ferdinand’s mine and about the latter’s
disappearance. Captain Cornell likewise knew. So Jack’s remark was
understood.

“Well, we’ll find out tomorrow,” said big Bob, stretching. “Come on,
lads. Let’s saunter a bit and take in the sights. There’s a hot dog
stand just ahead here, and I’m hungry enough to eat a kennel. That
little bounce seems to have given me an appetite. Step up, me byes, and
order your dogs, with mustard or without.”




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                       “IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS.”


Sleepy-eyed still after their late hours of the night before, the boys
met at a belated eleven o’clock breakfast in the dining room of the
hotel next morning. While they were dressing the Sunday morning church
bells had been ringing in their ears. At the table, Bob reported that
his father and Mr. Hampton had departed to attend church services.

“Tried to get me to go along,” said Bob, who was first of the boys to
arise, “but I wanted to wait around for you fellows.”

Truth to tell, Bob had had a hard time persuading his father that it
would be all right for them to attend the bull fight in the Mexican town
across the Border that afternoon. Mr. Temple was what would be termed an
old-fashioned man. To him attendance at a bull fight under any
circumstances was to be frowned on. And Sunday attendance was little
short of a sin. However, the youths were now at the age of discretion,
he pointed out, and could do as they pleased. Bob had pointed out that,
inasmuch as bull fights were not held except on a Sunday, this would be
their only opportunity to behold one. Then the matter had been dropped.

“Well, that was some night,” said Jack, between bites of grape fruit.
“Wonder when Don Ferdinand will show up and, likewise, what sort of
story he will have to tell.”

“It ought to be exciting,” said Frank. “Think of your finding him here,
on the trail of that fellow—what’s-his-name?”

“Ramirez,” said Jack. “I can’t get over the feeling, fellows, that we’re
in for a bit of excitement through our acquaintance with Don Ferdinand.”

“Aw, shucks,” yawned big Bob, stretching his arms widely. “Nothing’ll
happen. Nothing ever does happen.”

Frank looked at him, grinning. “You mean to say nothing ever happens to
us?”

“That’s my story,” said Bob, “and I’ll stick to it. Oh, we’ve had a few
little adventures in our lives, but that day’s gone. What’s there left?
Now that we’ve graduated, we’ll have to settle down in business. Pretty
soon some girl’ll come along and marry us, and then we’ll be raising
families and paying taxes and pew rent. Then we’ll be getting fatter and
fatter, and pretty soon some kid’ll say: ‘Him? Oh, he used to be in the
backfield for Yale—but that was a long time ago.’”

Jack and Frank gazed in amused astonishment at their big comrade, and
then as if with one accord burst into a hearty laugh. Bob’s drooping
expression did not change, however.

“Laugh, doggone ye,” he said. “But Dad’s been talking to me like a
father this morning. Said last night’s little ruckus convinced him I
ought to come to my senses and settle down. First thing you know, I’ll
be sitting in an office and learning the export trade. No, I mean it.
Nothing’s ever going to happen to us again—to me, anyhow.”

A bellboy came through the lobby calling. He poked his head in the
doorway, looked around, saw only the three at table, and was about to
withdraw, but thought better of it. Maybe the man he wanted was in that
group. He’d give one call, anyway.

“Mis-ter Hamp-ton,” he droned. “Mis-ter Hamp-ton.”

“Hey.” Jack leaped startled to his feet. “What is it?”

The bellboy advanced, holding out a telegram in a yellow envelope.

“Must be for your father,” suggested Frank.

Jack took it and read the typewritten superscription. “No, it’s for me.”

He handed the bellboy a tip, and the latter turned away. Then Jack slit
open the envelope, drew out the telegram and read it. The next moment,
he whirled to his companions, throwing the message down on the table
between them.

“Hum. Read that. Then say nothing exciting is going to happen.”

With quickened interest, Bob and Frank put their heads together and bent
to read. This is what they saw:

  “Do not look for me today. Important developments. Thousand pardons.

                                                                    “F.”

They looked up puzzled.

“F. must be Don Ferdinand,” said Jack. “Now d’you see?”

“All I can see is that he says he can’t be here,” said Bob.

Jack punched him disgustedly. “Wake up, Bob. If important developments
have occurred, it can only have to do with this fellow Ramirez. Don
Ferdinand was after him last night, when he smashed into our taxi and
was so delayed that he lost him. Now the old fire-eater has got track of
Ramirez again and is going after him.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with us?” grumbled Bob, whose pessimism
this morning was too deep to be quickly dispelled.

“Oh, Bob, don’t be so gloomy,” said Frank, his quick eager face alight.
“Jack’s right. I seem to smell excitement, and I’m sure that we’re going
to get into it some way.”

“That’s the way I feel, too,” said Jack. “Something’s going on,
something big, or else old Don Ferdinand wouldn’t be here. He’s trailed
Ramirez more than two hundred miles—probably on horseback. He had a
dozen armed men at his back when he started. Probably they’re somewhere
around. Something’s going to happen. I don’t know what. I can’t even
guess. But I’ll bet we get into it. Come on, you’ve finished breakfast.
Let’s get outside and get some air.”

Pushing back their chairs, the others rose and followed him into the
lobby. As they started for the elevator in order to ascend to their
rooms and get their hats preparatory to taking a stroll about Laredo,
Captain Cornell espied them. He was in civilian clothes—but this time,
his own. Crossing the lobby he joined them, and all four went up to the
sitting room of their suite.

Jack told the flyer of Don Ferdinand’s telegram, advancing his
explanation of it.

Captain Cornell displayed a quickened interest.

“Told you I was going to try and find out something about this fellow
Ramirez,” he said. “Well, this morning I bumped into Jack Hannaford on
my way here. Nobody knows anything about Ramirez, out at the field, by
the way. But Jack’s an old-timer. Used to be a Ranger. He’s the same man
who told me last night that the government was about to close the
International Bridge at nine o’clock at night hereafter.”

“‘Ramirez?’ said Hannaford, ‘Ramirez?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Would he
be a little fellow now, with blue powder burns on the left cheek an’ a
hooked nose like a poll parrot an’ a limp in ’is right leg?’

“I laughed. ‘How do I know what he looks like when I’ve never seen him?’

“‘Yes,’ said Jack, not one bit phased by my remark, ‘yes,’ that would be
him. An’ what would ye be after wantin’ with Ramirez? He’s a bad
hombre.’

“‘I gathered that much,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to find him. Somebody
else does, though. So he’s a bad hombre, Jack? How bad? Is he a Mexican
revolutionist?’

“‘Revolutionist?’ snorts Hannaford. ‘No, he ain’t no petty bandit
callin’ himself a General. He’s a bigger crook than that. Why, he’s the
biggest crook on the Border by all odds. Government’s been after him for
twenty years, but never could get the goods on him. You know all about
him. Why d’ye ask me?’

“‘Crook?’ said I. ‘How come, Hannaford?’

“‘Smuggler,’ said he.

“Then I did get excited, fellows. It all came back to me. I remembered
the name. When you first mentioned it, Jack, back there at your home it
sounded familiar. But like you I got to thinking of revolutionists. That
put me off the track. So now I said to Hannaford, ‘Look here. You mean
the Master Mind?’

“Hannaford snorted again. ‘Yeah, that’s what the newspapers call him.
But he ain’t any Master Mind. He’s just a doggone smart crook. But he’ll
get his some day. I only hope it’s on this side of the Line, so I can
get a crack at him. His gang croaked my old side-kick, years ago. Just
the same, you’ll have to admit he is smart. Why, he fools you boys of
the Border Patrol in your airplanes just as easy as he used to fool us
when we chased him on horseback. He’s smuggled everything from Chinamen
to diamonds in his time. What he’s up to now, I don’t know. You’re the
first that’s mentioned him in a year.’

“So then I asked Jack if that was true, if he hadn’t heard any rumors of
recent activity on the part of Ramirez, and he said he hadn’t. We talked
a little more, and then I came on here. Thought this much would be
interesting, anyhow, and that your friend Don Ferdinand might complete
the picture. Now here you get a telegram which as good as says he’s on
Ramirez’s track once more. Nothing to do but wait I guess.”

And the flyer subsided.

He had contributed real news, however. And their plans for a stroll
forgotten, the four talked on until the subject had been exhausted.

Then the conversation turned to Jack’s radio experiments, and Captain
Cornell, who was really interested despite his humorous lamentation that
he couldn’t understand anything at all about the subject, asked numerous
questions which Jack was kept busy answering.

Presently, acting on a sudden thought, Frank got up and unlocked a
trunk. Delving into it, he reappeared with a small square box. This he
placed on a table with an air of triumph, and throwing open the lid
stepped back, gesturing like a showman, and said: “Behold.”

“Looks like some kind of a radio set,” said Jack, examining the
contents. “And here, strapped in the lid, is a head-piece. Looks like
radio, tastes like radio, must be radio. What is it, Frank?”

“It’s just what you said. Only it’s a trick set. Had a little time last
Winter, and got to playing with an idea. Here, I’ll show.”

And carefully removing the whole business from the box, Frank proudly
held it up for inspection.

“Why,” said Captain Cornell, “it looks like some kind of a belt.”

“And that’s just what it is,” declared Frank.

“It’s a radio receiving set for hikers. It contains three ‘peanut’
tubes, Jack. See? And A and B batteries. I snap it around my waist. Like
this. See?”

There it was. A complete receiving set. Around the bottom of the broad
belt ran a shelf bracketed at right angle, and on it were the batteries,
the three little tubes, and the various dials.

“Here,” said Frank, pointing, “I hook on the head-phone. As for aerial,
this little loop turns the trick.” Lifting out what seemed to be the
bottom of the cabinet, he disclosed a tiny loop beneath, laid in a
shallow drawer. “And, Jack, you think you’re some punkins with your
experiments in long-distance receptivity. Well, how far do you think I
can receive?”

“I give up,” said Jack, laughing. “How far?”

“Two or three hundred miles,” Frank replied. “Pretty good, eh, what?”

“Certainly is,” said Jack. “Let me try it. Maybe, someone is
broadcasting now.”

“No use,” said Frank. “I took a look at the local paper this morning and
read the broadcasting program. Nothing on until 4 o’clock. And by then
we’ll be at the bull fight.”

“All right,” said Jack. “Take it along, and we’ll try it there. I want
to know whether it’ll work. If it does, we ought to get some fun out of
it.”

Frank promised to do so, and the set was replaced in the box. Then Mr.
Hampton and Mr. Temple returned, and the matter was forgotten in the
more important matter of explaining Don Ferdinand’s telegram and
repeating what Captain Cornell had learned about Ramirez from the former
Ranger.

“Hope nothing has happened to my old friend,” said Mr. Hampton
thoughtfully. “Didn’t give the address of the friends he’s staying with,
did he, Jack? No? Well, we can’t look him up there, then. Some rich
Mexican family living on the American side of the Border, I suppose.”

“Must be rich, all right,” agreed Captain Cornell. “That car and the
liveried chauffeur both spelled ready money.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hampton, “nothing for us to do then except to wait.
We’ll hear from Don Ferdinand sooner or later. But I do hope he doesn’t
endanger himself, if only for the sake of his daughter.” He looked
sidelong at Jack, but the latter appeared elaborately unconscious of
this mention of Rafaela. “Well,” sighed Mr. Hampton, then, “I hate to
appear to be getting old, but this heat certainly makes me feel sleepy.
Run along, you fellows, until time to go down into Nueva Laredo. I’m
going to take a nap.”




                              CHAPTER IX.
                            THE BULL FIGHT.


“Better come with us, Temple.”

Face beaded with perspiration because of the steaming heat, Mr. Hampton
stood by the bed on which his companion, partially disrobed, had thrown
himself. The draught created by the electric fan blew across him. Mr.
Temple shook his head.

“Not for a million dollars,” he said. “I’m fairly comfortable here, and
I know I wouldn’t be so at the bull fight. Besides, you know what I
think of bull fights.”

Mr. Hampton nodded. He was well aware that his friend frowned upon the
proposed jaunt into Mexico that afternoon.

“I know,” he said. “But we can’t forbid the boys to go. They’re too old
for that. Besides that’s not the way to inculcate principles, anyhow.
Furthermore, you have the wrong idea of bull fights, in a way. To these
Mexicans a bull fight is just the same as a baseball game to Americans.
Remember, I know the Latin temperament.” He paused, looking down a
moment, thoughtfully, at his companion. “The boys are young, Temple.
When we were their age, the prospects of a bull fight would have
appealed to us, too. Well”—turning with a resigned sigh toward the
door—“it certainly doesn’t appeal to me, but I reckon I shall have to go
along.”

And once more wiping his perspiring face, Mr. Hampton went out, closing
the door behind him.

He found the three youths and Captain Cornell awaiting him in the
steaming lobby, and all four went out and climbed into a waiting taxi,
whence they proceeded toward the International Bridge.

Other automobiles were streaming across the Bridge. The bull fight was
to be of more than customary interest, for two famous matadors were to
display their prowess in opposition to each other. One was Juan Salento,
idol of Mexico, and the other, Estramadura, famous Spanish matador, who,
fresh from triumphs in Madrid, was touring Mexico.

Through the crowded, dusty, ill-paved streets of Nueva Laredo went the
taxi. The crowd grew denser. On the sidewalks, a pushing, jostling,
eager mass of Mexicans with a thick sprinkling of Americans. Boys
running in the streets, barefoot, ragged, dark, darting in and out
between automobiles. Several times the hearts of the party were in their
mouths as little shavers seemed to escape being run over merely by a
hair’s breadth. Motor cars shot by them or darted from side streets with
reckless disregard, but fortunately no accidents occurred, although time
and again the members of the party expected to hear sounds of a crash.

As they neared the huge amphitheatre, Captain Cornell ordered the taxi
driver to drive to the shady entrance.

“On the shady side it costs four dollars a seat,” he said. “On the sunny
side it costs two. A big difference—but it’s worth it.”

They disembarked, passed through the gate in the middle of a swarming
crowd, and then mounted to the topmost tier of seats.

Under the midafternoon sun the huge amphitheatre was literally baking.
Heat waves shimmered above the sandy arena in the middle. Yet more than
ten thousand people were already seated in the banked-up tiers of seats,
while others were crowding up by every stairway.

“Look at the colors,” commented Jack. “I didn’t know there were that
many in existence.”

The peons on every hand were, in truth, arrayed as the lilies of the
field—in the most gorgeous raiment they possessed. They were out to make
holiday, and they were dressed for the part. The tiers, under the
glaring sun, looked like a vast flower display.

While the others were busied gazing here and there upon the strange and
unfamiliar scene, and laughing at the many laughable incidents which
kept constantly coming to their attention, Frank quietly went about a
certain task. He had brought with him his receiving set on a belt. He
opened up the box in which it was arranged, took it out, buckled it on,
adjusted the headphones, and then hooked up to the little loop aerial.
Sitting as he did on the top row of seats, with none behind him, and
flanked on either side by other members of his party, he was unobserved
by outsiders.

Jack and Bob on one side, Captain Cornell and Mr. Hampton on the other,
were all craning forward, gazing at the scene below, and paying him no
attention.

For a little while, until his adjustments were made, Frank fiddled with
the dials. Then, assured that everything was in good working order, he
leaned back, preparing to listen to whatever was in the air.

Presently Jack looked around as if to address some remark to him and for
the first time noticed what Frank was doing. He began to laugh.

“You’re a fine one,” he said. “Coming to a bull fight, and paying it no
attention, but preparing, instead, to listen in on some broadcasting
program. Hear anything?”

Frank took off the headphone.

“No,” he said, in a disappointed tone, “there isn’t a thing in the air
except some Morse. And I’m so rusty, I can’t make it out. Want to
listen?”

Jack stretched out a hand to take the headphones, but at that moment Bob
plucked his sleeve.

“Here they come, fellows. Look.”

Both youths lost any further interest in radio as they gazed into the
arena below.

“That’s Estramadura, the tall one in red,” explained Captain Cornell,
pointing. “And the little fellow in yellow is Juan Salento. Listen to
the yells.”

Wild cheering broke from the stands as the procession made its
preliminary circle of the arena. First came the two famous matadors.
They were followed at a little distance by the eight toreadors, marching
four abreast. Four picadors on horseback followed, blunt spears erect.
Last of all came a boy driving a team of mules. And in all the world
there was nobody so swollen with importance as that boy.

Laughingly, Mr. Hampton called attention to the lad.

“His job is to haul out the dead bulls,” explained Captain Cornell.
“Every Mexican boy in the audience would give his right eye to be in
that boy’s place. Many a famous matador has risen from just such an
apprenticeship, and some day that boy may be the idol of the populace.
Who knows? Certainly, you can count on it that he thinks he’ll become a
great man some day. Probably, he has a wooden sword, and practices the
matador’s strokes continually.”

Before the box occupied by the Mexican general commanding the garrison,
the matadors made their bow. Then the boy with the two mules retreated,
the picadors on horseback drew behind a barricade between the front tier
of seats and the arena, the toreadors with their capes scattered about
the arena, and Estramadura who was to kill the first bull lounged by
himself with a bored air.

On the topmost tier of seats on the shady side, five Americans leaned
forward almost as interested—yet not quite—as the thousands of Mexicans
about them. All that had gone before was merely a flourish. The drama
was now about to begin. Even the band, seated on a box near that of the
commandant, ceased blowing its horns and thumping its drums.

A door in the fence opened.

A huge black bull charged into the arena.

A moment the black bull stood with head down, nostrils quivering, eyes
flashing. Then he charged—straight toward the nearest toreador. The man
waited until the bull was perilously close, then flaunting his long cape
in front of the charging animal, leaped nimbly aside.

The bull became more enraged. This way and that he charged. Toreadors
whipped their capes across his eyes.

He became more accustomed to their tricks. The last three toreadors were
so hard-pressed that they were compelled to seek shelter by leaping over
the stout plank wall into the runway separating the lowest tiers of
seats from the arena.

Hysterical yelps of laughter bespoke the tenseness to which the crowd
was working itself up.

“Estramadura’s turn now,” shouted Captain Cornell to his companions,
raising his voice in order to make himself heard above the sudden roar
of applause.

The tall graceful Spaniard, clad all in red—red shoes, red stockings,
red silk knee breeches, red jacket, with a broad yellow sash and jaunty,
tri-cornered yellow cap, strolled lazily forth.

But he was not so lazy as his actions bespoke. Or, if lazy, was nimble.
Not for him the shelter of working near the wall. He moved to the middle
of the arena. The bull charged for him.

The three youths sucked in their breath. Would he let himself be gored?
How would he meet that charge? He was weaponless. The only thing he held
in his hands was a voluminous red cape.

The matador flicked out the cape with the merest movement of his hands,
as a boy flicks forth a marble. But that little movement sent the cape
fluttering wide before the eyes of the bull.

Yet Estramadura did not budge. He seemed rooted in the sand. The bull
bellowed, lowered his head, charged on.

By a sideways twist of his body, indescribably graceful, Estramadura
avoided the nearest horn of the maddened animal by an inch, and the
brute thundered on. The matador had not moved his feet.

A thunderous cheer shook the stands. Men leaped to their feet in a
frenzy. Hats were flung into the ring. Money fell gleaming upon the
arena sand.

Turning his back on the bull, Estramadura bowed. And as if their former
efforts were but a mere warming-up process, the spectators released
another volley of cheers far greater in volume.

The boys sat enthralled, uttering occasional ejaculations, not
particularly intended to be heard and going unanswered.

“Look at that, will you?”

“Graceful as a snake.”

“Some cheering, Bob. Beats the old football field.”

The bull had turned, was coming back. Again Estramadura awaited him. Out
whipped the cape, falling over the animal’s head, turning him around for
another charge. Estramadura did not shift his feet an inch.

Indescribably graceful he seemed, out there, under that blazing sun,
every action etched on the retina of the onlookers. The bull charged
again. Then Estramadura lifting his tri-cornered silk cap reached over
and hung it on one of the animal’s horns—without moving from his
position.

It was the wildest kind of daring, the utmost display of skill. And in
the yell of frenzied acclaim which went up was mingled many an American
as well as Mexican voice.

Then, as if at a signal from the matador, a picador dashed forward on
horseback, blunt spear leveled, and took and turned aside the bull’s
next charge. That gave the nearest toreador time to get into the game
once more, and he diverted the animal with his cape.

“Hey, Captain,” called Jack, leaning across Frank who intervened,
“where’s the matador going now—that daring fellow in red?”

Estramadura was moving toward the fence.

“He’s going to get his sword,” replied the army flyer. “Now he’ll give
the bull the coup-de-grace.”

An attendant respectfully tendered the weapon on a cushion. Estramadura
took it, bent it into an arch between his hands, then released the point
and the weapon sprang back. Flinging his cape over the sword, the
matador strolled gracefully back into the center of the arena.

Toreadors and picadors had left. Only the two opponents—the huge black
bull and the slender figure in red—were left in the arena.

Once more the bull charged his tormentor, and now Estramadura essayed a
manoeuvre which sent the stands into positive hysteria. Waiting until
the animal was almost upon him, he turned his back nonchalantly, at the
same time swaying to one side. And the bull went thundering by so close
that it seemed he brushed the man.

Back he came. And Estramadura, tossing the cloak at length aside, stood
with right leg advanced, right arm extended with the sword, measuring
his stroke. He was like a great drop of blood against the yellow
background of the sand. The sunlight on his blade turned it into a
ribbon of fire.

The bull charged. One short sharp “Ah” of irrepressible excitement ran
through the whole vast audience. Then silence.

This time Estramadura moved. He leaped aside and thrust downward through
the shoulder. The bull fell as if stricken by a thunderbolt in mid
career, and did not move. The matador’s sword had pierced his heart.

Then while the stands literally went wild, and the peons, aristocrats
and Americans thumped each other hysterically on the back, yelled
themselves hoarse and vied with each other in tossing money into the
arena, the three youths on the topmost tier looked at each other. Their
faces were flushed, eyes shining.

“I thought a bull fight was a terrible sight,” said Bob. “But could
anything be more graceful or daring than that?”

Above the uproar Captain Cornell, leaning close, made himself heard.
“You’ve seen the best in all Spain,” he said. “That means, probably, the
best in the world. The Mexican just can’t be up to that.”

But they did not get the opportunity to find out.




                               CHAPTER X.
                                RAMIREZ!


Estramadura was enjoying his triumph to the full. Bowing this way and
that, a slender, graceful figure, looking in his red costume like a
flash of fire against the sun-drenched yellow sands of the arena and the
colorful stands beyond, he showed no disposition to retire so long as
the ovation continued. And the hysterically delighted Mexicans
apparently did not intend to subside so long as they had breath to
cheer.

Minute after minute rolled by while the uproar continued and, if
anything, grew in volume. All about and below the little group of
Americans on the topmost tier of seats on the shady side of the arena
were men and women who apparently had become temporarily insane. At
least, so their actions would seem to indicate. They threw their arms
about each other in true Latin abandon. They sent straw sombreros
sailing out. Some fell in the arena, others on the heads of those below,
and when the latter accident occurred it merely tended to heighten the
general excitement. Silver pieces of various denominations spouted up
and out from the crowded stands to go whirling and sparkling in the
sunshine and fall to the floor of the arena where Estramadura’s
attendants scurried hither and thither, retrieving this largess of his
worshippers.

Doubtless, somewhere in the background waited Juan Salento, champion
matador of Mexico. But he was not in evidence. And doubtless he was
saying to himself that he would have to produce a sterling performance,
indeed, in order to bear comparison with the daring and skill of this
invader from Spain. But not a cry was as yet raised for him, not a voice
as yet pleaded for a resumption of the program. The populace still
thrilled to Estramadura’s deeds.

“Won’t they ever stop?” demanded Mr. Hampton of the army flyer. So
tremendous was the tumult that, even though there was none behind them,
and they were above the uproar, he had to bend close and raise his voice
in order to make himself heard.

Captain Cornell started to make some laughing response, but while he was
in the midst of it he felt a sharp tug of his arm. They were all
standing up in order to see above the heads of those below them who
likewise had risen to their feet and, in many cases had climbed upon the
seats.

Turning he saw the tug had been given by Frank, who was staring past him
to attract Mr. Hampton’s attention.

“Hey, what’s the matter? The fight got you excited, too?” he demanded,
noting the flush of excitement on Frank’s cheeks and the glitter in his
eyes.

“Jack wants you two to look. Down there, two rows below us and to the
left.”

Frank was shouting, although bending close to the pair on his right.

“He says that’s your cook—what’s-his-name—Ramon, Mr. Hampton. And he has
an idea, Captain, that the man with him is Ramirez.”

“Where? I don’t see,” cried Captain Cornell, staring.

But Mr. Hampton’s eye had picked out Ramon, and in a word or two he
directed the flyer so that the latter likewise saw.

Ramon was a true Mexican. Like his neighbors he had cast restraint aside
under the fever engendered by the recent exhibition in the arena below,
and he was standing up, cheering himself hoarse.

Having once located the old cook, the flyer’s glance passed on to the
man on Ramon’s left. His gaze narrowed. Then he gave a sharp
exclamation.

“D’you mean that’s Ramirez?” demanded Mr. Hampton, who had been watching
his companion.

“I don’t know,” confessed the flyer. “I never saw Ramirez. But I’d say
that that man certainly answers the description of the so-called ‘Master
Mind’ which Jack Hannaford, the old Ranger, gave me. Blue marks on his
cheek as if from powder burns and a nose beaked like a parrot’s. If I
could only see him walk now, and see whether he has a limp of the right
leg!”

All five stared intently at the unconscious pair who continued to whoop
it up along with the rest of their compatriots, as if they had no
thought in the world except to do honor to the Spanish matador. But
there is something compelling in the concentrated gaze upon the back of
one’s head of even one individual, something which frequently compels
the object of such attentions to face the quarter whence the stare
emanates. How much more compelling, then, if five persons fix their
minds and thoughts upon one poor human target! It was so with Ramon.

Suddenly he faced about a puzzled frown on his features. His eyes roamed
this way and that, as if searching. They passed unrecognizingly over the
faces of the flyer and of Bob and Frank. But then they lighted up with
recognition as they fell first upon Jack and then upon his father. With
recognition and with something more. What was it? Fear?

At any rate, Ramon suddenly turned back, gripped his companion by an arm
and began to address him. His words, of course, could not be heard by
the watchers above him, but that he was talking about them there could
be no manner of doubt.

“By golly,” exclaimed Jack, suddenly, leaning forward to call to his
father. “He’s recognized you and me. Duck, the rest of you. Let Ramirez
see only us when he looks.”

There was such a tone of command in Jack’s voice that instinctively his
listeners obeyed. They had only to sink back into their seats to be
protected from the burning gaze of Ramirez by the figures of those
standing up in their seats in the row between them, should the renegade
turn around. And turn around he did, a moment later, thus justifying
Jack’s precaution.

Obviously unwilling to face again the gaze of the Hamptons whom he had
left in the lurch when he deserted their desert household, Ramon,
nevertheless, faced about along with Ramirez. That he did so at the
latter’s command was plain to be seen, for Ramirez gripped the older man
by an arm. Ramon indicated his former employers, then dropped his gaze.
Not so Ramirez, however, whose deep eyes stared boldly, insolently, as
if he sought to engrave the features of the Hamptons in his memory.

Jack and his father withstood the scrutiny, which lasted only a moment,
and, in fact, did a bit of staring in return. The face of the renegade
was a mask of evil. Once seen, it would not soon be forgotten, Jack for
one felt assured. And he congratulated himself on his forethought in
persuading his companions to drop out of sight before Ramirez turned
that camera-like eye upon them. Otherwise Ramirez would have been able
to recognize them all again. And Jack had a feeling that somebody was
going to be needed to keep an eye on this fellow, as soon as the crowd
in the arena broke up and they all took their departure.

That Ramirez would wait until the ending of the event he did not
question. What was his surprise, therefore, to see the latter face about
and, gripping Ramon by an arm, start to make his way through the crowded
stand toward the nearest stairway exit.

Jack and his father looked at each other. Their thought was the same.
Ramirez and Ramon should be followed. But for either of them to shadow
the precious pair would be foolish, inasmuch as they were known.
Somebody else, someone of their companions, would have to play
detective, if the others were to be kept in sight.

The cheering continued. They were as much alone in that mass of frenzied
Mexicans as if on a desert island, so far as any recognition of their
presence extended. For Jack to have questioned his father would have
been perfectly safe. Nobody would have overheard who it was not intended
should overhear. But spoken words were unnecessary. A question was asked
and answered in glances alone.

Then Mr. Hampton bent down and addressed the flyer, acquainting him in a
few brief words with the fact that Ramon and Ramirez were leaving.

“They know both Jack and me,” he said, “so it would be useless for us to
follow them. But I’m worried about my friend Don Ferdinand. These men
may know something about him. At least we ought not to let them get out
of our sight, if we——”

Captain Cornell did not wait for further words. He climbed up on the
seat and prepared to make his way along it toward the stairway. A quick
glance showed him Ramirez and Ramon attempting to thrust their way
toward the same destination, and making heavy going of it because of the
densely packed mass of humanity that intervened. Another swift appraisal
brought out the fact that he would be able to reach the stairway well
ahead of them, in all likelihood, inasmuch as all the occupants of the
topmost row of seats were standing up, thus leaving the bench free for
him to walk on, with no interference such as Ramirez and Ramon were
experiencing from another row of persons above.

“Keep out of trouble,” warned Mr. Hampton anxiously, and the flyer
laughed. “We’ll be waiting at the hotel to hear from you.”

As the Border Patrol man darted away along the bench, hastening so as to
accomplish his purpose before the occupants resumed their seats, Bob who
was the last in line of the party swung up behind him.

“The Army can’t get all the fun,” he chuckled, brushing aside the
restraining hand which Jack instinctively thrust out to halt him.

A moment later he was too far away to be dragged back, and all his
companions could do was to stare after him with mouths open in dismay.

“No, you don’t, Frank,” said Mr. Hampton suddenly, making a dive for
Frank. The latter had attempted to climb up on the seat and set off in
pursuit of his big pal.

“Come on, Mr. Hampton,” begged Frank, “be a Sport.”

The older man shook his head.

“Two will be plenty for the job,” he said. “I wish Bob hadn’t gone, and
I’d have stopped him if I could. I hope no trouble comes of it. And I
suppose Bob will be all right, because Captain Cornell can get help by
making his rank known, in case the necessity of an appeal to the Mexican
police arises. Nevertheless, I won’t be comfortable until I hear from
Bob and the army man again. And I’d feel even more uncomfortable if you
had gone, too.”

“Oh, I say,” protested Frank. “I can take care of myself as well as
Bob.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Mr. Hampton. “The truth is you probably can take
care of yourself better than Bob, that is you think a bit faster. I
didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But, there. Cornell and Bob, as you
see, have reached the stairway and disappeared down it, while Ramirez
and Ramon are still ten or twelve feet distant and held up by the crowd.
That’s good. Our boys will be able to wait for them outside, and should
manage to follow them without arousing suspicion.”

“I was thinking of Don Ferdinand, Dad,” said Jack. “And so were you, I
could tell. I wonder now whether Ramirez is really mixed up with the
Don’s failure to keep his appointment with us today?”

“I’d say he was,” said Frank. “Remember that telegram spoke of
‘important developments’.”

Mr. Hampton nodded. “Yes, and that’s why I thought it would be wise for
Cornell to trail those two rascals. But I can’t help wishing that Bob
hadn’t gone.”

“Well, it’s too late to be mended now,” said Jack, practically. “There.
Ramirez and Ramon also have reached the stairway. There, they have
started down. It’s a good thing Bob and Captain Cornell were so situated
that they managed to get down first. It certainly will make matters
easier for them.”

Mr. Hampton nodded. “Yes, and a good thing they got away when they did,
for, see, the crowd is beginning to subside at last.”

The boys gazed below them at the stands. Many still shouted, but large
sections were desisting and beginning to sink back into their seats. As
for Estramadura, the matador, he had disappeared. The corpse of the
slain bull likewise had been removed while their attention was otherwise
engaged, without their having been aware of what was transpiring in the
arena.

“Now I expect this other matador, the Mexican, Juan Salento, will have
his chance to show his prowess,” said Mr. Hampton. “Well, I suppose we
may as well see it out. We’d have a hard time leaving now, anyhow, for
once the next bull fight begins it would be much as our lives would be
worth to try to pass in front of these fellows in making our way to the
exit.”

They resumed their seats, and Jack leaning over the parapet behind them
searched the ground far below for signs of his companions or their
quarry but without success. The exit was hidden from his view. Then he
turned back to Frank and seeing the latter’s woe-begone expression he
burst into a laugh.

“Brace up, old thing,” he said, slapping Frank on the back. “I feel just
as bad about being left behind as you. But what must be, must. We’ll
have our chance yet, never fear. I feel in my bones that something is
going on that spells action for us.”




                              CHAPTER XI.
                             COMMANDEERED.


Bob and Captain Cornell bounded down the long stairway at a breakneck
pace, but one which, fortunately, did not succeed in mishap, and
emerging upon a rutted dirt roadway on the shaded side of the huge
amphitheatre, paused to catch breath and take their bearings.

Through the lucky circumstance of having been on the topmost row of
seats, they had been enabled to reach the stairway ahead of Ramirez and
Ramon. They had brushed by the guard at the head of the stairs without
that barefooted swarthy devotee of the bull fight even being aware of
their departure.

The army man was first to reach the outside, and he was taking a rapid
survey of the surroundings when Bob came to a halt beside him. Big Bob
was still chuckling over the neat way in which he had managed to take a
hand in the adventure, knowing well that a moment more and Mr. Hampton
would have laid on him an injunction to stay which he would not have
cared to disobey, and fully and keenly aware, besides, that right now
Jack and Frank were filled with envy of him.

What they saw was a broad straggling roadway encircling the amphitheatre
which stood on the edge of town. The last houses of Nueva Laredo lay to
their left and some distance away, too far to afford cover in case they
wanted to hide while spying on the movements of the two Mexicans who any
moment would appear behind them.

Across the roadway, however, were parked hundreds of automobiles whose
owners, Americans and Mexicans, were somewhere in the crowd watching the
bull fight. Captain Cornell’s roving glance fell on these cars, and he
made a quick decision.

“Come on.”

He raced diagonally toward the parked cars, running toward the right in
order to get out of the range of vision of anyone descending the stairs.

First casting a quick glance behind him and noting that Ramirez and
Ramon had not yet come into view, Bob followed. Captain Cornell ducked
in behind the first of the cars, a disreputable member of a universally
known family, and halted. Bob was hard on his heels.

“What now?” asked Bob, with a laugh.

Without waiting for the other’s reply he ran an appraising eye over the
parked cars. They presented a far different sight from an orderly
automobile park in any American city, for they were scattered about the
uneven hummocky surface of a sandy field in what looked like
inextricable confusion. Nor were any caretakers in sight. As a matter of
fact, all male human beings and a good many of the other sex who were
anywhere near that amphitheatre were inside of it. Who cared to watch
automobiles when he could watch a bull fight, instead!

At that moment a renewed outburst of cheering signalized the advent in
the arena of the bull which Juan Salento would be called on to fight,
and big Bob heaved a sigh.

“Golly, listen to that. Did we come out here on a wild goose chase? I
don’t believe those two rascals are going to appear, after all. And
we’ll go and miss the fight.”

But hardly had he completed his lament than Captain Cornell’s warning
voice ordered him to stoop below the side of the car, and Bob crouched
down. None too soon, if he wanted to escape being seen, for two figures
emerged from the exit and stood looking about. There was no mistaking
them.

Bob was too busy watching through eyes which just topped the side of the
car that hid him from view, to talk. He wondered what they would do, but
was not long left in doubt. Apparently satisfied, after a long look
behind him up the stairway, that he was not for the moment pursued,
Ramirez started to cross the road.

He did not head directly toward the position where the two Americans
crouched in hiding, but, instead, made an almost straight line from the
exit. This enabled the two in hiding to keep the body of the car between
them. Ramirez would reach the parked cars, however, not twenty-five feet
away.

Captain Cornell did some rapid thinking. How to keep his quarry in sight
would be a problem if, as he suspected, Ramirez got into his own car.
The two Mexicans would drive off, and—

“Hey,” whispered Bob, “if they have a car here, we’ll be out of luck,
unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we steal one and follow. This flivver right here isn’t locked.
And you can start her battery with almost any old key,” said Bob.

“Good boy,” approved the army man. “We may have to do that very thing.
Some poor devil would be out a car, but, of course, we could square
that. And there’s not much chance,” he added, thinking fast, “that he’d
discover his loss and start the police on our track before the end of
the bull fight. By which time we ought to be all right, hey?”

“Wonder what’s the matter now?” Bob whispered, disregarding the other’s
remarks. He raised his head a trifle, cautiously, staring toward Ramirez
and Ramon.

Captain Cornell did likewise.

The two Mexicans had halted in front of a car of midnight blue,
long-snouted, with German nickel trimmings. It stood on the edge of the
parked cars, indicating its owner had arrived early at the bull fight.
Late comers had been forced to go farther along the road or to burrow
deeper into the field. Here, with one foot on the running board and a
hand extended to grasp the handle of the left front door, Ramirez paused
and, facing about, appeared to be scolding his companion.

“He’s certainly giving that old fellow, Ramon, fits about something,”
whispered Bob. “Wish I could hear what he’s saying.”

That a disagreement of some sort had arisen between the two Mexicans was
plain. Old Ramon stood with hanging head, just out of reach of Ramirez,
while the latter berated him in a voice too low for the words to carry
to the eager ears of the two watchers.

Bob strained his ears to hear, but that Captain Cornell’s thoughts were
otherwise engaged was evidenced when he suddenly emitted a sharp
exclamation under his breath, and then squeezed Bob’s arm.

“Doesn’t that car look familiar to you?” he demanded.

“Why, I don’t know.” Bob was puzzled. There was something vaguely
familiar about the appearance of the big car beside which Ramirez stood,
yet he could not identify what it was.

“Well, it looks familiar to me,” said the flyer in an excited undertone.
“That’s the car your friend Don Ferdinand was riding in last night when
he bumped us, or I miss my guess. Look again.”

“Golly,” breathed Bob, “you’re right.”

“You bet I’m right.”

“But how—”

“Yes, how? How does this rascal Ramirez happen to be driving it today?
Didn’t Don Ferdinand say he was visiting friends and either tell us
outright or else leave us to infer that the car belonged to those
friends?”

“That’s what.”

“Well, then, how does Ramirez happen to be here in it? Say, young
feller, this is certainly worth investigation. The plot thickens. I
wonder—” The flyer suddenly ceased talking.

“Wonder what?” asked Bob, who did not take his eyes from the two
Mexicans, and was interested to note that Ramirez had advanced
threateningly toward Ramon who, in turn, had backed away.

“Why, I wonder if your friend, Don Ferdinand, really is playing a deep
game, and is in cahoots with this Ramirez.”

Bob shook his head. “Oh, that’s a bit too thick, Captain, if you don’t
mind my saying so.”

“Yes,” admitted the Captain, “you’re probably right. But what then? How
account for that car?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Don Ferdinand is in trouble, captured, killed.”
Bob’s voice grew troubled. “He’s such a reckless old firebrand. And this
fellow Ramirez looks like a bad hombre.”

“He is a bad hombre,” said the army flyer. “There.” His hand gripped
Bob’s arm. “Look at that. By George, I can’t let that—”

And without finishing his sentence, he whipped out his service automatic
and would have darted into the open, but for the fact that Bob by main
strength restrained him.

“Hold on, you hot head,” said Bob. “He’s putting up his gun already.
Ramon is giving in. You sure would have spilled the beans.” And he wiped
his face, on which the perspiration had suddenly broke forth.

Captain Cornell looked a trifle shame-faced, yet defiant, as he slid his
weapon back into its scabbard.

The little drama which had so roused him was over. Although unable to
hear what was said between the two Mexicans, the watchers guessed at the
meaning of the tableau which had just played itself out. Ramon
apparently had been reluctant to accompany Ramirez further. The latter
had argued. Then he had whipped out a revolver. It was this which had
caused Captain Cornell to start to take a hand. But Ramirez had needed
only to display his weapon. Ramon had yielded. Already he was in the
front seat, and Ramirez was climbing to his seat behind the wheel.

“Hate to steal a car,” said the flyer grimly, as Ramirez started his
motor. “But I reckon we’ll have to do it. Of course, we can find the
owner later and square it with him. But Ramirez mustn’t escape, with the
fate of your friend, Don Ferdinand, undecided.”

Bob nodded, his lips grimly compressed.

With a roar, the big blue car pulled out into the rutted road, and
started away in the opposite direction from them—the direction toward
town. So worn was the road that Ramirez apparently was keeping the car
in low gear and not making much speed. It was that fact which decided
Bob. There would be a possibility of keeping the fugitive in sight.

He vaulted into the flivver.

“I’ve got a key here that I think will switch on the juice,” he said,
bending toward the dash board of the ancient vehicle. “You get around
front, Captain, and crank her. No self-starter on this model. Must be
the vintage of ’76. Hurray,” he shouted the next moment, caution
forgotten, “the switch is on. Now give her a twirl, and look out for the
kick.”

Captain Cornell leaped to the front, seized the crank and began to spin
it. One turn, two, without result. He cast a glance of dismay toward the
disappearing car bearing Ramirez and Ramon away. Then he gave the crank
another desperate turn. This time the response was instant. There was a
sputter. Bob fed more gas. Then the engine broke into a roar, and the
old car shook and rattled as if with ague.

“All aboard,” sang out Bob, who was now in the grip of the spirit of
adventure, and had cast scruples to the wind. They needed a car, and
Captain Cornell was an American Army officer. They could commandeer this
flivver, if they wanted to! While Bob was thus consoling himself, he was
at the same time steering the car out into the road.

Captain Cornell leaped into place beside him, just as the big blue car
rounded the distant curve of the amphitheatre.

“Give her the gas,” shouted the flyer. “Let’s go.”




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          A HOUSE OF MYSTERY.


They went.

As Bob raced down the rutted roadway, there were only two thoughts in
his head. Would they be able to keep Ramirez in sight? And would their
commandeered car hold together? It creaked, groaned, squeaked, grated,
whined and wheezed, but—it covered the ground. And, gaining confidence
in his vehicle, Bob opened the throttle to its fullest extent. The
ancient car seemed to leap from ridge to ridge of the rutted road like a
mountain goat jumping from crag to crag. And like the goat it made most
amazing speed.

So much so, in fact, that when again Bob caught sight of the midnight
blue car ahead, he had gained on it. His first question was answered. At
this rate of speed he most certainly would be able to keep Ramirez in
sight. In fact, he cut down his speed in order not to close upon Ramirez
to the point where he might arouse the latter’s suspicion.

Thus the two cars, parted by the length of a city block, burrowed by
means of the bumpy dirt streets deep into Nueva Laredo. The sun shone
hot and dust, whirled up by a brisk wind and further stirred by their
passage, settled upon them in choking clouds. Here and there some
ancient crone slumbered in the open doorway of a hut, seeking the
comparative coolness created by the draught of heated air through the
doorway. But otherwise the streets were deserted. Everybody who could
walk, crawl or ride had gone to the bull fight.

This way and that bounced Captain Cornell on the frayed seat beside Bob.

“Great guns, boy, take it a little easier, can’t you?” he pleaded in
gasps.

Bob clutched the wheel more tightly as a hole in the road almost twisted
it from his grasp.

“Slow up and we’ll lose ’em,” he said.

The flyer groaned.

“Expect that’s right,” he managed to say between gasps. “Ouch. Have a
heart. How are they getting away with this pace? That’s what I’d like to
know.”

“Balloon tires on that baby,” said Bob, “and snubbers. They’re riding in
a Pullman and—”

“And we’re in a freight car,” groaned the flyer.

“Don’t find fault with the gift horse,” laughed Bob, narrowly avoiding a
particularly atrocious hole with the front wheels of his chariot of joy
only to flop into it with the rear wheels.

Captain Cornell almost bounced out of the car.

“Have a heart, Bob,” he begged.

But Bob held grimly on. They were on the outskirts of the town now. For
the last several blocks they had been driving through a particularly low
quarter. The huts were of the poorest, being mere jumbled collections of
shingles and tin or of ’dobe, with here and there a little patch of
desert grass enclosed in a rickety picket fence before the more
pretentious. As if satisfied with having done its worst, with that last
dreadful jouncing given them, the roadway had become a little better.
Bob was still keeping his distance of a block behind the leading car. He
was wondering whether Ramirez and Ramon were aware of his presence
behind them and, if so, whether their suspicions were aroused. He was
likewise beginning to ask himself whether the chase would lead beyond
the outskirts which now loomed ahead, the thinning out of the houses
giving warning of approach to the open country beyond.

“If they lead us out into the country we’ll be out of luck,” he
commented. “Don’t know how much gas we have. Probably not much. That’s
always the way when you need it. We’d look fine, wouldn’t we, if we got
ten or twenty miles down into Mexico and the old bus died on us?
Besides, if we get out of town, they certainly will know we’re following
’em.”

“Uh-huh.” Captain Cornell grunted. He was thinking along similar lines.

“Maybe, they’re not suspicious of us yet, however,” Bob said, as another
thought came to him. “Notice we haven’t turned any corners for blocks?
Sticking to a straight road that way, it doesn’t look so much as if we
were following them. Might just be going the same way.”

The car ahead slowed down before a two-story frame house on the right
hand side, and halted alongside the wooden fence enclosing a small
weed-grown plot of ground in front. The house stood in the next block. A
street intervened.

“Turn right up this street,” commanded Captain Cornell quickly, and big
Bob complied without asking why.

At the same time he slowed down, but the flyer shook his head.

“Keep going until the next cross street, then turn left and we’ll stop.
That way, if they’re watching us, we’ll get out of sight. Then we can
leave the car and sneak back to have a look from cover at that house.”

Bob turned the next corner, finding himself in a street as deserted as
any they had passed through, and with only a few houses in the block.
All were mere huts. Not a person, man, woman or child, was in sight. The
only signs of life were a few chickens pecking dispiritedly at the
ground under a drooping pepper tree in the shade of which Bob brought
the car to a stop.

“Whew,” he ejaculated, whipping out a handkerchief and wiping his
streaming face. “That was what you might call a real joy ride.” He
climbed out and looked curiously at the springs of the old car. They
were rust-covered but sound. Bob shook his head, marvelling. “How those
springs stood it, I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on. Let’s hurry,” said the flyer. “We’ll hike up to the next
corner and then turn back toward the street we left them on. That’ll put
us beyond them and, unless they’re watching for us, we ought to be able
to spy on that house without much trouble.”

Bob fell into step beside his companion and they moved along briskly
despite the oven-like heat which brought out a profuse perspiration
before they had taken a half dozen paces.

Turning the corner to the left, they saw open ahead of them a somewhat
more pretentious street. At least, it possessed a plank sidewalk upon
that side along which they proceeded, and the houses, which were more
numerous, seemed better built and the enclosures before them were better
kept.

Captain Cornell’s glance roving above the low line of the single-story
’dobe houses was quick to observe the rear of a two-story house on the
intersecting street ahead, and he called Bob’s attention with the
remark:

“There’s the house. Maybe, we can find a vacant lot ahead which will
permit us to approach it from the rear.”

But Bob paid little attention for at that moment he, too was noting
something of interest—nothing less, in fact, than a lofty three-strand
aerial of considerable extent in the rear of a small ’dobe house which
they were approaching. As they drew abreast of the swinging gate in the
picket fence which, for a wonder, was not a-dangle from only one hinge,
but was neat and trim as were all the immediate surroundings of the
place, a boy in his ’teens stepped to the door and glanced at them
inquiringly.

Acting on impulse, Bob halted at the gate and, smiling at the lad, whose
dark, olive-tinted face was bright and intelligent in expression, he
pointed toward the aerial and asked in Spanish:

“Radio? You have a receiving set?”

“Oh, yes, senor,” the boy replied, moving forward a step or two, “but
more than that, I send, too. I have a two-way station.”

Captain Cornell had halted a step of two beyond Bob. No man on the
Border Patrol could go long without acquiring a knowledge of Spanish,
and as a matter of fact he had fluent command of the language. He
understood, therefore, the nature of the remarks exchanged by Bob and
the young Mexican lad, but he wasn’t interested. His thoughts were taken
up with the problem of how to approach the rear of that house of mystery
without detection. So now he turned to Bob with a trace of impatience
and said in English:

“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

Bob glanced aside so that the Mexican boy would not observe and winked
by way of reply. Captain Cornell was mystified, he didn’t understand.
But he had a good deal of respect for his companion, little though he
knew him, so he decided to hold his hand a moment until he could
discover what Bob had in mind. For that Bob was up to something, he felt
assured. He moved closer.

Bob laughed, leaning on the gate as if he had nothing in the world to do
but exchange pleasant conversation with the Mexican boy.

“Radio certainly is fascinating,” he replied in Spanish. “But I
shouldn’t have thought it would keep you from the bull fight.”

“You are an American, senor, aren’t you?” asked the boy, a trace of
scorn on his features. “The senor speaks my language well. But I can
tell. Well, that accounts for your mistake. Not all Mexicans are
animals.”

“Oh, here, here,” cut in Bob, apologetically, “I didn’t mean any harm.
Why, I’ve just come from the bull fight myself, and I thought it mighty
exciting.”

The boy’s expression became somewhat mollified.

“You see,” Bob hurried on, anxious to overcome the bad impression he
obviously had created, and still a bit puzzled as to just why the boy
had taken offense; “you see,” he said, “I, myself, am a radio
enthusiast, and I know just how wrapped up in it a fellow can become.”

“Oh,” the boy moved closer. “The senor Americano will forgive my hasty
temper. You see, he added, breaking into more hurried speech, “my mother
is a widow who lets me do as I will in working with radio. But all her
friends, they say”—and he shrugged—“they say she is foolish, touched in
the head, to let me do so. They say, senor, that the good God did not
want us to hear through the air for long distances or he would have
equipped our ears. They say what I do is sacrilege.”

He laughed with a touch of bitterness.

Bob was taken aback. He saw now why his remark about the bull fight had
given offence. The boy was embittered against people of his own race.
Poor kid, thought Bob, what a tough time he must have! Fortunately his
mother supported him. Though how a Mexican widow, living in this poor
quarter of the town, should possess enough money to enable her son to
indulge his hobby was a facer.

While he still struggled mentally for a reply, Captain Cornell cut in
with:

“Come on, Bob. They’ll get away, maybe. Thought you had something up
your sleeve! But just chinning this kid isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Bob saw he would have to inform his companion of what was in his mind,
so he replied rapidly:

“Just a minute, Captain. What I wanted was to get the boy’s interest and
then ask him about that house.”

“Oh.” Captain Cornell saw the light, and his impatience in a measure
abated.

“Well,” said Bob, addressing the boy again, “my friend here is anxious
to be gone, so I suppose I’ll have to stop. I’d like to talk some more
to you about radio, though. Maybe, some time, you’ll let me have a look
at your set.”

“Oh, yes, senor,” said the boy, all eagerness. “Right now, if the senor
wishes.”

“No,” said Bob, “I’ll have to be moving. By the way, though,” he added,
letting his glance rove toward the rear of the two-story house on the
next street, the upper windows of which could be seen above the low
’dobe adjoining the boy’s home; “by the way, though, do you know who
happens to live in that house?”

The boy stepped closer, in order to face about and see what place Bob
was indicating.

“Oh, that house. Why, senor, it is somewhat of a mystery in this
neighborhood. A Japanese gentleman lives there, and many Japanese come
and go continually. But none of us has ever spoken to those people. The
windows, as you see, are always shuttered.”

He turned around to face Bob and drew closer. Instinctively, his voice
dropped as he added:

“Every now and then there are many cars which come up there at night and
then depart—nobody knows where. They are closed cars. And last night,
senor, there was a scream, a terrible scream. I was sitting up very late
at my radio, and had just gone to the door to get a breath of air. Then
I heard it.”

“Hey, Captain,” said Bob, excitedly, turning to his companion, “hear
that?”




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                     CAPTAIN CORNELL INVESTIGATES.


Indeed, Captain Cornell had heard, and he immediately moved into place
at the gate beside Bob and began asking excited questions in Spanish.
Was it a man or a woman who screamed? A man? Oh, and the Captain’s face
betrayed disappointment. Mere mention of the fact that a scream had
shattered the midnight quiet in this remote quarter had aroused his
sense of the romantic to a point where, with nothing else to go on, he
had imagined the beginnings of a pretty mystery centering about a damsel
in distress.

What a come-down to find not a woman but a man had screamed! Still he
was an incorrigible romanticist. His imagination leaped to other
possibilities. He shot other questions at the boy. There had been a
fight, not so? Shots had been fired? The Mexican police had appeared on
the scene?

But to all these questions the boy shook his head by way of reply. No,
nothing. Only that first blood-curdling scream, such a scream as made
the hair stand on end. He, Juan Salazar, was his mother’s sole defender.
He had therefore not deemed it advisable to leave the house defenceless
and go to investigate. And at that statement, both Bob and Captain
Cornell found it difficult to repress their smiles. But they managed to
do so and thus avoided giving the boy deadly offense. On the contrary,
continued the boy, he had withdrawn indoors, barred the door and put out
his light in order not to call attention to his house, in case—in case——

Captain Cornell came to the youth’s rescue with a grave nod.

“That was the right thing to do.”

“But, oh, the senor must believe me,” said the boy. “It was a terrible
scream.”

Bob and the flyer looked at each other. “Couldn’t have been Don
Ferdinand,” said Bob. “He didn’t disappear until this morning. At least,
it was only a few hours ago that we got his telegram.”

“Mind reader,” accused the flyer. “That’s just what I was thinking of.
But—then who was it?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Bob. And then a daring light came into his eyes.
“What do you say to our making an investigation?”

“Huh. How?”

“Why—why—I don’t know. How would you go about it? Just mosey up to the
door and say to whoever comes: ‘Who made that noise last night?’”

The flyer gave a short laugh. “We’d get far, wouldn’t we?”

“Well, we might go up to the front door and ask to see Don Ferdinand.
Just say we noticed his car in the street and dropped in to see him.”

“Huh.” The flyer grunted disgustedly. “You’ll have to do better than
that.”

“Well, then, think of something yourself,” said Bob. “What’s the matter
with that last idea, anyhow? We’ve got—no, by George, I haven’t any
weapon. But you’ve got your service automatic. I know, because you
pulled it out back there outside the bull ring. We’d certainly take ’em
by surprise, and something might come of it.”

Captain Cornell shook his head pityingly. “You’ve been out in this sun
too long, old man,” he said.

While this semi-humorous conversation had been going on, the Mexican boy
had withdrawn a short distance and stood with his hands thrust into his
pockets and his eyes bent toward the ground in thoughtful contemplation.
Now he looked up and glancing toward Bob said:

“The Americano might like to know that there is something strange about
that house. I found it out by accident one day. On that street
beyond”—pointing toward the lane on which the two Americans had
abandoned their commandeered car—“there is a deserted house. It is only
a poor sort of place of ’dobe. But one day I saw a man come out of it,
carefully, looking around as if to make sure he was not observed. So,
then, I happened to pass that house later and, seeing that it was a time
when nobody was in sight, I tried the door. It was open, and I went in.
There, senor, I found a trap door which I opened. Beneath it were steps.
I even went down them and found at the foot a tunnel. Senor, it was
really none of my business, so I did not investigate farther. But that
tunnel leads to the house of the Japanese.”

“Hey? How do you know?” barked Captain Cornell.

Conscious that he held their interest, the boy regarded the flyer with a
superior air. Then he unbent. What good was it to possess a secret, if
you couldn’t share it?

“Oh, senor, that is not difficult,” he said. “The man who came out of
the door of the little house was a man I had seen entering the house of
the Japanese. He is of my race, and he has a crooked nose and a limp of
the right leg. I could not be mistaken.”

“Ramirez,” ejaculated Bob, and Captain Cornell nodded.

“You know this man?” asked the boy quickly.

“Yes,” said Bob hastily, “we know of him. He is a rascal.”

As for Captain Cornell, he appeared to be lost in thought. After a long
moment he turned to Bob. “Well, we’re on the track of something, that’s
sure. Let’s walk up to the corner and see if the car we followed is
still there. Then we can talk it over. Guess, we’ve learned all we can
from this kid.”

Bob nodded, and turning to the Mexican lad he again dropped a warm word
about radio, promising to return some time and examine the boy’s
apparatus. The lad beamed, his earlier offended state forgotten. Then
Bob and the flyer walked briskly toward the distant street intersection,
a long block away.

“What do you make of this?” Bob asked. “This house owned by a
Japanese—with lots of other Japanese there—people driving away at
night—the secret passage—that scream last night?”

“I don’t know,” confessed the flyer. “I’m beginning to get the
glimmerings of a vague suspicion. Not all we have learned, however, fits
in with it.”

“What is it?” pressed Bob.

“Not worth mentioning yet,” said the flyer. “But here’s the corner. Now
for a look—see.” And halting at the edge of a building on the corner, he
peered around it and along the length of the thoroughfare down which
they had jounced and jolted not long before.

Bob likewise stole a glance from shelter, chuckling as he did so.

“We must look like a couple of conspirators in a melodrama,” he said,
“pussyfooting up to the corner and then poking our heads out this way.
Good thing everybody’s gone to the bull fight or we’d rouse somebody’s
suspicions and, maybe, have the place down about our ears. But there
isn’t a soul to see us. The place is like a village of the dead.”

Little enough, however, was there to see. The long street was deserted
as far as the eye could rove. It lay baking under the late afternoon
sun, and the only object of interest anywhere apparent was what they had
looked to find—the handsome car midway down the block.

“Calle Lebertad,” read a battered and defaced street sign on a post on
the opposite side of the street. Doubtless, a similar sign appeared on
the post ahead of them on their corner, but, as it faced outward, they
could not note it. Bob called the flyer’s attention to the sign,
remarking that at least they now knew what street the mysterious house
stood on.

“A lotta good that does us,” said Captain Cornell, slangily, in disgust.
“I’d like to get closer to that house, Bob. I have a hunch we might
overhear something.”

“So would I?” Bob promptly agreed. “I’ll bet Don Ferdinand is in there,
and I’d like to get him out.”

“Not much chance of that right now,” said the flyer. He was silent,
thinking. Finally he gave a decisive little nod. “By George, it’s better
than doing nothing.”

“What is? Shall we have a try at storming the place?”

“No, of course not. But I think I’ll take a stroll down the street.
Maybe I’ll hear something. The house is isolated. It’s probably open on
account of this heat. If people are talking inside, I may catch a hint
of what’s going on.”

“You’ll take a stroll?” said Bob. “Why not ‘we’?”

“No, I’ll go alone. Best not to put our eggs in one basket. Besides if
by any chance, somebody jumps me, I’ve got a gun and can defend myself.
You haven’t.”

“Huh. Guess I can swing a mean fist.”

The flyer grinned. “Nothing doing. I’ve got charge of this expedition,
and orders are that you stay here and watch me. Besides, if I get into
trouble, you’ll be free to bring aid, while if you were along and we
both were done in—just supposing the worst that might happen—where would
your friends look for us?”

Bob grumbled, only half-convinced.

“I’ll stroll around the block and join you here again,” said the flyer.
“Nothing’s going to happen. Really, there’s not much sense in my going,
only I do feel that there’s a chance of learning something. In case
anything does happen to me, hop back to our stolen flivver and light out
for Laredo and when you get near the Bridge abandon the car so that you
won’t be stopped in case the owner has sent out a police warning. We’ll
square accounts for that car later. Cross the Bridge and go to the
nearest telephone and call the Border Patrol. Ask for Captain Murray.
Remember that name, Murray. Tell him what’s what, and he’ll attend to
the rest. And don’t by any chance make the mistake of trying to come to
my rescue single-handed, because without a gun you’d be a goner. And
you’d be throwing away my chance, too. I don’t think anything’s going to
happen, but if it does, I want to be sure you’ll stick to that plan. How
about it?”

“Oh, all right,” said Bob, ungraciously. “I’ll do as you say. Only you
must see that it doesn’t give me a chance for action.”

“That remains to be seen. If you should have to call for Murray, you’ll
have to be his guide. And that would bring you action a-plenty.”

“Wouldn’t he be out of luck, invading a foreign country?” asked Bob,
curiously.

“Leave that to him. Anyway, what are we doing?”

“Oh, we’re just acting on our own,” said Bob. “That’s different.”

“Not much. Well, so long. See you in a couple of minutes.”

“So long,” answered Bob. “And the best of luck.”

Thereupon Captain Cornell strolled nonchalantly around the corner, and
set off at the dawdling pace of the loafer, toward the house of mystery
and the car of midnight blue.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                            A NOVEL S. O. S.


It was a silent sun-drenched street. Down at the bull ring they were
just then watching Estramadura in the act of despatching his second
bull, with ahead of them the prospect of Juan Salento playing a return
engagement, making the fourth and final fight of the afternoon. No
well-regulated bull fight at Nueva Laredo would pretend to be worthy of
consideration without four encounters. Estramadura had been followed by
his Mexican rival, who had successfully defended his reputation and had
performed even more thrillingly than his fellow matador from Spain.
Practically all Nueva Laredo was down there making holiday, and so not a
soul appeared in sight on the sun-filled Calle Libertad except Captain
Cornell.

Reconnoitering from the corner, Bob watched the departing back of his
companion, enviously at first. Just his luck, he thought somewhat
bitterly, to be left out of the fun. He recalled his words earlier
uttered to Frank and Jack to the effect that no adventures ever were
going to happen to him again. Well, wasn’t this proving the truth of his
prophecy, he argued? Here he was, led up to a possible adventure, and
then left standing safely, out of all possibility of becoming involved
in it himself.

Then he grinned to himself as he noticed Captain Cornell swinging
farther along the silent, deserted street. Probably, after all, nothing
was going to happen to him, either. It certainly looked as if that house
of mystery, with the midnight blue car at the door, was incapable of
producing adventure. Captain Cornell would have his walk for nothing.
He’d just swing around the block and come back to where Bob was
standing, and have his pains for nothing.

Bob grinned as he shifted weight on the other foot, and sought a new
resting place for his shoulder against the ’dobe wall of the little
house against which he was leaning. It was a sour grin. After coming
this far, after running off with somebody else’s car, Bob wanted
something to happen. Nevertheless, nothing was going to happen. Of that
now he became convinced. It took Captain Cornell an interminably long
time to reach the house of mystery. But now at last he was abreast of
it. Bob peering forth contracted his brows in a frown of disappointment.
He didn’t want any harm to come to his companion, of course. Just the
same, he did have the feeling of having been cheated by fate. There was
Captain Cornell sauntering leisurely by the house into which Ramirez had
disappeared, glancing casually at the car of midnight blue and pausing a
moment to examine it.

Bob paid due tribute to that bit of acting. “Just what a fellow
strolling by might be expected to do,” he told himself. “Naturally, when
he sees a handsome car like that, all by itself, out here in the
‘Sticks,’ he’ll give it a glance.”

Then two men came out of the house. The figure of one was unfamiliar.
The other, however, Bob made sure, despite the distance intervening, was
Ramirez. Captain Cornell straightened up at the sound of footsteps
behind him.

Bob held his breath. No, they were merely going to climb into the car,
it appeared. And the doughty flyer was saying something to them.
Doubtless, a word of apology for examining the car. All three stood in a
little group. Ramirez and Captain Cornell seemed to be engaged in
conversation.

Suddenly, so swiftly that for the moment Bob was left stunned and
breathless, the other of the precious pair who was slightly in the rear
of the American flyer hit him on the head with some small object.
Captain Cornell did not even scream. Instead, he fell forward stricken
into the waiting arms of Ramirez, and the latter and his companion
started dragging him up the steps.

At that Bob’s wits returned in a measure and, darting away from the
corner as if hurled from a bow, he shot forward at arrow-like speed. He
uttered no sound, his feet made no noise on the dirt sidewalk that could
be heard far down the block. And Ramirez and his companion did not look
toward him.

But before he had gone a hundred feet, the two men dragging the
insensible form of the American flyer disappeared within the house.

Bob groaned and pulled up short. To dash on and beat at the doors of
that sinister house, unarmed and alone, would be nothing less than
madness. It was the thing which he felt like doing, but good sense
warned against it.

No, he must think of some other way of rescuing his companion. And now,
as standing there in the street, the knowledge of what depended upon him
alone came to him, he was filled with anxiety lest already he might have
attracted unwelcome attention to his presence. He looked around quickly
to see if he was observed, but the street was as blank, as deserted, as
before Captain Cornell had started strolling down its length.

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.”




                              CHAPTER XV.
                            BOB HAS AN IDEA.


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.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                           SETTING THE TRAP.


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.”




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                          THROUGH THE TUNNEL.


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?”




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                           THE ENEMY STRIKE.


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.

Jack looked up, staring around wildly, as if for help. But the others
had deserted him. And then for the first time he saw the other occupants
of the big front room. In the far corner they lay—the two aviators who
had accompanied the Hamptons and Captain Murray into the house, and
Captain Cornell. All three were bound. Jack half rose to his feet in
astonishment. Captain Cornell had been found bound and gagged when they
first had gained entrance to the house. But how came these others so?
When he and Captain Murray had descended to the cellar in search of the
tunnel entrance, they had left his father on the lower floor, and the
two aviators upstairs cutting Captain Cornell’s bonds. He passed a hand
across his eyes.

Well, that mystery must be left to solution by the men loosing the bonds
of the trio. His part was to get aid for his father. He called, and Bob
and Frank broke away from the little group on the opposite side of the
room and hurried to him. An ordinary emergency might have found Jack the
coolest of the three. But in a case such as this, involving his father,
positions were reversed. The poor fellow was half frantic. And Bob and
Frank, with an exchange of understanding glances, elbowed him aside and
went to their knees beside Mr. Hampton.

The latter again opened his eyes, and as his glance fell on them he
spoke in a stronger voice.

“The bullet took me in the shoulder, boys,” he said. “Don’t think it
smashed the bone, although it was a close shave. Wasn’t that knocked me
out, but when I fell I struck the wall with my head. Cut off my coat, so
you can see what to do. Then bind my shoulder up with something, and
I’ll manage to survive, I reckon.”

His voice gained in strength as he proceeded, and on concluding he
struggled to sit up. Jack with a gulp of relief got on his other side
and thrust an arm beneath him. Bob, opposite, did likewise; and Mr.
Hampton was raised to a sitting position against the wall.

“Stripping for action, Frank?” asked Mr. Hampton with an attempt to
smile that ended in a grimace of pain. “No use. It’s all over. They, got
away out of the window.”

Frank had torn off his light-weight summer coat and now ruthlessly
stripping off his white linen shirt with a great popping of buttons
ripped it in half from collar to neckband and began tearing the halves
thus created into quarters.

“Making bandages,” he said. “Peel off his coat, fellows. Don’t stand
there like ninnies.”

Jack and Bob hastened to comply, easing the wounded shoulder as much as
possible, and, having removed the coat, stripped off the shirt sleeve,
revealing a hole through the shoulder muscles, from which the blood was
slowly pumping.

“Hurry, now, one of you, get some water,” commanded Frank. “Must be
water somewhere. Jack, you’ve been through here. Maybe, there’s a
bathroom. If not, there must be water in the kitchen. If you can’t find
anything to put it in, take this cloth and wet it well.” And thrusting
one of the long strips into Jack’s hands he sent him scurrying away with
a peremptory gesture.

With another of the linen strips, Frank wiped the blood away from the
wound in Mr. Hampton’s shoulder, discovering that the bullet had entered
from the rear, where there was only a bluish mark that already had
stopped bleeding, and had come out in front. “No sir, didn’t smash the
bone,” he said, thankfully, as with deft fingers he felt of the wounded
man’s shoulder. “You were in luck, Mr. Hampton.”

“I was that,” the other answered. “Came on them just as they were
leaving. But here’s Captain Murray, wanting to hear my story,” he added
glancing up at the aviator, who, striding across the room, was now
bending anxiously above him. “I don’t know all that happened, Captain,”
he said. “But between our friends over there and myself, I guess we can
piece the yarn together.”




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                    CAPTAIN CORNELL STRIKES A CLEW.


After that it did not take long for the truth to come out. And Captain
Murray’s impatience to be gone rather than risk staying where the police
of Nueva Laredo were liable to come upon them, expedited matters. What
had happened was that Ramirez and three others had fled to the roof, by
way of a trap door so cleverly concealed as to have escaped being seen
and noted by the invading Americans.

Whither they had fled was unknown, however, by Captain Cornell. Bound,
gagged, flung into a corner of the big second-floor front room, he had
known nothing of his captors’ movements.

“And so when Jack and I left the rest of you to explore the tunnel,
Ramirez and his gang came down from the roof and jumped you?” questioned
Captain Murray.

Mr. Hampton nodded. His wound was causing him pain, yet not enough to
prevent him from acting as spokesman.

“I left you fellows in the cellar, and then started back upstairs. When
I reached the kitchen, I was in the act of closing the door when—”

“That’s right,” interrupted Captain Murray. “You did go down the cellar
and see us off. I was thinking Jack and I had gone alone and had left
that cellar door standing open. You must have closed it, and locked it.
Did you? Or did the Mexicans?”

“I confess I don’t know,” admitted Mr. Hampton. “But I imagine that in
my excitement I must have locked the door. I’m accustomed to locking
doors, anyway. It’s a habit, and I lock a door without giving the matter
any thought. But the Mexicans couldn’t have done it. They didn’t come
downstairs.”

“Hm! You speak of being excited. What happened?”

“Why, just as I was closing the door to the cellar I heard a dull thud
coming from the floor above. Then there was a muffled shuffling of feet,
as if of men wrestling.”

Quickly Mr. Hampton continued. His first instinctive feeling, after
hearing those strange noises from the rooms above, was to shout to his
companions and ask them what was wrong? But he resisted the impulse. He
feared that in some way the enemy had returned; and, if they did not
already know of his presence, he had no intention of warning them.
Taking off his shoes, he moved swiftly yet soundlessly up the stairs and
along the corridor toward the front room. All the time he could hear
sounds as of men grunting and straining, but no shouts, no exclamations.

And when he saw into the front room, the explanation was made plain. The
three aviators, including Captain Cornell and his rescuers, evidently
had been taken at a disadvantage. In fact, they here confirmed Mr.
Hampton’s assumption that Ramirez and his assistants had stolen upon
them while Captain Cornell was being freed from his bonds.

With revolvers leveled at them and under command not to make an outcry,
there was nothing the Americans could do except to comply with the
request to put up their hands. This they did.

“And what I heard,” said Mr. Hampton, “was the grunting and tugging of
the Mexicans as they busied themselves at the task of roping and gagging
our friends.

“Then I had a piece of hard luck,” he added, with a rueful smile. “I
decided to take the Mexicans by surprise, as obviously they had taken my
friends. If I could get the drop on them, I might force them into a
corner and hold them until you returned. And I think I would have
accomplished it, too. They had their backs turned and didn’t see me. But
Captain Cornell was looking my way and—”

“And I gave you away,” interrupted the flyer, bitterly. “I didn’t mean,
too,” he mourned. “But something in my eyes warned Ramirez, who was
looking at me.”

“He whirled quick as a flash,” added Mr. Hampton. “And he shot toward
the doorway as he turned. I jumped aside, but he caught me in the
shoulder.”

“Yes, and I’ll say this,” declared Captain Cornell, admiringly, “you
were game to the core. Why,” he explained, turning to his friend and
rescuer, Captain Murray, “that bullet in the shoulder, at that close
range, was enough to knock another man down. But Mr. Hampton leaped
behind the door jam, and the next second his shots began streaming into
the room. Say, you should have seen those rascals jump for the windows.”

“Trouble was I had to shoot with my left hand,” Mr. Hampton explained,
“and I was feeling weak, besides.”

“Out they all went, one after another,” added Captain Cornell. “It isn’t
a long drop from these second-floor windows to the ground, and they took
the shortest route. I’m sorry Ramirez got away. But I’m glad Mr. Hampton
came when he did, for I had the feeling that Ramirez contemplated
dealing out an unlovely fate to us.”

“And the rest you know,” added Mr. Hampton. “When the Mexicans cleared
out I tried to get to the window to take another shot at them, but
managed to get just about that far when faintness overcame me. That’s
when you called, Jack,” he added, turning toward his son.

A quick council was held. It was decided that the best thing for all
concerned was to get back to American soil, as soon as possible. It was
not likely that Ramirez would return. But he might notify the Mexican
police that a party of Americans had broken into the house; and then
complications unpleasant to contemplate would arise, if the police found
them in possession.

There were many things still unexplained, still a mystery. Where was Don
Ferdinand? What was the particular brand of deviltry actuating Ramirez?
Why had Captain Cornell been taken prisoner? But these questions would
have to wait for explanation. What was of moment was that Captain
Cornell had been rescued at a cost of no wounds except Mr. Hampton’s,
and it not serious. And the thing to do was to get away and regain the
protection of American soil. “All right,” said Mr. Hampton, when this
had been agreed on. “Jack, you’ve got long legs. Run around and get our
taxi and bring it here.”

Jack started away obediently, but was halted by a dismayed cry from Bob:
“My flivver. My stolen flivver.”

“Leave it where it is,” said Mr. Hampton, quickly. “I noticed it bore an
American license. When we get back to Laredo, I’ll find out the owner,
and buy him a new car. If you undertake to run it back across the
Border, you’ll be halted. And then a lot of useless explanations will
have to be made. And dangerous ones, too. As for the owner,” he added,
with a smile, “I’m sure he’ll not object to getting a new car for his
old one.”

“I’ll say not,” said Bob, fervently, thinking of the jouncing he had
received. It was a sentiment in which Captain Cornell heartily joined.

Bob left with Jack, in order to thank young Juan Salazar, who had been
of such great help, and to bind him to secrecy. During their absence a
hurried search was made of the house. There was little furniture, only a
great number of pallets scattered through all the rooms, both upstairs
and down. There were no cabinets in which to look for papers, which
might offer some clew to the mystery of what was Ramirez’s occupation.
And over all there hung a perceptible odor at which the searchers
sniffed now and again, puzzled. It was elusive yet pungent, and its
origin could not be traced. But finally Captain Murray declared with a
shout that he “had it.”

The others ran up to find him standing in the middle of the floor of an
upstairs room, a number of dirty pallets with their filthy blankets
about his feet.

“I think I know what Ramirez is up to now,” he declared, in answer to
inquiries. “Sniff, you fellows. Can’t you tell what’s in the air? It’s
the reek of Orientals. Ramirez is smuggling again. But this time he’s
smuggling bigger game than usual.”

“What do you mean? Opium?” asked young Harincourt.

“Opium? No.” Captain Cornell was scornful.

“Well, but you said this smell is Oriental. And I notice it, too, now
that you call attention to it.”

“It’s Oriental, all right. But, look around you. See all these pallets.
Fellows, this is a receiving station for human contraband. Either
Chinamen or Japanese are bedded here until Ramirez can deliver them
across the Border in defiance of our immigration laws. By George,” he
added, drawing a long breath, “that’s it. I had a suspicion of it
earlier. The racket we’ve been through rather scattered my wits. But now
that I use the old head and put two and two together, I get the answer
all right.”

The other nodded. Only Mr. Hampton seemed uncertain.

“I don’t know, Captain,” he said. “That leaves so much to be explained.
Why should Ramirez have drawn Don Ferdinand’s workers from the mine? How
did he happen to lure away my cook, Ramon? Don Ferdinand suspected
Ramirez of working up a revolutionary movement, you know. That’s why he
followed Ramirez here clear from his distant estate.”

“That’s all true enough,” said Captain Cornell. “But I believe when your
friend Don Ferdinand turns up, you’ll find out that I’m right. However,
the cars are outside. Let’s get back to Laredo as quickly as the law
will allow us. The bull fight will soon be over, and if we can get
across the Bridge before the crowd hits it, we’ll be better off.”

“I suppose there’s nothing else to do now,” said Mr. Hampton,
reluctantly joining the procession descending the stairs. “But I’m
worried about Don Ferdinand. I didn’t think so much of his failure to
keep his appointment with us at the Hamilton Hotel. But when you
discover that Ramirez had Don Ferdinand’s car, that puts a different
complexion on the matter. He must be in captivity somewhere.”

“Say, Mr. Hampton,” said Frank, who was just ahead of him, and who
halted abruptly, “what fools we are. Has anybody thought to look on the
roof?”

Mr. Hampton and Captain Cornell looked blank. Then sheepish smiles of
comprehension dawned. Each shook his head.

“Well,” said Frank, turning and pressing past Mr. Hampton, up the
stairs. “This is the only two-story building in the neighborhood, and
that means no other building overlooks the roof. It’s just barely
possible that we may find something of interest up there. I’m going to
see.”

“And I’ll go with you,” said Captain Cornell. “Mr. Hampton, will you
please explain to the others who I see have gone on. Tell them we’ll
rejoin you shortly.”

“Maybe there are some men hiding up there,” Mr. Hampton said anxiously.
“Be careful.”

“Oh, we’ll be careful, all right,” said Captain Murray. “They won’t take
us off guard a second time.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” said Mr. Hampton. “If there were only some way
of getting a look at that roof without risk—”

But the others had re-ascended the stairs and were out of earshot.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                        DON FERDINAND EXPLAINS.


The trap door was on a slide, not hinged. This permitted of its being
pushed back in grooves that proved to be well-oiled and noiseless. Frank
who stood on a stool so high that he was forced to bow his head in order
not to strike it against the low roof was about to straighten up and
look out, when Captain Cornell thrust him aside. The next moment the
doughty flyer, placing his hands on the edge of the opening, pulled
himself up to the room. Frank was quick to follow.

“Hey, Captain, that was mean,” he declared.

“Didn’t want you poking into trouble,” explained the other. “Feel that I
owe it to Mr. Hampton. But our trouble’s for nothing,” he added, looking
about, “unless—”

He ceased abruptly and leaped forward, Frank at his heels. Both had seen
that shapeless bundle, looking like an old roll of carpet, begin to
quiver. The roof was flat, a low parapet rimming it. In one corner lay
the bundle, and the westering sun in their eyes had so dazzled them at
first that they had not seen it. But now—

They pulled up together beside the strange object, and Captain Cornell
stirred it with a foot. “Come out,” he commanded in Spanish, “and have a
care. I am armed.”

The faded carpet covering what they now could see was a man
out-stretched his full length, quivered. But no man emerged.

“I’ll cover him, Frank,” said Captain Cornell. “Do you take off the
carpet.”

Frank seized an end of the carpet and tugged. But the carpet did not
come away. Instead, the object beneath began to roll toward him. A man
was rolled up inside. Once, twice, he turned over. Then the end of the
carpet was reached, and the man lay exposed.

“By the ring-tailed caterpillar,” cried Frank, using his wildest
expletive. “It’s Don Ferdinand.” And he flung himself on his knees, and
began fumbling at the knotted rope wound ’round and ’round the form of
his old acquaintance, who was trussed from head to heel. “Lend a hand,
Captain. Or, wait, I’ll cut those ropes.” And he fished for his pocket
knife, and getting it out, opened and began to slash the bonds. A moment
later he desisted in order to pull away the huge bandanna knotted about
the aristocratic Don Ferdinand’s jaw and efficiently stopping speech.
The moment the gag was withdrawn, the old Don began to sputter.

“Hey, Captain,” Frank cried excitedly, “run to the edge of the roof and
call out to the fellows.”

And as Captain Cornell hastened away to comply, Frank finished the task
of releasing the Don and then assisted him to his feet. Don Ferdinand
was so stiff from his bonds as to be unable to stand without assistance.
But his tongue wasn’t stiff. It rattled on at a great rate. Frank, whose
Spanish was somewhat rusty from disuse, had difficulty in understanding,
so voluble was the Don’s speech. He knew, however, that his old friend
was pouring vials of wrath on the head of the missing Ramirez; and he
was tempted to smile, but by an effort managed to refrain.

In the mean time, he assisted Don Ferdinand to the open trap door,
impressing on him that Ramirez had fled and that friends waited below.
They were joined by Captain Cornell, who helped Frank lower the older
man to the stool below. Thereupon the two followed, pulling the trap
shut behind them. Captain Cornell urged haste.

“Let’s get out of this and get back to our own land,” he said. “We’ve
rescued Don Ferdinand, thanks to you Frank. It would be a shame to get
into trouble with the authorities now.”

Frank agreed, and with a hand under Don Ferdinand’s elbow hurried the
frothing old aristocrat down the stairs. Not once did the latter cease
his wrathy outpourings until they emerged on the street, where Mr.
Hampton was first to greet them. But Captain Cornell interrupted the
conversation between these two old friends before it could get well
launched. He was impatient to be gone.

“We’ve had a lot of luck,” he said, “but it may not last. I don’t know
what is the standing of this fellow Ramirez with the Mexican
authorities. He may own the town, for all I know. Anyway, it would be a
shame for us American officers to get into trouble over here now. Let’s
go.”

They went. Somehow or other, the party which had come in the big car of
the flyers and the Laredo taxicab, augmented now by the addition of Bob
and Captain Cornell and Don Ferdinand, managed to swarm into the
constricted space. It was a wild race for the Bridge, and so jounced
about was everybody that ordered conversation was impossible.

“Pull up at the Hamilton, everybody,” Mr. Hampton had said, on starting.
“Then we can have a council of war and hear Don Ferdinand’s story.”

So, although the car containing the flyers, drew rapidly ahead, those in
the taxi felt assured that they would all be reunited, provided they
managed to cross the International Bridge without running foul of the
Mexican authorities. This they did, just ahead of the procession of cars
coming from the bull fight. And in the lobby of the Hamilton, Don
Ferdinand and his escorts found the men of the Border Patrol awaiting
them.

“Whew,” said Captain Murray, as they trooped into Mr. Hampton’s sitting
room, to the amazement of Mr. Temple who had spent the afternoon in a
quiet siesta which their coming rudely routed; “that was a risky piece
of business. We had no business invading Mexico, and if we had been
caught at it by the authorities of Nueva Laredo we would have had to do
some tall explaining. Glad it’s over—and without exposure.”

“I’ll not forget, old man,” said Captain Cornell.

“Rot.” Murray playfully pulled the other’s hat down over his eyes.
“You’d do as much for any of us.”

Around the big room they all found seats, the seven young aviators of
the Border Patrol, the Hamptons, the Temples and Frank, many sitting on
the floor. Don Ferdinand was given the seat of honor, a huge winged arm
chair. Perhaps, he would prefer to rest after his trying experiences
rather than to talk, suggested Mr. Hampton; in which case they would
permit him to retire, and he could relate his story later. But the old
aristocrat waved that suggestion aside impatiently. He was filled with
anger and eager to talk. Perhaps, too, added Mr. Hampton, he was hungry
and would like to eat. But to that, too, the old Don said, no. Mr.
Hampton did, however, ring for bottled ginger ale which when it arrived
everybody eagerly seized.

Then with bottles in hand, they listened while Don Ferdinand explained
how he had come to be in the predicament from which Frank and Captain
Cornell had rescued him.

To begin with, Ramirez, as they already knew, had lured away a score of
men from Don Ferdinand’s mine in the mountains, many miles to the west.
The old Don feared Ramirez was preparing to gather a rebel army and
launch a new rebellion. At one time, nothing would have pleased Don
Ferdinand better. But he believed now that the Obregon government was
stabilizing his country, and he wanted its peace to continue
undisturbed.

In that isolated district, there was only a shadow of Federal authority,
in the form of a commander and a score of troops in a small town
garrison at the village of San Dimas. Don Ferdinand decided that it
would be useless to appeal to such help, for in the meantime Ramirez
would move eastward unhampered and continually gathering more troops.
Accordingly, with his own followers at his back, he set out in pursuit.

Well mounted though they were, however, Don Ferdinand’s command failed
to catch up with Ramirez. Through sparsely settled country, where the
only human inhabitants were a few lonely sheepherders, led the chase.
Now and then Don Ferdinand obtained word of Ramirez’s passing. Once,
about fifty miles west of Nueva Laredo, they came upon a camp which
Ramirez had made along the Rio Grande that was only a day old. The
American town of Carana, a Texan village inhabited by Mexicans, was not
far distant across the river. Then they pressed on toward Nueva Laredo,
hopeful of meeting Ramirez before he could gain sufficient strength to
attack the town.

But almost at once Don Ferdinand discovered that Ramirez no longer had
with him the main body of his followers. Trail signs up to the last camp
had indicated that more than a score of men rode with Ramirez. Now the
signs showed that not more than four horsemen had proceeded from the
last camp. They turned back at once in order to make a closer inspection
of the camping place, and soon discovered that the score left behind had
crossed the river in the direction of Carana, some three miles away.

This puzzled the old Don sadly. A dozen conjectures as to the reason for
such a move whirled through his brain. The one most likely to be true,
he believed, was that Ramirez had sent his main body along the deserted
Texan shore toward Nueva Laredo while he and a few lieutenants
approached it from the Mexican side. Many Mexicans live in Texas; and,
therefore, the followers of Ramirez would be able to enter Laredo
without detection and stay in the American town until they received word
from their commander to enter Mexico. In the mean time, Ramirez could be
preparing his plans in Nueva Laredo for a surprise attack that would put
the town in his power. So Don Ferdinand pressed eagerly toward Nueva
Laredo. He felt that this move would make the capture of Ramirez all the
easier, and that with the brains of the revolution laid by the heels,
there would be no revolution.

Five miles from Nueva Laredo, Don Ferdinand left his followers at the
hacienda of a friend. Only one man did he take with him, whose duty it
would be to act as messenger and summon the troop in case of need. He
entered Nueva Laredo the next day and spent hours in making guarded
inquiries.

No information. At least, none of value. Don Ferdinand had acquaintances
in Nueva Laredo. His land-owning friend had others to whom he bore
references. All knew of Ramirez and his former reputation as a smuggler
and bad character. None, however, had heard of any revolutionary
movement with him behind it, and only one had heard of his being in
Nueva Laredo. He had been seen on the street, somebody had dropped
mention of it to this informant.

Don Ferdinand pressed his inquiries further. Believing Ramirez’s command
had crossed the Rio Grande fifty miles west in order to march into
Laredo and there await word from their commander, he went to Laredo. A
very good friend, a wealthy merchant, housed him. But inquiries made
amid the lower strata of Laredo society by the merchant’s employees
brought forth no information regarding an influx of strangers who might
be Ramirez’s men. Then, driving across the International Bridge,
Saturday night, Don Ferdinand in his friend’s car caught sight of
Ramirez, only to lose the chase, as already narrated, through his
accidental smashing into the taxi of his young friends.

The next day was the morning of the bull fight. Remembering his promise
to call at the Hamilton Hotel Don Ferdinand was preparing for the visit
when word was brought him that Ramirez had been located in a house on
Calle Libertad. The informant was one of his merchant-friend’s
employees—a laborer from the warehouse. He undertook to guide Don
Ferdinand to a dive in Nueva Laredo, where they were to meet one of
Ramirez’s men who had agreed to sell his information, if Don Ferdinand
would buy. The merchant was asleep. Don Ferdinand did not wake him, but
took the car which had been placed at his disposal and drove with his
informant to the meeting place.

“It was a trick,” he explained. “Barely had I entered the dive than I
was seized from behind, gagged and then taken in my friend’s car to the
house in Calle Libertad.”

“And Ramirez?” questioned Mr. Hampton.

“At the house he met me. Our conversation I shall not repeat. It would
only bore you. But, Senor Hampton, my good friend, I must tell you I was
mistaken. This devil Ramirez, he think he have me in his power and can
tell me all. Ah, he does not realize I have good friends who will come
to my rescue. What do you think, Senor? He says he does not make the
revolution; there is no money in that. Instead, he organized a—what
shall I call it?—system of men for smuggling Orientals out of Mexico
into the Estados Unidos.”

“An underground railway?” suggested Captain Cornell.

Don Ferdinand nodded.

“I was surprise’—me. He think, this devil Ramirez, it is I, Don
Ferdinand, who want a share in this traffic which is so profitable. He
think it is because of that desire for money that I pursue him. So now
he capture me.”

Don Ferdinand’s listeners betrayed the keenest interest. Captain Cornell
was especially eager for details. His suspicions regarding Ramirez and
the latter’s projects were fulfilled. He wanted to know all. Questions
poured upon Don Ferdinand in a flood, completely overwhelming him. At
length he waved his hands impatiently.

“Senors, have a patience. There is little more to tell. This devil,
Ramirez, he reveal that he take my man from the mine because he need men
for his—what you call?—oh, yes, his underground railway. When he send
them across Rio Grande, it is that they go to Carana and prepare. From
Carana, these Orientals shall be sent to San Antonio and then
distributed through Estados Unidos.”

“But didn’t he have other men?” asked Mr. Hampton. “Why should he go
west to your mine, and take your men? Why should he take my cook Ramon?”

“About thees Ramon, I do not know. But Ramirez, he take my men because
he know I shall pursue. Me, he have a grudge against this long time.”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                          ON RAMIREZ’S TRAIL.


Jack had been listening but at the same time his thoughts had been busy
with conjectures. To him, it did not seem likely that Ramirez had laid
his plans solely in order that he might lure Don Ferdinand into his
power. Some other motive there must be. And his thoughts leaped to
Rafaela. With the departure of her father and the major portion of his
men, she would be left with but slim protection in her mountain
fastness. Was it possible that Ramirez had deliberately planned affairs
so that she should be left defenceless? He could not understand why this
supposition occurred to him, not realizing that Rafaela was in the
background of all his thoughts of late to a greater extent than he
appreciated; but occur it did. And now he remembered, too, that when
leaving home to fly to Laredo, he had been unable to gain a response to
his radio calls to Rafaela.

Was it possible that already evil had befallen her? A sudden fear
clutched at his heart. The others were talking among themselves,
excitedly. Snatches of their conversation informed Jack that the
aviators of the Border Patrol were discussing this turn of events and
what it would mean for them, inasmuch as it placed in their possession
the clew to a traffic in human contraband which would have to be broken
up. Don Ferdinand for the moment no longer occupied the center of
attention, and Jack, noting this, slipped around behind his chair and
leaning over the back of the chair, addressed him in a low voice.

The old man listened a moment and then looked up startled, while over
his features came an expression of alarm. He half started out of his
chair.

“Jack, I am the fool,” he said. “That devil Ramirez, he have seen my
daughter two-three month ago at the fiesta and have try to kees her. My
men, they have beat him. He nurses revenge. It is for that revenge I
think he try to get me in his power. But, no, it is that he may carry
off my daughter while I am away. Fool, fool,” he cried, and struck his
head with his clenched fist. Then his eyes brightened.

“But, no, Jack. If he want to carry off my daughter, why is he here?”

“I thought of that, too,” replied Jack. “But maybe he is trying to
combine business with pleasure. While he conducts his smuggling
operations, and lures you out of the way in pursuit of him, some
lieutenant may be swooping down and carrying Rafaela away.”

Don Ferdinand frowned, twisting his mustaches ferociously. “He is a
devil. He is smart as Satan himself. Perhaps, it is that you are right,
Jack.”

Jack persisted. “Look here, Don Ferdinand. This fellow Ramirez had a
band with him before he took your men away from the mine, didn’t he?
Well, if he took a score from you, and that’s about all he brought this
way with him, he must have left others behind in the mountains. He—”

“Enough, Jack. You are right.” Don Ferdinand leaped to his feet. “Fool,
fool,” he cried again, once more striking his head.

At this gesture and outburst the others gained their feet and gathered
around the pair, demanding to know what was the matter. As briefly as he
could, Jack explained. In conclusion he added that so far as he could
see, the first thing to do was to get into communication with Don
Ferdinand’s ranch. Radio was the only means. Therefore, he would have to
go at once to the flying field in order to call the ranch station.

The big fellow was dismayed. His handsome features were flushed. And his
father, knowing more than the others of how Jack’s affections were
involved, moved to his side and threw an arm across his shoulders.

“Easy, son,” he said. “If Ramirez intended to carry off Rafaela, he
would have boasted of it to Don Ferdinand when he had our friend in his
power.”

“Maybe so, Dad,” said Jack. “On the other hand, Ramirez might have been
saving up that choice bit of information for a denouement. Anyhow, I
think the best thing to do is to try and get in touch with Rafaela at
once.”

“If you can’t get an answer, Jack,” Frank suggested, “suppose we fly out
there in your plane.”

At that Captain Cornell shook his head. “It’ll be dark in another two
hours,” he said. “And you couldn’t get started under an hour from now.
The flight would take three hours. It would be folly to make the trip in
your plane, Jack. You may know all that country well, but landing at
night is a very different matter from making a daylight landing. If you
were forced down, hm!” He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his
hands in an eloquent gesture.

“There’s a landing field at Don Ferdinand’s,” Jack expostulated. “And
nothing would go wrong that would force me down between here and there.”

“You never can tell,” said Captain Cornell. “Besides,” he added, turning
to the others, “we have something else to think about. Don Ferdinand,”
he added, addressing the latter directly, “you were in that house longer
than I. Besides, Ramirez boasted to you of what he was planning to do.
Now I saw numerous pallets there, indicating that a good many Orientals
had slept there only recently. Did Ramirez reveal what had become of
them and when he intended to try to smuggle them over the Border?”

“They were taken out of Nueva Laredo last night,” said Don Ferdinand.
“That much, he tell me. One was stabbed in a fight, but could walk. They
are walking toward Carana.”

“Not on horseback?”

“No. And he say, this devil Ramirez, that he will put them across the
Rio Grande tonight,” Don Ferdinand added.

“Boys,” said Captain Cornell, decisively. “That means work for us.”

The members of the Border Patrol nodded, their eyes bright. All but
Captain Murray. “But Ramirez knows we’ll be on his trail,” he objected.
“He knows we’re in it. Otherwise, Cornell, why did he capture you?”

“Huh. He was in that crowd in Nueva Laredo last night, when Don
Ferdinand and the boys and I got together. Saw me stop Don Ferdinand and
bring him back. Then he turned around and mixed in with the crowd. So he
knew Don Ferdinand and I were acquainted. When he saw me examining his
auto, out there in front of his house, or rather, Don Ferdinand’s stolen
auto, he socked me. But—he doesn’t know I’m an aviator, or that you
fellows who came to my rescue are aviators. I guess he’s still trying to
figure out how you came to the rescue.”

Captain Murray’s brow cleared. “Good. Then he doesn’t know that the
Border Patrol is on his trail. What a sweet surprise we’ll spring on him
at Carana. We’ll take your ship and mine. I’ll telephone the field to
warm ’em up—and they’ll be ready when we arrive.”

He turned to the room telephone. Jack halted him. “Tell them to warm my
ship up, too, Captain, please,” he begged. “If I can’t get Don
Ferdinand’s daughter by radio, I’ll have to fly over there.”

“One hundred and fifty miles,” interrupted Captain Cornell. “And dark in
little more than an hour from now. You can’t do it, Jack. Night-flying
is nothing for an inexperienced man to undertake.”

“We’ll see,” said Jack. “Anyway, you have my ship warmed up for me,
please, Captain Murray.”

Leaving the room abruptly, with the remark that he would return in a
short time, Jack went toward his own room on the same floor. A gabble of
voices floated upstairs from the lobby, where the bull fight of the
afternoon was under discussion. Frank and Bob, true comrades, followed
him.

“What you going to do, Jack?”

“Get a sweater and helmet.” Jack’s lips set in a grim line.

“If you go, we’re going with you.”

“We’ll talk about that later. Thanks, though, fellows.”

As they returned, the aviators were emerging into the hall. With them
were Mr. Hampton, Mr. Temple and Don Ferdinand, all wearing anxious
faces.

“Here he is,” cried Captain Cornell. “Listen, Jack. We’ve decided what
to do.”

The two groups faced each other.

“It wouldn’t do, Jack, it wouldn’t do at all, for you to fly in your
boat to Don Ferdinand’s. Your boat is all right, I know, a peach of a
little craft. But it isn’t equipped with a searchlight, and it’s too
frail to be trusted in a forced night landing. Besides, you haven’t any
experience in night-flying. So if it seems necessary to make a flight to
Don Ferdinand’s, you and I’ll go in a De Haviland.”

Jack’s face which had been growing more and more set in a grim look of
determination, lightened materially. “Oh, say, Captain, that’ll be
fine,” he said. “You’re a white man.” And he gripped the other’s hand.

“Hm!” Captain Cornell grunted. “Come on, we’re all going out to the
field. The fellows have their car at the door, and we’ve ordered a
couple of taxis.”

In the hotel lobby, the group attracted considerable attention from the
various groups of old-timers and tourists scattered about. Jack
Hannaford, the old ex-Ranger, huge, grizzled, mustached, strode up to
Captain Cornell.

“Howdy,” he cried. Then in a lower voice, he added: “Looks like trouble
for somebody, when doggone near the whole Laredo flight of the Border
Patrol puts its heads together. Got something you can let me in on?”

The others were going on. Captain Cornell was tempted to tell Hannaford
of the expedition that was afoot. He liked the old Ranger. No harm could
be done by it. On the other hand, nothing was to be gained. And his
companions were waiting for him.

“Yes, a little expedition up the river, Hannaford,” he said. “I’m in a
hurry. Excuse me now, and I’ll tell you about it later.”

Hannaford stepped closer and dropped his voice still lower. “Is it about
Ramirez?” he asked. “You was asking ’bout him yestiddy, you know.”

“Ramirez?” gasped Captain Cornell. “Yes, Hannaford, it is. What do you
know about him?”

“Nothing much,” said Hannaford, in a deceptively indifferent voice.
“Only I know where he is.”

“You know where he is.”

“Uh. Doc Garfield jist telephoned me, right here in the lobby, that he
got Ramirez in his office. The duck come in with a bullet through his
arm. Broken. Wanted it set.”

“Hampton’s bullet did that. Doc Garfield? Where? Here in Laredo?”

“Uh-huh. Down near the Bridge.”

“Great guns.” The excited Captain Cornell stared incredulously at his
informant. “Why’d this doctor call you?”

“Good friend o’ mine. Knows I got a grudge to settle with Ramirez.
Wanted to know if there was any warrant out for him. Doc Garfield, he’s
an old-timer. Knows these Border ruffians, most of ’em, by sight,
anyways.”

“And you told him—”

“Tol’ him? What could I tell him? Tol’ him they was no warrants out that
I knew of. But I was on my way to light out for Garfield’s when I see
you come inta the lobby. Jist hung up the ’phone.”

“Hannaford, listen. No, wait a minute. My friends must hear of this. Oh,
shucks, come with me. That’s the best way.”

Captain Cornell seized the old ex-Ranger by an arm and half-urged,
half-drew him out of the lobby to the street.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                             TO THE RESCUE.


Two taxicabs and the big touring car from the aviation field, his
friends in them and anxious to go, stood at the curb as Captain Cornell
with Hannaford beside him, came down the steps.

“Snap into it, Cornell,” called Captain Murray, impatiently. “Get into
one of the taxis. We’re loaded.”

He stepped on the starter and the big car began to roar. Captain Cornell
cleared the sidewalk in one jump, and landed on the running board. “Stop
your engine. I’ve got news.”

“News?”

“You bet.” The excited Captain Cornell turned toward the two taxis and
waved their occupants to approach. The three boys who were in the nearer
taxi were by his side in a moment, for they sensed from his manner that
he had something important to divulge. The three older men who were in
the farther taxi were slower to approach. Yet they, too, hurried their
pace on noting Captain Cornell’s air of suppressed excitement.

“Fellows,” he said, low-voiced, as the tense group gathered around him
and Hannaford, “I know where Ramirez is. And we’re going for him right
away.”

Quickly he explained what Hannaford had just revealed to him.

“And don’t worry none about bein’ legal,” said Hannaford. “I’m a deputy
sheriff, and bein’ as how you got somethin’ on Ramirez which makes it
all right for us to go after him, I’ll swear you all in as members o’ my
posse.”

“All right, Hannaford, step on it,” said Captain Murray. “Climb in with
us, and show us the way.”

Hannaford was bundled into the foremost car, Captain Cornell joined the
boys in the first taxi, and both cars got off to an almost equal start.
That bearing Mr. Hampton and Mr. Temple and Don Ferdinand was slower in
getting under way, but kept the others in sight.

“This shoulder of mine has felt better in its time,” grunted Mr. Hampton
to his companions. “I planned to wait until we got to the flying field,
where I could have the flight surgeon examine and treat it, and wouldn’t
have to make embarrassing explanations. But, maybe, this Doctor Garfield
can fix me up.”

Several minutes later found the three cars drawn up together on a
deserted side street near the International Bridge. Hannaford had called
a halt. Doctor Garfield’s home and office lay in the next block, and the
old ex-Ranger felt it was necessary to prepare a plan of campaign before
going farther.

“Doc Garfield was in a hurry when he phoned,” said Hannaford. “I know
where his phone is—in a little room separated from his office. He was
speaking low and hurried, while Ramirez waited. Doc couldn’t tell me
much, only that Ramirez come in a car which he left standing at the
curb, and he thinks there’s a woman in the car and a couple or three
men.”

“This doctor, his office it is in the next block?” asked Don Ferdinand.
Jack Hannaford nodded. “It grows dusk,” said the old Don, “but,” he
added, in a tone of conviction, “but I am certain that ees my friend’s
car I see.” He pointed.

Twilight had come. Purple dusk lay over the quiet street. Graceful
pepper trees lining the curbing enhanced the shadows beneath them. Yet
it was not so dark but what those who had seen it before felt pretty
certain that the car parked at the opposite curb in the next block was
that borrowed from his friend by Don Ferdinand and stolen from the
latter by Ramirez. The shadows were growing deeper, yet the lines of the
car and the occasional glimmer of polished trimmings could not be
mistaken. Hannaford gave confirmation.

“That’s where Doc Garfield’s house is.”

“Look here,” said Jack, taking the initiative. “We’ve got the advantage
of surprise. They won’t be expecting us. Let’s dash up beside them, and
demand their surrender. We’ll be on them before they can know what is
happening. Mr. Hannaford, who knows the house, can lead a group inside
in a dash that ought to bag Ramirez without trouble, especially as he’s
got a busted arm.”

Nobody could suggest any better plan.

“Furthermore,” said Jack, addressing the aviators, “the car you fellows
are driving better fall to the rear. Ramirez’s men have seen it.”

Arrangements were quickly made, a number of aviators transferring to the
taxi previously occupied by the older men, while Captain Cornell took
his place in that occupied by the three boys. One was to range up
alongside the stolen car, the other to draw up behind it, whereupon its
occupants could pile out and take the gangsters on the other side. As
for Hannaford and his group, who were to enter the house, they were to
go up a side street and approach from the rear.

“Ramirez may see what’s going on out front, and take to his heels out
the back door,” said Hannaford. “If he does, we’ll bag him.”

This arrangement was satisfactory to everybody except the three older
men. Mr. Hampton was regretful because his wounded shoulder would keep
him out of action. Mr. Temple was plainly nervous and disinclined to
have the boys running into danger. And Don Ferdinand bounced up and
down, demanding a revolver, so that he could take a hand in the fray.
But there was none to spare, and he and his two companions were to stay
in the aviators’ car. As for the drivers of the two rented taxis, they
were not without experience in affrays of one sort and another in this
tempestuous community, and their fares were sufficient guarantee that
they would be compensated for any damages sustained. Moreover, they knew
Jack Hannaford, whose word with them was law.

“Let’s go,” said Captain Cornell, impatiently.

The discussion of details, quickly though the latter had been arranged,
had consumed several minutes. Dusk was deepening. Jumping into the
leading taxi, Captain Cornell seated himself beside the driver, a
position which fortunately would put him next to the car ahead. The boys
were in the rear compartment, Jack crouching by the door and ready to
throw it open and leap out at the crucial moment.

In such tense moments, it is emotion, not reason, which sways one.
Certainly, Jack was in the grip of strong emotion. Certainly, the others
were, too, as they bore down upon the car ahead. But how different in
every case! Jack was filled with rage bordering upon despair as he
thought of the possibility that Rafaela might have come to harm through
the machinations of Ramirez. His whole idea was to lay hands on Ramirez
at the earliest possible moment and to choke the truth out of him, to
force him to confess where he had hidden Rafaela, if he or his
lieutenants had stolen her from her home during her father’s absence. To
none of the others, except Rafaela’s father, no, not even to Jack’s two
comrades, did the affair appear in the same light as to him. They
likewise were stirred by emotions, but only such as are incident to men
hunting a criminal, in whose evil-doing their own personal fortunes or
the fortunes of dear ones are not involved.

Only a very brief space of time was required to cover the ground
intervening between the last halting place and the field of action, and,
before the two taxis closed on the car ahead, the big car from the
aviation field, under command of Jack Hannaford, swung into the
intervening cross street. Mr. Hampton, who was among its occupants,
shook his head as he lost sight of his son. He knew, if nobody else did,
how Jack was shaken emotionally.

Hannaford pointed and, at his accompanying word of command, the young
aviator at the wheel swung the car to the curb. Then the grizzled old
Texan and the aviator—it was young Harincourt who had been detailed to
this task—leaped out. Quickly he outlined his plan.

They were at the mouth of an alley running along the rear of Doctor
Garfield’s house. Hannaford and young Harincourt would enter the house
from the rear. Mr. Hampton, Mr. Temple and Don Ferdinand were to keep
guard at the alley’s mouth. If Ramirez escaped Hannaford and came down
the alley, it would be their job to pot him. Don Ferdinand, raging,
protested. He wanted to be in the forefront.

“Two’s enough,” said Hannaford brusquely. “More would git in their own
way. You stay here. Come on, lad.”

And with Harincourt at his heels, the old ex-Ranger darted up the
deserted narrow alley, in which the shadows were deepening at the near
approach of night, as briskly as a boy.

Mr. Hampton shook his head in admiration, a little smile on his lips.

“A tough breed,” he commented.

In the meantime, up the shadowy street in front of the house, with its
air of Sabbath calm, sped the two taxis, while peal on peal of bells
from the tower of a nearby church floated down on the still air. What
irony, thought Jack, church bells and he and his comrades speeding on
such a mission! Yet their mission was of the best, he comforted himself.

And then all thought except of the matter in hand fled, crouching
against the door, ready to fling it open and spring out, his eyes, just
tipping the rim of the panelled glass, beheld the other car at the curb,
ahead, abreast. Now, now. As the brakes squeaked, and the taxi ground to
a stop so suddenly as to fling all its occupants about, Jack thrust the
door outward and sprang upon the running board of the other car, pistol
in hand. Beside him was Captain Cornell, leaping down from the driver’s
side, and at his back Bob and Frank, crowding close.

But what was this revealed in the depths of that other car? What, but
one man struggling desperately yet unavailingly in the grasp of another?
And of a third man cowering in a corner, with his upflung arms
protecting his face, while over him bent a fury in woman’s clothes, one
hand gripped in his hair and the other reaching talon-like for his
features?

Ramon, the Hamptons’ old cook, face distorted. “Senor Jack, queek or he
escape. I—cannot—hold—heem—”

And then Captain Cornell’s pistol butt falling on the head of him whom
Ramon clasped, and the other lying still and Ramon rising to his knees
with a sob of thankfulness.

And then, wonder of wonders, the fury faced about, and it was Rafaela.
Rafaela, her face appearing as through a mist to Jack’s unbelieving
eyes. And quick as thought he threw an arm about her and drew her close,
while all the fighting fury which had nerved her to the attack went out
of her, and she collapsed with a little trembling cry. And Bob and
Frank, over there, on the other side of the car—though how they got
there was a mystery to Jack!—sitting on the form of the ruffian whom
Rafaela had faced and outfaced and at their back, only half-seen in the
growing darkness, the other aviators from the second taxi.

“Is it all over? Anybody hurt?” the young aviators demanded.

But Jack could think of nothing except that here was Rafaela whom he had
thought far away, and safe in his arms, when he had feared she was in
Ramirez’s power. Safe in his arms—

For the first time he was aware of the broad grins upon the faces of his
two comrades, and the scarcely less-pronounced smiles of his Border
Patrol friends. He knew the reason, but he merely pressed Rafaela
tighter in the circle of his arm. It was she who pulled away, with a
“Thank you, Senor, but I can stand now.” And then—they were now in the
street between car and taxi—the little witch must needs add, as if
utterly surprised, “Oh, it is you, Jack.” And Jack, looking no more
foolish than he felt, could only add, “Yes, it’s I. Who—who did you
think it was?”

The grins became broader, someone laughed. Rafaela only shrugged.

Across the embarrassment cut Captain Cornell’s voice. “Tie ’em up, boys,
and into the house, quick.”

“Oh, but, Senor, not Ramon,” protested Rafaela, facing the group about
the volubly expostulating cook. The two other captives were sullen and
silent. “He have been of a help to me.”

“Senor Jack,” Ramon held out supplicating hands.

Jack hesitated, but the old cook’s appeal coupled with a glance from
Rafaela decided him. “I’ll answer for Ramon,” he said.

And Bob, remembering the old cook’s recalcitrance toward Ramirez outside
the bull ring that afternoon—was it only a few short hours before?—spoke
up with, “He’s all right. Let’s beat it into the house.”

A swirl and a whoop, a patter of running feet, and away dashed the
others, up the walk toward Doctor Garfield’s house behind a wide lawn.
The two hastily yet securely-trussed captives lay on the sidewalk, with
Ramon leering about them, lighting a cigarette. The taxi driver looked
down interestedly from his seat at the two young people standing so
close to each other between his cab and the other car.

“Aw, rats,” he muttered, but grinning as he spoke the words. “Ain’t they
the sweet young things.”

Then he climbed down stiffly and walked around on the other side of his
taxi to talk to his brother chauffeur in the other car.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                              RAMON TALKS.


The rest can be briefly told. When the reserves, so to speak, entered
Doctor Garfield’s office, they found Ramirez already captive in
Hannaford’s clutches. The Mexican had been in the act of departing, he
was, in fact, already at the front door, his hand on the knob, when the
old Texan from the rear had commanded him to surrender.

Don Ferdinand, raging, had broken away from the restraint of Mr. Hampton
and Mr. Temple, and had followed in the wake of Hannaford and young
Harincourt. He stood, trembling with passion, in front of Ramirez, as
the aviators under Captain Cornell, and ably supported by Bob and Frank,
appeared in the doorway of the office.

“My daughter?” he was demanding, shaking his fist under Ramirez’s nose.
“Where is my daughter?”

And the latter, his evil eyes gleaming from his swarthy face, was
leering down at the smaller man.

“Where you cannot find her,” he was saying, for he believed that his
shout of warning, emitted as Hannaford captured him, had been heard and
heeded by the captors of Rafaela who were in the car outside.

But the malicious triumph that shone from his eyes departed when his
attention was drawn by the loud trampling of feet in the hall and he
swung around to face newcomers in the doorway. If these were more
Americans from the front of the house, it was likely that his men had
been captured and Rafaela rescued, was the thought that followed. And
this suspicion of the downfall of his rascality was confirmed when Bob
stepped up to Don Ferdinand.

“Don’t believe him, sir,” said the big fellow. “Your daughter is safe
outside. Jack is with her.”

The last words fell on unheeding ears. Don Ferdinand went through the
crowd and out the hall like an arrow.

Much had been done, but something still remained. Ramirez and several of
his lieutenants had been captured, and Rafaela rescued. But a score of
Ramirez’s followers were still at large, and the large band of Orientals
whom Ramirez was smuggling into the United States in defiance of the
immigration laws would have to be rounded up before the Border Patrol
would consider its efforts a complete success.

“You see, it’s this way,” Captain Cornell hurriedly explained to Jack
and his comrades; “the new immigration law which is under discussion in
Congress right now proposes a practically complete ban of Orientals. Few
enough have been admitted heretofore, the majority being permitted to
enter under a so-called gentlemen’s agreement, and posing as students.
Well, some have been students, but certainly not all.

“Now,” he added, “if you are not familiar with what is going on, I can
tell you that our government is preparing to frame a law which will make
it impossible for Orientals to enter our country. There have been
frequent rumors of late to the effect that the Orientals were leaving
their crowded home lands and migrating to Mexico, where there is no ban
against them, in large numbers. Doubtless, Ramirez, who has a head on
his shoulders, even if he does use it only for rascality, and who keeps
abreast of the times, saw his opportunity in this situation. He has
planned an ‘underground railway’ for running Orientals out of Mexico and
into the United States. There used to be a traffic in the same sort of
human contraband on the Pacific Coast, until it was broken up a few
years ago. But,” he interrupted, surprised, “why these knowing looks at
each other?”

His listeners laughed. “You tell him, Jack,” said Bob.

“Well, Captain,” said Jack, “you may not believe it, but we three
happened to have a hand in breaking up that traffic. And a sweet time we
had of it, too, for a while. By accident, we stumbled on something in
San Francisco which made us dangerous to the Smuggling Ring. They
kidnapped us and took us to sea. But we managed to escape and to bring
the government forces down on their hiding place in the Santa Barbara
Channel islands. Fellows,” he added, addressing Bob and Frank, “do you
remember that inventor—Professor What’s-his-name, and his radio finder
for locating uncharted stations? That’s how we managed to find the
hiding place, Captain, through locating their radio calls between a
shore station and their boats.”

“Those were the happy days,” said Bob reminiscently, and a faraway look
came into his eyes as his thoughts turned back to the exciting events
narrated in The Radio Boys on Secret Service Duty.

Frank nodded. “Lots of fun,” he said.

Captain Cornell threw up his hands in mock dismay, as he laughed. “You
three must be regular trouble-finders,” he commented. “Do you always get
into the thick of things like this?”

“Oh, not always,” said Jack. And Bob grumbled:

“Thick of things? Huh. We aren’t in the thick of things this time. You
fellows flying to Carana are going to get the cream of the whole
affair.”

The conversation had been conducted in undertones. All four were
standing on the outskirts of the group in Doctor Garfield’s office,
which was brilliantly lighted while in one corner Captain Murray,
finding he could obtain little information from the sullen Ramirez, was
now pumping Ramon. Don Ferdinand had taken Rafaela to the home of his
merchant friend, and the boys were to call on them on the morrow. Doctor
Garfield had re-dressed Mr. Hampton’s wound, and the latter had departed
for the hotel, accompanied by Mr. Temple, for the express purpose of
trying to locate the owner of the flivver which Bob and Captain Cornell
had made off with outside of the Nueva Laredo bull ring that afternoon,
in their pursuit of Ramirez, and of reimbursing him.

The other aviators were listening to Captain Murray’s attempt to obtain
information from Ramon. Presently the latter turned away impatiently,
and, his eyes lighting on Jack, he beckoned him forward.

“Hampton, I can’t get anything out of your old cook. You try your hand.”

“Look here, Ramon,” said Jack, eyeing the old fellow keenly. “You’re
afraid of something. You know you’ll not be prosecuted. You did us too
good a turn outside for that. Now what is it? Tell me. Are you”—and he
leaned closer, whispering so that only Ramon could hear—“afraid of what
Ramirez may do if you betray any information about his plans?”

“Si, Senor,” breathed Ramon.

Jack in turn whispered to Captain Murray. The latter frowned
thoughtfully for a second or two, then his eyes brightened, and he
turned to Hannaford. The other stooped from his greater height, and the
three put their heads together. The other Americans regarded them
curiously. As for Ramirez he continued to glower while from beneath his
lowered lids darted a poisonous glance which fell on Ramon and made the
old fellow tremble.

“Come on, you,” said Hannaford, at length, turning to Ramirez; “we’ll
just put you where you won’t be no trouble to anybody but yourself.”

With a hand as big as a ham gripping the more slightly built Mexican,
Hannaford marched him outside and flung him into one of the taxicabs.

“Where to, Jack?”

“County jail. Step on ’er.”

Behind them, in the office, already Ramon was growing brighter, with
Ramirez away. And now he no longer hesitated to answer questions, for
Jack assured him that Ramirez would be sent to the Federal Penitentiary
for violation of a national law, and that years would elapse before he
would ever be free again.

“Senor Jack,” said Ramon, addressing Jack in Spanish, “you ask yourself
why Ramon abandons you at the ranch? Ah, you do not know, you do not
know that devil’s power? Once I was a bandit; that was years ago. Then I
went to the Estados Unidos and became respectable. Senor, when I go to
the village that day to buy supplies for our ranch, two lieutenants of
Ramirez encounter me. Aye, Senor, those same two—Andreas and Jose—whom I
fight and overcome in the car, myself, alone, single-handed, as you
arrive.”

He thumped his chest, and Jack with difficulty restrained a burst of
laughter. From behind him, where the others crowded close, came a
tittering which betrayed that others were not so heedful of the old
man’s feelings. But Ramon paid them no heed.

“Andreas and Jose tell me they have a fine job for me, Senor Jack, and
when I decline and inform them I already have the fine job, they compel
me to go with them. Of a certainty, I, Ramon, would have fought them
then, except that they were armed while I had not even a knife.

“We get in the train, Senor, and we ride to Laredo. And then they take
me to that house you know of, where they make me cook for thousands of
stinking Orientals. And, Senor, Ramirez, he laugh at me.”

The old man bowed his head in shame, and this time no laughter came from
the men crowding close behind Jack. The latter dropped a kindly hand on
Ramon’s bowed shoulders.

“It’s all over now, Ramon, and he shall never get you in his clutches
again,” Jack promised. “And now,” he added, at an impatient whisper from
Captain Murray, “tell us where the Orientals are, and how they are to be
brought into the United States.”

“Senor, tonight at midnight, they are to be at a point forty miles west,
on the Rio Grande. A rough trail leads there, and it is wild country. At
midnight, boats will meet them and they will be ferried across the river
from Mexico into Texas. Guides will take them to Carana, where they will
be housed until tomorrow night, when they will be sent on to San
Antonio. There are no Americans at Carana, Senor, only Mexicans; and the
whole town, which is not large, is in Ramirez’s pay or, else, fears him
and keeps silent.”

And once more Ramon ceased speaking, while his hands went patting here
and there about his person, but without success, until one of the
aviators with a smile stopped his fruitless search by thrusting a packet
of cigarettes into his hand. The old man gratefully accepted one,
lighted it, and sat back, puffing.

Captain Murray walked to an open window and looked out. Then he turned
back with a decisive set to his shoulders.

“As calm a night as one could desire,” he said to his confrere, Captain
Cornell. “Three hours to midnight. And we could reach Carana in less
than an hour. I know the village. Nobody there to telephone to, nobody
to put on guard. What say?”

“You’ve landed there, haven’t you?”

“Yes. In bright moonlight like this, there’s no chance to miss it. A
little settlement where the river takes that big bend to the north.
Several good fields nearby. And in this flood of moonlight, landing
ought to be easy.”

All were listening closely, and the atmosphere was tense.

“If those Orientals once get into Texas, they’ll be as hard to round up
as jackrabbits.”

“Yes, and if we break up Ramirez’s gang, there’ll be no boats for the
Orientals to cross in.”

“Just what I was thinking. Three ships ought to be enough, two in each.”

“Right. I’ll telephone the field to warm ’em up.” And Captain Murray
turned to white-haired old Doctor Garfield, who like the others, had
been an interested listener, and asked him for the location of his
telephone. The Doctor silently threw open a door, and switched on the
light in the next room, and Captain Murray sat down to the phone.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                    JACK SURRENDERS TO THE “ENEMY.”


Anybody strolling into the dining room of the Hamilton Hotel after the
dinner hour three nights later would have seen an amusing sight. The big
room was being prepared as if for another dinner, when, as everybody
knew, the regular diners had all been and departed. Nevertheless,
instead of waiters clearing the tables and porters mopping up, here were
the employees of the fashionable caterer of the town directing the
waiters in assembling the tables down the center of the room into one
long table, some putting on snowy linen and setting out silver and plate
and flowers, others placing banks of flowers along the walls.

Rangy old Jack Hannaford, looking vastly different and uncomfortable in
black coat and white collar, peered into the room and then precipitately
withdrew. In his retreat he bumped into several other old-timers,
likewise bent upon viewing the metamorphosis of the dining room, and
they chaffed him unmercifully.

“Look at him all duded up.”

“Wouldn’ta knowed ye, Jack.”

“Huh. That ain’t Jack Hannaford. That’s an undertaker. Where’s the
corpse?”

“It’s you that is mistaken. He’s the corp himself. See how white he is.”

This last witticism drew a roar of appreciative laughter.

“Think ye’re smart, don’t ye?” said Jack, beginning with dignity and
ending in companionable mirth. “Waal, fellers, I look like I feel.”

Jack was going to the “party.” So were seven spruce young men in white
ducks donned by command invitation instead of their hot uniforms, who
entered the lobby at that moment. The foremost saw Hannaford and hailed
him, and the old Texan at once deserted his tormentors to join the
newcomers.

“Le’s sit down, boys,” invited Hannaford, “nobody but ourselves ain’t
come yet.”

With comfortable sighs, all eight sank into chairs which were drawn in a
semi-circle. Jack looked around the group. None of the aviators with
whom he had shared the honor of Ramirez’s capture and the rounding-up
and scattering of the Smuggling Band was absent.

“Ain’t seen you since that night, Captain,” said Hannaford, his deep
voice booming as he sought ineffectually to modulate it, and addressing
himself to Captain Cornell. “We got a minute’s time before the party
begins. Lay ’er out for me. What happened?”

So then Hannaford was told of how three De Havilands, each with its crew
of two men, had gone cruising through the moonlight of that memorable
night, high above the silvery reaches of the Rio Grande, to a landing
near Carana; how there the members of the Border Patrol, commandeering a
battered flivver, had piled into it and departed down river in time to
round up a full dozen of Ramirez’s band before ever a boat had put out
across the river for the purpose of transferring the Orientals into the
United States, and had sent the others flying.

“You know the rest, Jack,” said Captain Cornell. “The fellows that we
rounded up were all Mexicans lured from Don Ferdinand’s mine by Ramirez
with specious promises of the much gold they would receive. They’re
still in jail, but I expect that Uncle Sam will make it easy for them,
inasmuch as they were not caught in the act and as they had not yet
brought Orientals into the country. Besides, Don Ferdinand needs them
back at his mine, and he and the Mexican Consul are making
representations which ought to carry weight. How about Ramirez?”

“With him and his two lieutenants,” Hannaford said, “it’s some
different. We got enough on ’em to hang ’em. And good riddance, too, if
it could really be done—but it cain’t.”

Captain Cornell laughed. “You bloodthirsty old villain.”

But Hannaford did not even smile. “I know him, you don’t. Listen, let me
tell you, it’s a mighty good thing them boys took a hand.”

“They’re the real stuff, Jack,” Captain Cornell agreed heartily, and his
companion nodded. “The real stuff,” he said. “But, say, Jack, what’s the
reason for their giving us this party tonight?”

Hannaford looked mysterious but confessed ignorance. “Only,” he added,
“don’t fool yourselves none. This party ain’t bein’ give for us, or I
miss my reckonin.’ We’re only the lookers-on.”

“Great guns,” cried Captain Cornell, half rising from his chair, and
gazing toward the doorway. “Look who’s here.”

All eyes followed his gaze. And, truly, the vision entering the lobby
was worth attention. It was Rafaela, leaning on her father’s arm, but a
Rafaela so gloriously beautiful and so quaintly dressed in Spanish
costume—or was it merely a touch here and there, such as the lacy black
mantilla, which made her costume appear so much more picturesque than
that of the more Americanized beauties who followed her?—that she took
away the collective breath of the entire group.

Across the lobby Don Ferdinand, impeccably clad in dinner clothes, saw
the standing group of aviators clustered about Jack Hannaford, and with
a word to Rafaela, he made his way toward them. And then while the
aviators gallantly professed themselves captivated, and while Rafaela
and her attendant beauties blushed and bowed as prettily as ladies of
the Sixties, introductions finally were achieved. Strangely enough,
there was a beauty for each, with a handful left over. Even Jack
Hannaford, confirmed old bachelor, groaned inwardly, as he saw a
duenna—the counterpart of Donna Ana, Jack could have told him—being
gently manoeuvred his way.

And Jack, where was he? And Bob and Frank? Ah, there! Coming down the
stair; at their heels, Mr. Hampton and Bob’s father. Nor could any of
the group, watching the approach across the lobby, guess that for the
last hour tall, curly-haired Jack Hampton had been dressing with more
painstaking preparations than he had ever bestowed on this operation
before in his life. Nor could any have guessed that during that time he
had been the target of unmerciful chaffing on the part of his
chums—until at length he had attempted to expel them from his room, and
a tussle had ensued, and he had been compelled at the end to undertake
dressing all over again, for it had left him a ghastly ruin.

No, none of these things could have been surmised from his appearance.
For, fortunately, he had not yet donned dinner jacket and vest when the
tussle had begun.

A merry clatter of voices rose as the two parties met and mingled, only
to be temporarily stilled when Mr. Hampton announced that they would
move into the dining room. So in they poured, each gallant aviator doing
his best to be a ladies’ man, with a Creole beauty on his arm, and Bob
and Frank in the same case, while Jack walked beside Rafaela and neither
spoke a word, yet eyes were far more eloquent than any speech could have
been. And last of all came the three elders of the party—while the
fourth, the real elder of all, old Jack Hannaford, strode fiercely just
ahead of them, with the duenna’s fingers resting on his high-crooked
arm.

The room was a blaze of light. The decorations miraculously had all been
arranged. And down the center, under its canopy of snowy linen, with the
silver gleaming and sparkling, ran the long table. Place cards? Yes,
here they were. And amid much laughter the various couples found their
places.

Then silence, while Mr. Hampton at the head of the table, looking
impressive and yet mischievous, lifted his glass—of sparkling grape
juice.

“Friends,” he said, “under other circumstances, the announcement I am
about to make would come in an utterly different way. But the people
involved—oh, yes, there are people involved—lead such scatterbrain lives
that the customary manner of announcing engagements must be a bit
scatterbrained, too.”

Bob and Frank, standing beside their partners across the table from
Jack, looked pointedly at him and Rafaela, grinning widely the while.
And in the little pause following Mr. Hampton’s last words, the aviators
who had been unaware of what was coming and felt sadly puzzled, caught
the significance of that glance. Jack tried to grin back manfully, but
it was what his two comrades privately considered a sickly attempt. As
for Rafaela, she looked as demure and unconcerned as if not she, but
some other of the beautiful girls nodding to her with parted lips, was
about to be named.

“I ask you to drink,” cried Mr. Hampton, “to my son and his affianced
bride.”

There, the secret was a secret no longer. And in the hubbub that
followed, with girls crowding around Rafaela, and the men about Jack,
telling him what a lucky fellow he was, the dinner bade fair to be
forgotten.

But suddenly a waiter wearing an anxious frown appeared at Mr. Hampton’s
elbow, apologetically but firmly pleading for a hearing.

“It’s that crazy fella you says must be master of ceremonies,” he said.
“He says you must go on with the dinner or it will be spoiled. He’s out
there in the kitchen, tearin’ around like wild. I says no good would
come of havin’ one o’ these Spanish chefs in the kitchen, bossin’
everybody. There,” pointing toward the kitchen door—“there he is now.”

Mr. Hampton, lips quirked in a smile, let his gaze travel down the room.
In the kitchen door, outlined against the gleaming ranges beyond, stood
a figure, arms akimbo. Mr. Hampton said to the waiter, “All right, tell
him to begin.” And to the distant figure, he waved a hand, a signal
which the latter apparently understood, for he disappeared.

“Ramon says we must begin dinner,” Mr. Hampton announced, turning to Don
Ferdinand on his right. And he rapped on the table, and made a similar
announcement. “You’ll all have to sit down and be good,” he added, “or
the old fellow’s heart will be broken. He wouldn’t let anybody, not even
the caterer, oversee this dinner but himself. Says he owes it to Jack
for lifting from him a load that oppressed him for years.”




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                              CONCLUSION.


It was a hot June day when little more than a month later, two
commodious limousines keeping close together rolled along the last few
miles of the Boston Post Road, coming from the South, and entered New
Haven. How strange and yet familiar seemed the streets of the famous
college city to the lithe, sunburned young fellow at the wheel of the
foremost car. This way and that darted his glance, as the car passed
Poli’s and many another place enshrined in memories and traditions, and
he was kept continually busy pointing out landmarks to the dark
olive-tinted beauty beside him.

It was still early in the day, for they had left New York at an early
hour. But already the crush of automobiles coming and going in the
streets was dense. And as they drew near a great green square resembling
a public park, in the very heart of the business section, the traffic
became so dense and slow-moving that the young fellow was compelled to
give all his attention to his driving and to crawl, start, stop
continually.

It was on his companion that the first sight of the noble group of
buildings, wide-stretching amid stately elms, on the other side of the
green square, dawned. She clutched his arm, while her eyes opened wide.

“Oh, Jack, how you must love it.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Jack, casting one swift look toward the dear familiar
buildings of Old Eli. “But don’t grab me like that again, please, or
we’ll be crawling up on top of this car ahead.”

A few blocks farther, on a side street, Jack rolled into a garage
already almost filled with cars and, while he was assisting Rafaela to
alight, the second car drew in. From it stepped Mr. and Mrs. Temple and
Mr. Hampton. From the first car Jack helped out Don Ferdinand and then
Bob’s sister, Della. A slim, charming girl, with the springy step and
quick yet graceful movements of a veteran tennis player, she well
merited all the devotion which Frank Merrick showered on her. During
Rafaela’s week in New York, shopping for her trousseau, a warm
friendship had grown up between the two girls. Della’s chum, Marjorie,
to whom big Bob had of late been paying marked attentions, was already
in New Haven, and would meet them later.

“Now to find the fellows,” said Jack, when all were assembled. “And
there’s no getting around the streets in a car in this crowd, which is
why I brought you here. Come on, fall in line.”

Chattering gaily, the little party set out with Jack leading, Rafaela
clinging to his arm.

“It’s rather old-fashioned, Mother, for a girl to lean on a man’s arm
like this,” whispered Della in an undertone. “But I like it. I think
she’s charming, don’t you?”

“These Southern girls,” replied Mrs. Temple in the same guarded tone, “I
always did consider them more attractive than you mannish young women.”

Whereat Della laughed lightly, nor felt any hurt. She knew none was
intended.

“Oh, there’s Tubby Devore,” she cried the next moment. And running
forward, she gripped Jack’s free arm and pointed. “Jack, Jack, there’s
Tubby Devore, and Johnny Malcolm, and Pinky Atwell, and—and—why, there
are Frank and Bob. Oh, call to them, Jack.”

Whereat Jack raised his voice, and in a moment the group thus hailed
came plunging through the crowd, to surround the newcomers, pay their
laughing respects to Della—an old acquaintance—and to slap Jack
thunderously on the back and hail him as “Benedict.” To all of which
Jack appeared brazenly indifferent, and presented each in turn to
Rafaela, “who,” he said, “is soon going to have an awful job on her
hands. Give her your pity lads. She’s going to look after me.”

But if we were to follow our friends throughout the festivities and
occasions of that and succeeding days, we would need another book or
two. It was Commencement Week, and New Haven was going through its
annual madness. Enough to say that indoors or out, at dance or tea or in
the Bowl, Jack everywhere came in for attention as a distinguished young
alumnus whose radio research already was bringing him and the
institution fame, while Rafaela with her Spanish beauty offset by a
ravishing accent and a spirit of mischief forever lurking beneath the
surface was acclaimed by all Jack’s friends as a jolly good sort,
indeed. As for big Bob, it was with genuine regret that those old alumni
who followed Yale sports from season to season spoke of his graduation.
He was leaving a record in practically all departments of athletics
which everybody considered would remain unsurpassed for a long time to
come. And Frank’s graduation equally was a matter for regret, among the
undergraduate body especially, inasmuch as he had endeared himself to
its members by his democratic spirit and charm of manner.

At length, however, all good things must end, and it was so with
Commencement Week. The day came when New Haven was only a memory, and
all our friends were back in New York, though not in New York City, but
on the adjoining Hampton and Temple estates near Southampton. Ahead of
the young folks lay a long Summer with the prospects of gay companions
coming and going, tennis, yachting, motor boating on the waters of Great
South Bay and the broad Atlantic, golf and dancing, motoring and
horseback riding. Della who was a born manager had taken charge of
affairs, and had planned a round of gayeties leading up to the
approaching marriage of Jack and Rafaela. The latter and Don Ferdinand
were guests of the Temples. And, of course, in between everything else
and, in fact, forming at first the major attraction for at least two
members of the party, were the innumerable visits to New York paid by
the two girls and Mrs. Temple in pursuit of that elusive thing known as
“Rafaela’s trousseau.”

Many times did the swift-moving events at Laredo and at Don Ferdinand’s
Mexican estate come up for discussion, and every item of occurrences had
to be rehearsed time and again, with the exception of how Rafaela had
been captured and conveyed to Laredo.

By tacit consent, that was never brought up for discussion because of
the horrors surrounding it in Rafaela’s recollection. It was known that
a lieutenant of Ramirez’s, who had been hiding in the hills near the
estate, had swooped down the day after Jack and his father had concluded
their brief visit, and, after smashing the radio station, had carried
Rafaela off from under the eyes of the few peons left behind by Don
Ferdinand and Pedro and from the despairing clutches of Donna Ana. More
dead than alive, the poor girl had been swept up into the hills. But
when she found that whatever fate was intended for her was to be
deferred until she could be transported on horseback to Nueva Laredo and
turned over to Ramirez, her courage and resourcefulness revived. She
watched for an opportunity, and, when on arrival at Nueva Laredo, she
found Ramon in almost as sad plight as herself, she instantly began
working to bring the old fellow around to the point of helping her
escape. The two, as we know, were in the act of carrying out their
desperate attempt when Jack fortunately and opportunely arrived with his
comrades and the aviators to rescue her.

But, of the tortured hours that lay between the sudden attack of the
bandits on her home and Jack’s arrival, she could never be persuaded to
talk, and so, by common consent, the matter was never pressed.

One day during this golden vacation period Jack went into New York, not
returning until the next day. Then he arrived jubilant. He had come
straight from hours spent with the chief engineers and officials of the
great radio trust, and so fulsome had been the praise heaped on his
young head on account of the successful outcome of his year’s
experiments that modesty forbade him to repeat more than a tithe of it.
Indeed, many another head—and many a good deal older than Jack’s—might
have been turned; but his sat too squarely, he saw too sanely for
conceit to gain a foothold.

Enough to say that all Jack’s work had been fully approved, and that he
would soon have the pleasure of seeing his improved radio equipment on
the world market. He had solved the problem of providing
super-selectivity with a radio receiver permitting the operator to
select any station he wanted to hear, whether or not local stations were
in operation—a receiver that brought volume from distant stations along
with selectivity, that attained a more faithful reproduction of
broadcasted voice and music than ever deemed possible before, and that,
moreover, was eternally “non-radiating;” that is to say, that no matter
how handled it would never interfere with a neighboring radio
enthusiast’s enjoyment. And he had transformed the Super-Heterodyne,
theretofore so complicated that engineering skill was required for its
operation, until now it was improved in sensitiveness and selectivity
and simplified so that anybody could operate it.

“And what do you get for your work?” the practical Mr. Temple wanted to
know.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Maybe, millions. The radio trust financed my
experiments, as you know, and you might think it would now offer me a
lump sum and buy my work outright. But, although there were one or two
men who wanted to do that, the balance were very decent about it. The
upshot is that I have a contractual agreement, paying me a fixed royalty
on all sales of my patented articles.”

“You got them to do that?” said Mr. Temple, getting up and shaking Jack
by the hand. “Well, I’ll say you’re a business man. How about it,
Hampton?” And he turned toward Jack’s father.

“Jack knows how I feel,” said Mr. Hampton, smiling. “But the big thing
to him, and I guess to me, too, is not the fact that he probably will
reap a fortune but rather that he has succeeded in advancing the cause
of science.”

“And now what are you planning to do?” persisted Mr. Temple, while the
others—the whole party was present on the shaded slope of lawn beside
the Temple tennis courts—listened for Jack’s answer.

Jack pretended a secretiveness which he did not feel, and his
make-believe was so pronounced that the others all began to smile.

“Hist,” he said, gazing around, with hand, palm extended, shading his
eyes. “Any enemies of the radio trust on hand? No, well then I can
speak. But only in strictest secrecy, mind that, everybody. As soon
as”—a twinkling glance at Rafaela—“as soon as I go under new management,
I’m to be detailed to Washington.”

“Washington? What for?” cried Bob.

And, “Yes, what for?” echoed others. Mr. Hampton and Rafaela, who
already had been admitted to the secret, alone remained silent.

“There’s a man down there who also has been experimenting on radio,”
Jack said, “but along different lines. He is trying to find out the laws
controlling radio waves for the transmission of vision. Well, maybe, I
didn’t put that just right. But this is what he’s after: He’s trying to
evolve a radio device for the broadcasting of scenes. Thus, for
instance, there would be a broadcasting equipment when the President
takes his oath of office, when Babe Ruth plays ball, when the Belmont
Stakes or the Kentucky Derby are run, when Bill Tilden and Suzanne
Lenglen take on the world at tennis, when a new play is given its
premiere; and the fellow sitting out in the mountains, far from
everywhere, or over in our house or yours, Bob, with special equipment,
why, he’d see it all, just as if he were present. And he’d hear, too.
What do you think of that?”

Various expressions of disbelief rose from the group, except that Bob
and Frank sat silent, nodding their heads.

“It’s bound to come,” said Frank, when the others had in a measure
subsided.

And Bob added with conviction: “It’ll come if Jack helps out this old
professor.”

And after a moment he added gloomily:

“But Frank and I won’t be in on it. We’ll be down in the shipping room
stencilling exports.”

A merry laugh, which Bob somehow felt was a bit unfeeling, greeted this
reference to the fact that at the end of the Summer vacation he and
Frank were scheduled to enter the export house which their respective
fathers had built up as partners, and which Mr. Temple had conducted
alone since the death of his associate and lifelong friend, Frank’s
father, years before.

“Cheer up, Bob,” said Jack. “You expressed somewhat the same sentiments,
if I remember aright, down in Laredo not so long ago. Nothing exciting
was ever going to happen to you again, you said. Yet look at all the fun
you had the very next minute.”

And so, with this little prevision of the future, let us bid a temporary
farewell to the Radio Boys, feeling fairly well assured that when we
next encounter them Jack, and not Bob, will prove to have been the
better prophet.


                                The End.


                         FRANK ARMSTRONG SERIES

                          By MATTHEW M. COLTON

             [Illustration: FRANK ARMSTRONG’S SECOND TERM]

Six Exceptional Stories of College Life, Describing Athletics from Start
to Finish. For Boys 10 to 15 Years.

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  FRANK ARMSTRONG, DROP KICKER
  FRANK ARMSTRONG, CAPTAIN OF THE NINE
  FRANK ARMSTRONG AT COLLEGE


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                         By Fremont B. Deering

                [Illustration: BORDER BOYS ON THE TRAIL]

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                           BY CLAIR W. HAYES
               Author of the Famous “Boy Allies” Series.

             [Illustration: THE BOY TROOPERS ON THE TRAIL]

The adventures of two boys with the Pennsylvania State Police.

                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years.
                        All Copyrighted Titles.
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  THE BOY TROOPERS ON THE TRAIL
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                           By MILTON RICHARDS

           [Illustration: DICK KENT WITH THE MOUNTED POLICE]

        A new series of stories of Adventure in the North Woods
                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years
                         Handsome Cloth Binding

  DICK KENT WITH THE MOUNTED POLICE

  Dick and his friend Sandy meet with ambush and desperate hand-to-hand
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                      The Boy Allies With the Navy
            (Registered in the United States Patent Office)

                                   BY
                         ENSIGN ROBERT L. DRAKE

         [Illustration: THE BOY ALLIES ON THE NORTH SEA PATROL]

                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years.
                  All Cloth Bound    Copyright Titles

                          PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH
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Frank Chadwick and Jack Templeton, young American lads, meet each other
in an unusual way soon after the declaration of war. Circumstances place
them on board the British cruiser, “The Sylph,” and from there on, they
share adventures with the sailors of the Allies. Ensign Robert L. Drake,
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the many exciting adventures of the two boys.

  THE BOY ALLIES ON THE NORTH SEA PATROL; or, Striking the First Blow at
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  THE BOY ALLIES UNDER TWO FLAGS; or, Sweeping the Enemy from the Sea.
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          Navy.


                     _The Boy Allies With the Army_
            (Registered in the United States Patent Office)

                           BY CLAIR W. HAYES

             [Illustration: THE BOY ALLIES IN GREAT PERIL]

                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years.
                  All Cloth Bound    Copyright Titles

In this series we follow the fortunes of two American lads unable to
leave Europe after war is declared. They meet the soldiers of the
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  THE BOY ALLIES AT LIEGE; or, Through Lines of Steel.
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          Marne.
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  THE BOY ALLIES UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES; or, Leading the American
          Troops to the Firing Line.
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  THE BOY ALLIES WITH PERSHING IN FRANCE; or, Over the Top at Chateau
          Thierry.
  THE BOY ALLIES WITH MARSHAL FOCH; or, The Closing Days of the Great
          World War.


                          The Boy Scout Series

                           BY HERBERT CARTER

             [Illustration: THE BOY SCOUTS’ FIRST CAMPFIRE]

                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years
                  All Cloth Bound    Copyright Titles

                          PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH
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                        New Stories of Camp Life

  THE BOY SCOUTS’ FIRST CAMPFIRE; or, Scouting with the Silver Fox
          Patrol.
  THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE; or, Marooned Among the Moonshiners.
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          in a Flood.
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          Marne.


                            BOY SCOUT SERIES

                        By LIEUT. HOWARD PAYSON

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                      Attractively Bound in Cloth.

  THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE EAGLE PATROL

  A speed boat race and an old sea captain give the Eagle Patrol a busy
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  THE BOY SCOUTS ON THE RANGE

  Rob Blake and his friends among the cowboys and Indians in Arizona.

  THE BOY SCOUTS AND THE ARMY AIRSHIP

  The Hampton Academy boys discover a plot to steal Government airplane
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  THE BOY SCOUTS’ MOUNTAIN CAMP

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  THE BOY SCOUTS FOR UNCLE SAM

  The trial trip of a new submarine, a strange derelict and a treasure
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  Hunting and exploring in the tangled forests of Panama.

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  Searching for General Villa in War-torn Mexico.

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  Between the lines in Belgium during the World War.

  THE BOY SCOUTS WITH THE ALLIES IN FRANCE

  Raiding Uhlans, spies and air-raids in War-wrecked France.

  THE BOY SCOUTS AT THE PANAMA-PACIFIC EXPOSITION

  The adventures of four scouts at the Exposition in San Francisco.

  THE BOY SCOUTS UNDER SEALED ORDERS

  The Boy Scouts’ exciting experiences while searching for stolen
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  THE BOY SCOUTS’ CAMPAIGN FOR PREPAREDNESS

  The Eagle Patrol on duty in a Government munition plant.


                         The Golden Boys Series

                         BY L. P. WYMAN, PH.D.
                 Dean of Pennsylvania Military College.

           [Illustration: THE GOLDEN BOYS IN THE MAINE WOODS]

A new series of instructive copyright stories for boys of High School
Age.

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  THE GOLDEN BOYS RESCUED BY RADIO
  THE GOLDEN BOYS ALONG THE RIVER ALLAGASH
  THE GOLDEN BOYS AT THE HAUNTED CAMP
  THE GOLDEN BOYS ON THE RIVER DRIVE
  THE GOLDEN BOYS SAVE THE CHAMBERLAIN DAM
  THE GOLDEN BOYS ON THE TRAIL


                       THE HUNNIWELL BOYS SERIES

                             By L. P. WYMAN
       Author of “The Golden Boys” and “The Lakewood Boys” Series

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  THE HUNNIWELL BOYS’ VICTORY
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  THE HUNNIWELL BOYS’ LONGEST FLIGHT


                        The Jack Lorimer Series

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                [Illustration: JACK LORIMER’S CHAMPIONS]

                        For Boys 12 to 16 Years.
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  CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High.

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                            BY MORGAN SCOTT

                  [Illustration: OAKDALE BOYS IN CAMP]

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  THE GREAT OAKDALE MYSTERY
  THE NEW BOYS AT OAKDALE


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                           By GORDON BRADDOCK

             [Illustration: REX KINGDON OF RIDGEWOOD HIGH]

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Stories boys will want to read.

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  REX KINGDON OF RIDGEWOOD HIGH
  REX KINGDON IN THE NORTH WOODS
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  REX KINGDON ON STORM ISLAND

    For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the
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                          _SAVE THE WRAPPER!_

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you have made in this book and would like to read more clean, wholesome
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