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JACK STRAW IN MEXICO


[Illustration: “The door was pushed violently open”]


JACK STRAW IN MEXICO

How the Engineers Defended
the Great Hydro-Electric Plant

by

IRVING CRUMP

Illustrations by Leslie Crump






New York
McBride, Nast & Company
1914

Copyright, 1914, by
McBride, Nast & CO.

Published September, 1914




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                             PAGE

        I JACK STRAW’S MISSION TO MEXICO                   1

       II “IN SELF DEFENSE”                               17

      III SEASICK                                         26

       IV AT ODDS WITH CUSTOMS INSPECTORS                 40

        V IN THE HANDS OF THE SECRET SERVICE              50

       VI ON TRIAL AS A SPY                               58

      VII OFF FOR NECAXA                                  67

     VIII THE CRIPPLED GENERATORS                         79

       IX JACK PROPOSES A TRAP                            88

        X FOOTPRINTS                                     100

       XI SEARCHING FOR THE MAN WITH THE SCARRED HEEL    108

      XII THE DRAWINGS ARE STOLEN                        119

     XIII A WEAKENED GARRISON                            129

      XIV THE NIGHT WATCH                                139

       XV IMPROVISED SEARCHLIGHTS                        151

      XVI A WARNING                                      162

     XVII WHO WILL BE FOOD FOR THE VULTURES              174

    XVIII THE WIRES ARE DOWN                             184

      XIX TO THE RESCUE                                  193

       XX “SHOOT! SHOOT!”                                205

      XXI “YES, YES, I DID IT”                           216

     XXII GOOD-BY NECAXA                                 226




THE ILLUSTRATIONS


    The door was pushed violently open         _Frontispiece_

                                                 FACING PAGE

    To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare       58

    They pressed against the barrier like cattle         178

    The horsemen in green swept down the valley          198




JACK STRAW IN MEXICO




CHAPTER I

JACK STRAW’S MISSION TO MEXICO


Five members of the “D” club had gathered in Jack Straw’s room on the
top floor of Phillip’s Hall the last Saturday afternoon before the end
of the Spring term. They had not assembled in official conclave, indeed
they had not intended to assemble at all. They had merely gravitated
there one by one in search of something to take their minds off the
worst disappointment they had been compelled to face that year. The
Drueryville-Seaton baseball game, the one that was to have settled the
preparatory school championship of Vermont, had been scheduled for that
Saturday afternoon, and, lo and behold, in spite of the importance of the
day, Jupiter Pluvius or whoever it was that controlled the rain supply,
had made the game impossible by deluging everything in sight since early
morning. And there was no chance of postponing the contest either as
school closed the following Friday. The championship would have to remain
undecided. And this was just the year Drueryville stood a better chance
than ever of adding the “prep” cup to her trophy case. It was enough to
make anyone glum.

“They should have named this place Drearyville instead of Drueryville,”
muttered Toad Fletcher, the stocky little catcher of the team, as he
looked across the deserted campus at the dripping eves of Bradley Hall.

John Monroe Strawbridge, who was known to every boy in school as Jack
Straw, shifted his position on the window seat so that he could take
another look at the weather.

“It is pretty gloomy on a day like this,” he answered after searching the
leaden sky for some signs of a break in the low hanging storm clouds.

Jack and Toad were too dejected in spirit for conversation and since
Bunny Baily was deeply engrossed in a book of fiction and Dick Cory and
Harvey Maston were working out an absorbing game of checkers silence
reigned in the room for some time. In fact a stranger passing the door
would never have suspected that five perfectly normal, healthy boys
were within. But then the “D” club was composed of the honor boys of
Drueryville Academy and for that reason if no other, they were bound
to be more dignified at times. You see the “D” club was made up of the
students who had won the privilege of wearing a white and blue initial,
the insignia of the school, on their caps or jersey; and in order to earn
that distinction a boy must needs work hard both in the class room and on
the athletic field. When a youth successfully attained such laurels the
crown _was_ apt to weigh heavily.

How long the clicking of checkers would have remained the only sound is
hard to tell had not Tommy Todd happened to see Jack Straw curled up in
the window seat. He paused a moment before Phillip’s Hall and waved his
hand in friendly greeting. Then he splashed across the muddy road and
came up the stairs three steps at a time. Like a small portion of the
storm itself (for Tommy was by no means a big boy) he burst into the
room, his yellow raincoat and rubber hat dripping wet.

“Say, don’t flood the place!” shouted Jack as he noted two growing pools
of water on the rug.

But Tommy only grinned as he removed his wet garments and draped them
over the back of a chair so that they would drip on the hearthstone.

“Sort of hard luck to have a day like this happen along just when it
isn’t wanted,” he suggested to no one in particular. Then without waiting
for a response he looked at Jack and spoke.

“Say old man, I can’t think what on earth you’ve been up to recently,
but there’s something in the wind. Dr. Moorland wants to see you as soon
as possible. I just came from his house and he asked me to look you up.
I was going on downtown first because the last place on earth I ever
expected to find you was in your own room. What’s the trouble anyway?
You haven’t done something that will keep you from getting through next
week, have you? It’s mighty close to the end of the term and I hope
you’ve been careful.”

At this Cory and Maston suspended their game for a moment and Bunny Baily
put down his book. All eyes were turned on Jack Straw. And as for Jack,
it must be confessed he looked startled and somewhat worried. Hastily he
ran through his mental diary, but so far as he could see no one entry
stood out above the rest as warranting reprimand from the principal.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what he can want of me,” he assured his
guests as he hastened into his bedroom and donned raincoat and rubbers.
A few moments later he hurried out into the hall and down the broad
stairs toward the main entrance. As he passed the mail rack in the hall
he noticed a letter waiting for him. Hastily he seized it and crammed it
into his pocket, noting as he did so that the address was written in his
father’s hand.

Dr. Theodore Moorland, the principal, lived in a modest little cottage on
the north side of the campus. It was almost hidden in a grove of tall
maples and, as if to make itself more inconspicuous, it had permitted
woodbine and ivy to clothe its gray stone walls in a cloak of soft green.
A graveled road that wound between fat old maples showed the way to the
front door, and it was up this much used path that Jack Strawbridge
hastened, his mind still puzzled over the reason for such an unusual
command. The heavy old-fashioned door to the cottage was equipped with
a ponderous brass knocker of quaint design which thumped with such
resonance as to spread consternation in the soul of youngsters summoned
thither. Thus they were thoroughly disturbed before they even faced the
austere old master.

Such was not the attitude of Jack Straw, however. He had not been able
to remember a single reason why he should expect to face a scolding
from Dr. Moorland. Every examination paper had come back with excellent
markings and his conduct for some time past had been beyond reproach.
He thumped the old door knocker twice in his eagerness to find out just
what the master wanted. Perhaps it was news from home, he thought, and
he comforted himself by the fact that nothing serious had happened to
his father, for the letter in his coat pocket attested to the fact that
he was still well enough to write. But while he was speculating thus the
door was opened by Dr. Moorland himself.

The dignified pedagogue greeted the boy with a broad smile and a hearty
hand shake.

“I didn’t know but what you and some of the rest of the boys had about
grieved yourselves to death over your ill luck at having the championship
game broken up by the weather,” he said as he ushered Jack into his study
in a secluded wing of the house.

“It is rather hard on us,” said Jack with a smile. “Here we’ve been
working since February to get our team in shape for the trophy contest
and then a little thing like the weather spoils it. Next year I think we
will have to arrange to have the championship game a little earlier so
there will be enough time to play it in case of an emergency like this
one.”

“Never mind, Jack, my boy,” said the principal, “I have a mission for you
that is calculated to take your mind off baseball and similar troubles
for some time to come.”

The boy was plainly puzzled at this remark. He looked curiously at the
principal who was striding the room nervously. Dr. Moorland was a tall,
broad shouldered man of sixty. His hair was snow white and so long in
back that it curled down over his coat collar. A pair of horn rimmed
spectacles that were constantly sliding forward on his nose made him
appear to be a testy individual, but in reality he was a genial old
gentleman who loved his boys as much as if he was the father of every one
of them. The State of Vermont counted him among the best of its educators
and he was famed throughout the country, indeed throughout the world as a
chemist.

“Jack,” he said after a long silence, “how would you like to go to
Mexico?”

“To Mexico!” gasped Jack.

“Yes, to Mexico. It will be an opportunity for you to see a wonderful
country and also to make enough money to pay your tuition at Drueryville
next year. Do you care to go?”

“Why—why—Oh, I’d be delighted—but—well I’d have to get father’s consent
first, you know.”

“Ah, Jack, you don’t suppose I would have suggested the subject before
consulting your father about it, do you? I wrote him several days ago and
asked his permission to let you go. I received word this morning that he
was perfectly willing to have you avail yourself of the chance to see a
little of the world providing you cared to go. I wonder that he hasn’t
written to you about it.”

“Why, perhaps the letter I have in my pocket now is about that very
thing,” said Jack, searching in his pocket for the envelope.

“Very likely,” said the principal, “but you can read it after. Let me
explain exactly what I want you to do. When you have heard the details
you can decide better whether you want to go.”

Dr. Moorland had ceased pacing the room and settled deep in his
comfortable study chair. With what seemed exasperating deliberateness to
Jack, he removed his huge glasses and polished them thoroughly on his
handkerchief before he was ready to talk. Then just as he was about to
begin he seemed to remember something else of importance, for he began to
search drawer after drawer of his desk until he finally brought to light
a large yellow envelope bulging with what appeared to be blueprints. He
tossed the package on the desk before him and once again resumed his
comfortable attitude.

“Perhaps you never heard of my nephew, Harry Ryder. In fact, I am quite
certain you haven’t, for he has never visited Drueryville since you’ve
been at school. Harry Ryder is the chief engineer of the enormous
hydro-electric power plant at Necaxa where light and power is supplied
for Mexico City, the capital, one hundred and twenty-five miles away. He
was appointed to that important position by President Madero a year ago,
and he has done his best to keep Mexico City lighted in spite of all the
trouble in that turbulent republic, and the recent change to the Huerta
régime.

“Time and again rebels have tried to break down the four transmission
lines that carry the current to the city but they have never yet been
successful and I judge from Harry’s letters that he never intends they
shall. But besides rebels, Harry has other important things to contend
with. Up there in the mountains where the plant is located, thunderstorms
are quite frequent and lightning is the troublesome element. Lightning
is electricity in its most dangerous form, because of its very high
voltage. Voltage, you know, is the pressure which causes it to travel.
One of our scientists once tried to measure lightning and found that its
voltage mounted well into the millions. This is tremendous force when you
consider that the current used in lighting houses and stores is supplied
at one hundred and ten volts.

“During thunderstorms the lightning plays about the transmission lines,
often causing a great deal of trouble. If it should by any chance get
into the station it would raise havoc with the generators and other
machinery. To prevent this, lightning arresters have been constructed
that will waylay the lightning, as it were, and send it into the ground
before it reaches the vital machinery.”

Here Dr. Moorland paused and began to sketch rapidly on a piece of paper
while Jack looked on, still very much mystified.

[Illustration: Dr. Moorland’s Sketch]

“The usual transformer is arranged something like this. First a choke
coil is put in the transmission line near the end. When the lightning
strikes this coil it piles up and is forced back exactly like a flying
wedge of football players that suddenly tries to break through an
impregnable defense. The lightning that is thus forced back rushes into
line ‘A,’ which is the point of least resistance, jumps the horn gap and
plunges through the arrester tank and into the ground. When the excessive
electricity has left the line and the flow is normal, the current is
checked at the horn gap and arrested. This combination of gap and
arrester does not permit current to flow into the ground during normal
operation and does not actually become active until lightning gets into
the line and there is danger of the plant being wrecked by an overload of
electricity.”

“My, but that is interesting,” said Jack Straw as he fingered the
master’s sketch. Indeed, he had been so carried away with the description
of that interesting piece of engineering work that for the moment he had
completely forgotten about Mexico. But Dr. Moorland revived his interest
with his next sentence.

“And now for my reason for wanting you to go to Mexico. The lightning
arresters now in use are not entirely satisfactory, and Harry Ryder
has been trying to build one on completely new lines. Indeed, he has
perfected the contrivance, except for a neutral chemical solution of a
new nature for which he asked me to construct a formula. He forwarded his
drawings for me to look over and now I am ready to send them back. But a
few weeks ago, Harry communicated with me and asked me to take particular
care that the drawings reach him safely. In fact, he suggested that they
be sent to him by messenger instead of by the mails. You see, Mexico is
in a state of extended turmoil now with Villa, Carranza and Zapata all
carrying on campaigns against Huerta, and under such conditions the mails
are not trustworthy. In fact, I understand from Harry that three-quarters
of the mail is destroyed by revolutionary forces and that the rest of
it is left lying in almost any corner of the republic until it can be
distributed.

“These drawings,”—Dr. Moorland fingered the bulky yellow envelope as he
spoke,—“are far too valuable to trust to such mail service and since
Harry is willing to meet the expenses of a messenger and at the same time
pay him for his services, I can see no reason why you should not be the
one to take them safely to Necaxa.”

“Why, I’d be delighted with the undertaking, if you think I can do it
satisfactorily,” said Jack.

“And why can’t you do it satisfactorily?” demanded the principal rather
bruskly. “Any boy whom the students of Drueryville honor by electing
captain of the football team for two successive seasons certainly must
have some good qualities. You are strong and healthy. You are not a
coward and above all you are reliable. These are qualifications that I
could not find in every man. Will you go, Jack?”

“Yes, I will. When do I start?” asked the boy enthusiastically, and from
the expression on his face it was evident that he was pleased with the
confidence the old master had in his ability to carry out the mission.

“A steamer sails from New York on Saturday next. I would like to have you
be on board when it leaves the dock for I am more than eager to have the
drawings back to their owner and the responsibility off my mind. Then,
too, I am afraid the hostilities in Mexico might become more serious.
You will have a week to prepare for the journey, and since I have looked
up all your examination papers and found them above the proper rating I
will excuse you from school for the last week of the term and you can
spend that time with your father, for I know he has many things to say
to you. You can leave Drueryville on the ten o’clock train to-morrow
morning after you have called here to receive final instructions and the
precious drawings. And now you must hurry back to your room and pack.
Good afternoon and good luck to you.”

It was a rather serious moment for Jack when he shook hands with Dr.
Moorland. He realized that the old schoolmaster was putting great trust
in him. It was in truth a struggle for him to hide his emotions as he
bade the old man good afternoon.




CHAPTER II

“IN SELF-DEFENSE OR A CAUSE THAT IS HONORABLE”


Townsend Strawbridge, Jack’s father, lived alone in what was left of
a once very large estate in the upper end of the pleasant Champlain
Valley. The old dwelling was located on the outskirts of the village of
Middlebury less than fifty miles from Drueryville, and it was toward
this point that Jack hurried as soon as he received the precious yellow
envelope and final instructions from Dr. Moorland.

Mr. Strawbridge had in his day suffered a double misfortune through
losing his wife and his money almost at the same time. His story was
the same as that of many others in that region of the country. He had
discovered outcroppings of another section of the rich marble vein that
runs from one end of the Champlain Valley to the other and almost
bisects the State of Vermont. Lured on by the vast fortune that certain
other men were making in marble quarrying, Mr. Strawbridge sought to
develop his own property. All the money he had saved, as well as all
that he could borrow on mortgages, was invested in quarrying machines,
derricks and the like. With these and a force of burly Canadian quarrymen
he went to work, opening quarry holes in what had once been the farm’s
pasture lot.

But unfortunately he had not been able to gather together money enough
to more than to tide him over the early part of the operation. This
consisted in removing the top soil and breaking away the upper layers
of worthless stone, a condition he had not reckoned with. The result
was that when the channeling machines were finally put to work to get
out the first blocks Mr. Strawbridge found himself unable to finance
the undertaking much longer. He tried to borrow more money, but before
he could successfully negotiate a loan the quarrymen called a general
strike throughout the State and the men at the Strawbridge quarries
went out with the rest. The strike affected the entire valley and every
one was pressed for money. Instead of making new loans old accounts were
called in, and since Mr. Strawbridge had no way of meeting his debts, the
mortgages on his property were foreclosed. However, he had steadfastly
refused to mortgage his house and the property on which it stood. Nor
would he jeopardize his interest in the old pasture lot where the
quarries were located; consequently these sections alone were saved to
him.

On top of all this trouble Jack’s mother died. This was almost more
than Mr. Strawbridge could stand and for several years he was very much
depressed. But gradually he was mastering his unhappiness. He was, in
fact, working on a plan to organize a company and develop his marble
quarries and this served to keep his mind occupied enough to prevent
unpleasant memories from creeping in.

Naturally his son was very dear to him. In fact, he and Jack were more
like chums than father and son. In summer, during Jack’s long vacation,
they would go hunting and fishing together and have a thoroughly good
time in general. In the fall and winter, when Jack was at Drueryville,
Mr. Strawbridge made weekly visits to the old academy, just for the
pleasure of being able to chat with Jack and his schoolboy companions.

Considering this mutual affection it may seem strange that his father
was willing to let Jack spend his vacation in Mexico, but then, as Mr.
Strawbridge said in his letter to Jack sanctioning the trip, “It is an
opportunity that you cannot well miss, as it will give you a chance to
see a very wonderful country. If you do not avail yourself of this chance
you may have to wait a long time before I can afford to pay the expenses
of such a journey. Besides, you will be able to earn enough money to pay
your tuition next year which also counts for a great deal because I am
now using every penny I have at my command to re-establish my fortune.”

When Jack reached home that Sunday afternoon after leaving the academy,
Mr. Strawbridge was for putting by his plans for organizing a quarry
operating company and devoting the entire week to his son. But Jack
would not hear to this, for he was thoroughly interested in the work of
reopening the quarries. Mr. Strawbridge was well pleased at this and
explained all the intricacies of issuing stock and organizing a company
until the boy had secured an excellent insight into business of this
nature. Many hours were spent in wandering over the old pasture lot and
climbing in and out of the quarry holes. They even visited other quarries
that were being successfully operated in the vicinity of Middlebury.

But though they were employed in working out the more serious problems of
life they did find time to go a-wandering beside babbling trout brooks
with their fly rods. Altogether they crowded more enjoyment into that one
week than they really expected and Friday morning came all too soon for
both of them. This, in spite of the fact that Jack was looking forward to
his voyage to Mexico with as much enthusiasm as ever.

After breakfast the last morning before his departure Jack went over
the contents of his valise to see that nothing important had been
overlooked. While he was thus engaged his father asked him to step into
the library for a moment. When Jack entered the room Mr. Strawbridge was
seated at his desk and before him lay a huge blue steel Colt revolver, a
well-worn leather holster and a cartridge belt studded with brass ends
of many cartridges. Jack had often viewed this weapon in his father’s
room and occasionally he had been allowed to fire it at a target when his
father was at hand.

“My son,” said Mr. Strawbridge kindly as he patted the heavy six-shooter,
“you have been greatly honored by your principal, Dr. Moorland. He has
asked you to undertake a mission of importance. He has entrusted you with
valuable drawings, the loss of which would mean the ruination perhaps of
a man’s most important contribution to the scientific world. All this
has pleased me a great deal for I find satisfaction in knowing others
besides myself have faith in your ability to carry out an undertaking. Do
everything you can, my boy, to have them retain this faith. I realized
when I gave you permission to go to Mexico that I was letting you take
your life in your own hands. This worried me a great deal at first, but I
would not for anything in the world cheat you of the honor of making that
journey successfully. You will be traveling most of the time among people
to whom human life is of little value. These people are violent and
warlike. They are uneducated and untrained, and all the time that you are
in their country your life will be in danger. For that reason I am going
to give you this revolver. Take it and use it only in self-defense or in
a cause that is honorable. If others believe that you are to carry out an
important task I am ready to believe that you are careful enough to know
how to use a weapon of this kind and not misuse it.”

Jack’s heart beat fast as he took the heavy holster and cartridge belt
from the desk. He always liked to feel it in his hands, and to examine it
closely. He had been accustomed to firearms of all kinds, but this huge
army revolver fascinated him because of its massiveness.

“Father,” he said finally, “I shall be as careful with this as you have
been, and you can be certain that whatever use it is put to will be
honorable.”

“Jack, I believe you,” said Mr. Strawbridge heartily, as he grasped his
son’s hand.

The rest of the day Jack and his father devoted to planning the details
of his trip and at four o’clock Mr. Strawbridge opened the heavy door
of his private safe and took the yellow envelope from the compartment
in which it had been reposing since Jack’s arrival from Drueryville. He
also took a heavy waterproof wallet from the safe and emptying the papers
contained therein gave it to Jack with instructions always to keep the
precious drawings in it. The wallet, with drawings inside, Jack placed
in an inner pocket of his coat, taking good care first to see that there
were no small holes that might become enlarged by the weight of the
package, thereby providing a way for it to slip through. Shortly after
that the village bus drove to the door and Jack and his father bundled
inside. Thus did our hero depart on the first stage of what was to prove
an unusual adventure.

The express from Montreal that was to take him to New York was in the
station when he arrived and Jack had but a very few minutes to say a last
good-by to his parent. In fact, the train started as they were shaking
hands and Jack just had time to toss his bag to a dusky Pullman porter
and swing aboard.




CHAPTER III

SEASICK


Fortunately Dr. Moorland had arranged all the details concerning Jack’s
sailing and had forwarded his steamship ticket and stateroom reservation
to him while he was still in Middlebury, otherwise he never would
have made the Pringle Line pier before the sailing hour. Somewhere
south of Albany a freight train had been wrecked during the night and
in consequence the entire line had been tied up for three hours. The
Montreal express had merely crawled along for the greater part of its
journey and when Jack awoke the next morning he found to his dismay that
it had many miles to go before it reached the Grand Central depot. In
fact, when it finally pulled into the train shed the young traveler had a
little more than half an hour in which to reach the Brooklyn dock.

Valise in hand he stood on the platform of the first car when the long
train rolled in. And while the brakes were yet crunching against the
wheels he leapt down, to the imminent peril of a colored porter whom he
nearly bowled over in his mad haste to reach Forty-second Street. Down
the long concourse and through the waiting-room he hurried until he
finally gained the sidewalk. There he hailed the first taxicab in sight.
Pausing only a moment to give the driver hasty instructions, Jack plunged
inside and immediately was being whisked through New York at top speed.

But with all this hustle and bustle he came very near to missing the
boat. Indeed he was among the last aboard. All but one gang-plank had
been hauled in and the few remaining visitors were being hastened ashore
by the stewards when he finally gained the deck and paused to catch his
breath. She was a long low white-hulled steamer that sailed under the
name of the _Yucatan_ and her seaworthiness was apparent even to Jack,
who had never before set foot on a ship’s deck.

The first thing that the boy from Drueryville Academy did after
locating his stateroom was to see that the wallet with its precious
contents was secure in its proper place. His mind at ease on this
point, he immediately returned to the deck, for he was eager to see
the sights of New York harbor. The _Yucatan_ was slipping past the
lower end of Governor’s Island and the entire skyline of Manhattan was
spread out before his admiring gaze. But presently, as the ship passed
Tompkinsville, his attention was diverted to three huge gray vessels with
queer basket-like masts that were anchored just off the Staten Island
shore. He recalled that a United States Navy coaling station was located
in that vicinity and concluded that this was the reason for the presence
there of three of the largest of Uncle Sam’s battleships.

And as these vessels faded in the distance a new delight was revealed to
him. The _Yucatan_ was steaming down the Narrows toward the lower bay
and on either bank Jack beheld the many innocent looking grass-grown
terraces of Fort Wadsworth and Fort Hamilton behind which the deadly
disappearing guns of the harbor defense are concealed. The mere sight of
these embankments with the Stars and Stripes whipping in the breeze above
them made the young Vermonter thrill with patriotism, and for the first
time in his life he realized fully how glad he was that Yankee blood
coursed through his veins. And as he stood there almost spell-bound by
this picture of silent power, some one at his elbow spoke to him.

“They look almost impregnable,” said the stranger, whereat Jack turned to
find himself addressed by a tall, good looking man whose face was tanned
to a ruddy brown, and whose eyes sparkled with as much enthusiasm as his
own.

“Indeed they do, and I am proud of them,” our young friend replied with
feeling.

“So am I, son; so am I,” said the other with equal fervor. “And every day
I feel more grateful to Providence for making an American of me. You’ll
appreciate it too after you have traveled in foreign lands a little
while.”

Jack instinctively liked this man. He was so heartily enthusiastic about
America and everything American that the boy could not help but admire
him. Indeed he found him decidedly interesting as a companion and they
chatted away about everything in general until the _Yucatan_ reached
Sandy Hook. Here the stranger brought forth a pair of binoculars and
scrutinized the beach and the Atlantic Highlands beyond until he located
the object of his search. Then he passed the glasses to Jack, saying as
he did so:

“Here, look at the greatest lighthouses in the world. See those two
towers standing out of the foliage over there on the hill. The reflection
of their lights can be seen seventy miles out at sea.”

After a search Jack found them. They appeared like the towers of some
medieval castle connected by a long low brick structure.

“Are those the Sandy Hook Lights?” he queried.

“No,” said his companion, “they are officially known as the Navesink
Lights. The Sandy Hook Light is that old octagonal white tower over
yonder. That is one of the oldest, if not the oldest, lighthouse in
America. It was built by the British Government in 1764 and during the
Revolutionary War the King’s soldiers used it as a military prison.
Not long ago when they were making some improvements in the foundation
a dungeon was unearthed in which were found several human skeletons,
evidently Colonial soldiers imprisoned there and not liberated when the
lighthouse was abandoned. Now if you will turn your glasses off to the
right you will be able to see the Sandy Hook Lightship. That little
cockleshell of a craft is there winter and summer fighting every storm
and fog that comes up. She’s in competent hands, however, for the captain
is a master mariner.”

Jack was exceedingly interested. He wondered how his companion came to
know so much about lighthouses and lightships and several times he was
on the point of asking him. This, however, was not necessary, for a few
moments later the information was furnished quite voluntarily.

“By the way,” said the stranger, after Jack had finished scrutinizing
the tossing lightship, “I’ve neglected to introduce myself. My name
is Warner, James Warner, I am supposed to be a marine engineer. You
understand; a builder of lighthouses, concrete dykes and all that.”

“And I am John Strawbridge of Drueryville Academy, but since Strawbridge
is a rather large mouthful I suggest you call me Jack Straw. It’s
handier, you know.”

“Jack Straw, eh? Well, that’s corking,” said Mr. Warner heartily,
clapping the boy on the back. “Where are you bound for, Jack? I’m on my
way to Tampico. President Huerta, of Mexico, has just given me a contract
to rebuild the foundation of the Lobo’s Island Light. That is one of the
most important coast markings in Mexico.”

“I’m bound for Necaxa, by way of Vera Cruz and Mexico City,” said Jack,
who had already begun to feel like a seasoned traveler.

“Necaxa,” exclaimed his companion; “why that’s where the big
hydro-electric power plant is located. That’s where Mexico City gets
its light from. Harry Ryder, the engineer in charge of the plant, is an
old chum of mine. In fact, we were classmates at Sheffield Scientific
School.”

“Why, he’s the man I am expecting to visit there,” said Jack, somewhat
surprised at the fact that Mr. Warner knew Dr. Moorland’s nephew. He
refrained, however, from telling his companion the reason for his journey.

“Well, that’s mighty interesting,” replied the marine engineer. “I
haven’t seen Harry Ryder in more than two years, though I’ve kept in
touch with him. He’s a very capable fellow, and he deserves the honor
of being in charge of the largest electric station in Mexico. He won
the office, you know, about a year or so ago. President Madero held
competitive examinations in Mexico City. Harry carried off the highest
honors. But from what he told me he was rather hard pressed by several
other good electrical engineers, both Americans and Mexicans. I guess he
expected to lose his position when Huerta won the revolution and deposed
Madero. But the new president reappointed him.”

Jack was greatly pleased to learn that Dr. Moorland’s relative was so
well liked by his former classmate. It served to increase his interest in
the man whose plans he was carrying and he concluded that his visit to
Mexico was destined to be very pleasant with Mr. Ryder as his host. He
became silent after that, for his thoughts were far away, anticipating
his sojourn in the land that Cortez conquered. The voice of Mr. Warner
interrupted this pleasant mental occupation.

“Look over there on the horizon. That’s a storm cloud. I rather think
it’s fixing for a blow. Do you ever get seasick?” he queried.

“Well, I’ve never had an opportunity to find out,” said Jack, “for you
see this is my first experience on salt water.”

“Well, you’ll know within an hour. It’s freshening up now and before long
the boat will be pitching around like a Mexican burro, a beast you are
destined to become acquainted with before you have traveled in Mexico
very long.”

Jack smiled at Mr. Warner’s simile, but it was not long before he noticed
that the long rolling swells had changed to white crested waves that
pounded against the steel sides of the _Yucatan_ with a hiss and a shower
of salt spray. The pitching of the ship had increased, too, by the time
he and Mr. Warner went below for luncheon. Indeed, he found it rather
hard to follow his companion across the dining saloon without seeming to
stagger. At the same time he began to feel very peculiarly. It was as if
he had been swinging around and around so violently that he had finally
become very dizzy. He tried his best to hide his feelings from Mr.
Warner, hoping that he would be a little better after he had eaten. But
his companion looked at him sharply as he took his seat at the table and
Jack was certain that he saw the semblance of a smile about the corners
of his mouth. This nettled the boy and he determined that he would master
the peculiar feeling immediately. About that time, however, the waiter
placed a plate of hot soup before him. Jack looked at it once and all his
self-control vanished. Somehow the sight of food made him extremely ill
and without even the formality of excusing himself he pushed back his
chair and bolted for his stateroom.

Life hardly seemed worth living to Jack Straw during the next three
days for he was so ill that he could not stir out of his stateroom.
The _Yucatan_ pitched and rolled as if she was being tossed about for
a plaything by some very inconsiderate giant, and it frequently seemed
to the boy that the steel hull was on the point of foundering under the
heavy seas that broke against it. Nor did Jack care particularly whether
it did or not.

Several times he made an attempt to leave his stateroom, believing that
he would feel very much better if he could only reach deck. But each time
he left his berth he became so nauseated that he was glad to climb back
again. Mr. Warner made three efforts to visit him but Jack had bolted the
door against all intruders, including a solicitous steward who tried to
persuade him to drink a cup of tea and eat some hot toast.

On the morning of the fourth day out, however, he awoke to find himself
much relieved. To be sure he was very weak, but the sea had gone down
and walking was not the effort it had been before. He found himself able
to eat a light breakfast and later he managed to reach his steamer chair
into which he sank with a sigh of relief. He was not the only passenger
convalescing. Indeed all the occupants of the steamer chairs were pale
and weak appearing and Jack found a great deal of satisfaction in knowing
that others had been affected by the storm.

The _Yucatan_ was plowing her way through the dark blue water of the
Gulf, riding the long lazy swells with graceful ease, and to Jack, who
had never before been out of sight of land, the vast stretch of water
was awe-inspiring. The vessel seemed small and insignificant out there
all alone and he wondered how Columbus and other early adventurers had
ever found courage enough to sail for weeks over untraveled seas knowing
so little of their destination. In fact, how mariners could navigate a
vessel even with present-day charts and equipment seemed a mystery to the
boy from Vermont.

Late that afternoon while Jack was trying to get interested in a book
that he had brought from his stateroom, Mr. Warner appeared on deck.
“By George,” he exclaimed as he caught sight of Jack, “you’re not the
boy with whom I was talking a day or so ago! Why, you look as pale as a
ghost. You must have had a rather disagreeable few days. Well, we did run
through something of a blow and I guess you weren’t the only one who was
seasick. To tell the truth, I felt a little squeamish myself for a time.”

“I think it was about the most unpleasant sensation I ever had,” said
Jack.

“You are right,” said Mr. Warner; “but most of us have to experience
it sometime. Well, you are headed straight for your destination now. I
expect we will reach Tampico by late to-morrow night or the following
morning, and after that it is only a day to Vera Cruz. I am rather
glad I came across you here, for I’ve a lot of figuring to do on some
specifications I brought with me and I may not have an opportunity to see
you again before I land. I’ll say good-by to you now and let me wish you
the very best of luck in Mexico. Be sure and remember me to Harry Ryder
when you see him and tell him also that I may find an opportunity to
visit him if I am in Mexico long enough.”

Jack shook his hand warmly, for he had come to like the marine engineer a
great deal.

“I am sure we shall see each other again some day,” he said as they
parted company.




CHAPTER IV

AT ODDS WITH CUSTOMS INSPECTORS


Though it was hardly daylight Jack was up and dressed and on deck when
the Mexican pilot came aboard to take the _Yucatan_ into Vera Cruz. A
filmy blue mist was rising from the broad surface of the harbor, making
the white walled seaport seem like a dream city. Dawn, like twilight, in
the Tropics is of brief duration, and the boy from New England scarcely
had time to mark the fleeting changes of color along the eastern horizon
before the sun came up, dispelling at once the lingering night mist. And
with the coming of day the city and the harbor became alive. Tiny sail
boats put out and from wharves and jetties here and there puffing tugs
made their appearance.

Jack Straw watched the scene with eager interest. It was all so new and
so very unlike what he had expected that he became thoroughly fascinated.
Off to the right he beheld the frowning walls of the old fortress and
military prison of San Juan de Ulloa. He recalled stories he had heard of
its dungeons where numberless horrible executions had taken place, and he
wondered how many enemies of Huerta lingered there at the present time.
From this grim building he turned his attention to the city. The spires
of the cathedral showed high above the housetops, and as Jack caught
sight of them there arose the most confused jargon of metallic sound that
he had ever heard. It was as if a regiment of blacksmiths were beating
on cracked anvils. He did not learn until he landed that these sounds
emanated from the belfry of the cathedral and were caused by a group of
bell ringers bent on calling the population to early mass.

In due time, after port inspectors, quarantine officers, and a host of
other uniformed individuals had climbed aboard and inspected every one
and everything in sight, the _Yucatan_ was permitted to make her way
slowly to the Pringle Line wharf.

Jack, valise in hand, was among the first down the gang-plank, but he had
hardly put foot on the dock before he was accosted by another uniformed
attendant who spoke very poor English. The boy managed after a great
deal of effort to understand that he was one of the customs inspectors
and that he was about to make an examination of the contents of the
valise. Jack willingly unlocked the leather bag and permitted the swarthy
searcher to tumble its contents about until he became convinced that the
youth had nothing on which he could collect duty. But he did not seem
satisfied. He looked at Jack from head to heels, noting particularly each
one of his pockets. Then suddenly he pointed to where the leather wallet
and drawing made the boy’s coat bulge slightly.

“What—ah—have. Ah—you—ah—er—” he puzzled his brain to know how to finish
the sentence in English. But finally becoming exasperated he tapped
Jack’s coat violently with his fingers.

“_Aqui! Aqui! Aqui!_” (here! here! here!) he demanded. Jack did not
understand the Spanish, but he knew that the leather wallet interested
the inspector. He hesitated to produce it at first and tried to satisfy
the dark-visaged little man by telling him that it was only a wallet. But
the Mexican would not be contented and in the end the boy had to reveal
to him the contents of the yellow leather case. At the sight of the blue
prints and sketches the native became thoroughly aroused. He tried to ask
questions in English but became so very confused that he resorted to his
native tongue and talked a perfect stream of Spanish. And of course Jack
was unable to understand a word of it.

Then the Mexican beckoned the young American to follow him, pointing at
the same time to a long low stone building near by which Jack concluded
was the custom house. Together they hurried across the street, the
inspector chattering so hard that Jack’s protests were lost completely.

The man led the way through several rather poorly kept offices to the
far end of the building, where they entered what was evidently the
room of the Chief Inspector of the port. An elderly and very dignified
old gentleman was the sole occupant. He was seated at a desk in the
far corner, but at their coming he arose and advanced to meet them.
Immediately the little inspector became thoroughly animated. He opened
the wallet (upon which he had kept a firm grip since Jack gave it to him)
and spread the drawings on the table before his superior, talking very
fast all the while. Together the two Mexicans examined each sketch, then
finally the old man turned and spoke to Jack.

“Do you converse Mexican?” he queried and Jack shook his head.

The Chief Inspector clapped his hands twice, whereat a servant appeared,
to disappear immediately upon receiving a few abrupt instructions.
Shortly after the servant entered again followed by a light-haired
youth of about Jack’s own age, and undoubtedly an American. The boy
from Vermont was decidedly pleased, but before he could speak the Chief
Inspector addressed the newcomer, pointing to the drawings and the
wallet at the conclusion of his remarks.

“He wants to know what these drawings are,” said the interpreter; “he
thinks that you are a spy in the employ of the revolutionists and that
these papers are very important.”

“Please tell him,” said Jack with a smile, “that the drawings are
valuable only to one person and he is the man who is making the
electricity which lights President Huerta’s palace and the streets of
Mexico City.”

There was a decided change in the attitude of both officials when this
was translated for them. The Chief Inspector bowed and smiled most
apologetically.

“So, Señor Ryder. He is your friend?” he said; “he is a—” but he could
get no further with his English, so he addressed the rest to the
interpreter who imparted it to Jack.

“He says that Mr. Ryder is a very wonderful man and that if you are his
friend he is sorry that he detained you. You are free to go now,” said
the American, and Jack, after thanking the dignified old Mexican, tucked
the wallet into his pocket and left the office. In the corridor of the
building he was overtaken by the interpreter, who paused a moment to
speak.

“My name is Dave Anson,” he said, “and if I can help you any, while you
are in Vera Cruz, just let me know. I always like to help out a fellow
countryman.”

“You have done a great deal for me already,” said Jack, “for if it had
not been for you I am afraid I would have found myself in a mighty
unhappy position. I certainly am obliged to you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Anson, then in an undertone he added, “Don’t
let the old chap deceive you. I could see he was rather skeptical about
what you said, but he is afraid to detain you any longer for fear you
might have a little more pull than he has, so he let you go. Don’t worry;
you’ll be shadowed every minute that you are in Vera Cruz, so mind your
actions. Well, so long and good luck to you.” The two boys shook hands
warmly and parted.

Jack gave little thought to his recent experience after he left the
custom house, for he had a great deal to attend to. First of all he must
find a banking house where he could get his American money exchanged for
Mexican currency. Dr. Moorland had given him the address of one of the
few honest banking firms in Vera Cruz, and after a long search he located
the place. He was very much surprised to find that for every one of his
American dollars he received two Mexican dollars in exchange. Indeed, his
capital was doubled and when he left the bank his trousers’ pockets and
wallet were weighted down with huge silver coins. Jack’s next object was
to find the railroad terminal, and since an English speaking clerk had
given him explicit directions as to its location he experienced little or
no difficulty in finding the long low building with its dirty trainshed.

A great many of the railroad men in Mexico above the grade of brakemen
are Americans and the young traveler had very little trouble at the
station. He learned, however, that he had two hours to wait before the
next train to the capital would be made up, and after buying his ticket
and making Pullman reservations he checked his valise and started on a
trip about the city.

Through hot unshaded streets he wandered, peering into the curious little
shops and watching with interest the swarthy people. Finally he reached
the broad plaza with its imposing cathedral, bandstand and line upon line
of park benches. Here he sat down to rest and watch a score of dirty,
half-clad children playing on the sidewalk. They were apparently taking
part in a game and Jack tried very hard to understand the details of it.
Indeed he became so interested that he did not realize some one had taken
the seat beside him until he felt a hand upon his arm.

“_Un centavo, Señor, un centavo_,” pleaded a whining voice, and Jack
found himself accosted by a very ugly and dirty-looking Mexican with a
monstrous hat. Though the lad did not understand his language he had
little difficulty in guessing that the man was begging for money. Eager
to be quit of such an uncouth companion he took several small coins from
his coat pocket and dropped them into the beggar’s outstretched palm.
But as he did so he looked up to find a man on a bench not far distant
watching him closely.

He was rather well dressed when compared to others Jack had noticed about
the city, wearing an unusually large sombrero of much better texture than
that of the beggar’s. The brim and band about the crown was embellished
with Indian beadwork which made it very picturesque. On being observed
this man lowered his eyes and began to roll a black paper cigarette, nor
did he look up again until Jack left the bench and started across the
plaza. However, he watched the lad’s movements from the corner of his eye
until the Vermonter turned toward the street that led to the railroad
terminal. Then he arose and followed at a distance.




CHAPTER V

IN THE HANDS OF THE SECRET SERVICE


Although the train for Mexico City was due to leave Vera Cruz promptly on
the hour, it was forty minutes late when it started to get underway. This
slight disregard for schedule did not surprise Jack, however, for already
he had discovered this natural failing of all Mexicans. The Pullman
coach in which he had secured accommodations was fortunately one of a
number of American-built cars that had been taken over the Rio Grande
and into Mexico from time to time during the extension of the national
railroad system, and in consequence the young traveler did not suffer
much from lack of comfort. Before he had traveled very long Jack realized
that he had embarked upon the most interesting portion of his journey
to the power plant. The train sped along through the most wonderful
country that he had ever seen. Now he was racing through deep ravines
with perpendicular walls of rock rising so high that daylight was almost
shut out and perpetual twilight reigned. From this he was whisked into
broad valleys with mountain ranges towering on either side. And often
the tracks led high up on the sides of one of these mountains, revealing
a broad panorama of tropical country, with Popocatepetl, the monstrous
volcano, in the distance.

Now and then Indian villages were passed and Jack caught fleeting
glimpses of a group of thatched huts and adobes and crowds of naked
children and half-clad men and women who stared stolidly at the train
as it shot by. Occasionally a stop was made at some large town and
picturesque groups of Mexicans gathered at the station to stare in
wonderment at the passengers. Always these groups were made up entirely
of men, for the women had far too much to do to waste time idly watching
trains. These men were a motley throng, all wearing high-crowned,
broad-brimmed hats and gaily colored _serapes_, or blankets, which
they hugged close about them in spite of the heat. The better dressed
wore trousers that were extremely tight fitting. The others, however,
wore frayed and tattered garments made of everything from sail cloth to
sacking and ungainly sandals bound across the arch and around the ankle
with long buckskin thongs. Not a shoe did Jack discover among them.

What with the scenery and the picturesque towns and villages, Jack’s
interest was kept out of doors for several hours. But eventually even
the novelty of traveling through a foreign country grew wearisome and he
turned his attention to a book that he had stowed away in his traveling
bag. He had not been reading long, however, before he began to be
troubled by a strange presentiment that some one was watching him. Quite
involuntarily he glanced up from the page he was perusing and looked into
the bead-like eyes of a native who was occupying a Pullman chair at the
other end of the car. Instantly the Mexican’s eyes were turned away. The
lad became suspicious immediately, for he recognized the man as the one
who had watched him in the plaza at Vera Cruz. There was no mistaking
him, for he wore the same big-brimmed sombrero with its curious beadwork
binding.

Jack instinctively put his hand to the pocket where he kept the wallet
of drawings, for he had a vague feeling that this man was interested in
them, though he really could not understand why he should be since they
had not been exhibited at any place save in the custom house. Then he
suddenly recalled the young American interpreter’s warning that he would
probably be closely watched at all times! Was this man shadowing him?
Had he been trailed all through Vera Cruz? The thought angered him and
he glanced at the Mexican again. That individual, however, had removed
his big hat and was gazing calmly out of the window, as if he did not
know that Jack Straw ever existed, and his unconcerned manner caused the
young traveler to wonder whether this second meeting was only a strange
coincidence after all.

Jack tried to resume his reading, but it was not long before his mind
was far from the printed pages and busy evolving a plan whereby he could
become certain as to whether the tall Mexican was watching him or not.
Soon the train began to slow down for another stop and on the instant the
American got an idea. He waited until the train came to a full stop; then
as if he suddenly realized that this was the station he wanted to get off
at he jumped up and seizing his traveling bag bolted for the door.

It was all done so quickly that the Mexican was taken completely off his
guard. When he saw the boy rush for the door he gave one hurried glance
up the car, then followed as fast as he could. By the time he reached the
door, however, Jack had alighted and was racing along the side of the car
to the rear platform where he swung aboard and returned to the seat he
had just vacated. He had successfully lost the Mexican for five minutes
at least, for the man searched up and down the station platform and in
all directions trying to locate the Vermonter. Then, purely by accident,
he looked toward the train again and saw Jack smiling at him from one of
the windows.

It was evident from his distorted features that the native was thoroughly
enraged. He plunged for the train which was already underway and swinging
aboard hurried into the Pullman car, brandishing a huge army revolver as
he advanced. Several women passengers screamed and every man in the car
put his hands above his head when they saw the angered native striding
down the aisle. They were certain that the train had been boarded by
highwaymen and that they were about to be asked to turn over their
valuables. But the Mexican disregarded the disturbance he had caused. He
put the muzzle of the ugly revolver against Jack’s breast and hissed:

“You, gringo, you are arrest for a spy of the revolution. Not holler.”

But Jack did not intend to “holler.” With the hard nose of the gun
pressed against his ribs he did not hesitate to put his hands above his
head as the other men in the train had done.

“You are arrest by that great Secret Service of Mexico,” said the native
very impressively; “give me up your guns.”

“I have no guns that are dangerous,” said Jack Straw, and he spoke the
truth, for the big Colt that his father had given him reposed unloaded
and quite harmless in the bottom of his valise. But the Mexican refused
to believe him.

“Give up or I make of you an examination,” he said, trying hard to be
courteous in spite of his outraged temper.

“Search,” said Jack, “only let me put my arms down.” And the detective
forthwith began to go through his pockets while the other passengers,
many of whom were Americans, gathered around and looked on. One of the
first things that the detective did was to confiscate the yellow wallet
with the drawings. His eyes sparkled with pleasure when he opened it.

“Ah! Señor, it is for these you will be shot, maybe. You are a bad
gringo,” he said with an evil chuckle.

“They are only working drawings of a machine,” protested Jack.

“Yes, a war machine, I think,” said the Mexican, continuing his search
for firearms. Finally, after finding nothing more formidable than a
jack-knife, the officer put his own revolver away and informed Jack that
he might sit down and be at ease until they reached Mexico City. He
warned the boy, however, that any attempt on his part to leave the car
would call forth the huge revolver again, and since Jack had no desire
to learn how good a marksman the Mexican was he refrained from rising
from his Pullman chair for the rest of the afternoon. The Secret Service
man sat directly opposite, his dark eyes never moving from the lad from
Drueryville.




CHAPTER VI

ON TRIAL AS A SPY


The lights of Mexico City were a welcome sight to the young American.
Never had a train ride seemed so long. The Secret Service guard refused
to allow him conversation with his fellow-passengers and as the
circumstances were too strained to permit his reading with any degree
of interest, Jack had little to do but gaze out of the window and think
over his misfortune. The moment the train rolled into the station, the
detective hustled Jack to the military barracks in the heart of the city.
It was almost midnight when they were challenged by the white-clad sentry
before the heavy double gates of the enclosure. Jack’s captor answered
with a few brief sentences in Spanish and the gates were unbarred to
let them pass. Inside another sentry located the officer on duty and he
and the Secret Service man held a short conference. A few moments later
two privates were summoned. They took charge of the young Vermonter,
escorting him toward the far end of the long barracks buildings, where he
was locked into a stuffy unlighted cell in the guardhouse.

[Illustration: “To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare”]

To Jack it all seemed like a horrible nightmare. Here he was a prisoner
in the capital of a strange country. He had no knowledge of the language
spoken by those with whom he had to deal, nor did he have friends or
relatives within several thousand miles. His only hope in being delivered
from his rather serious position lay in the possibility of calling Harry
Ryder to Mexico City so that he could identify his drawings and explain
how they came to be in the possession of some other person. But Jack was
not altogether certain that this could be done, or if it could be done,
whether his captors would be willing to take that much trouble to prove
him innocent. At first he had taken the arrest more or less as a joke,
but as he reviewed the various stories he had heard of the Mexican idea
of justice, he became very much worried. He knew the punishment meted
out to a spy and he wondered whether that would be his end. With such
thought parading through his brain, he had little chance for sleep that
night. Indeed he heard a big clock beyond the barracks walls toll every
hour from midnight until dawn.

At seven o’clock breakfast was brought to him by an uncouth looking
private in a dirty white uniform. The meal consisted of _tortillas_, made
of corn flour, and _frijoles_, which are black Mexican beans. There was
not even a cup of water with which to wash it down. Though Jack had had
very little to eat the day before, the sight of the mess brought by the
soldier sickened him, and he put the tin plate aside untouched.

An hour later an officer with four privates came into the guardhouse
and unlocked the door of Jack’s cell. The lad observed that each of the
soldiers carried a shining rifle at port arms and the officer entered
with sword drawn. At this he became speechless with horror. Was this
a firing squad! Was he going to be executed without the formality of
trial? He was almost too weak to walk when the officer spoke to him in
Spanish and motioned for him to come forth. Silently the soldiers formed
behind him and urged him forward out of the guardhouse and on to the
parade grounds.

His heart-breaking suspense ended there, however, when he noted the
direction in which the soldiers turned him. Instead of marching out into
the center of the enclosure they headed directly for a building that
looked very much like a large dwelling. To the young American it appeared
as if it might be the home of the commander of the barracks. He hoped it
was, for in that case he could be certain of some form of trial at least,
during which he could doubtlessly explain about the drawings.

The boy was ushered before the austere old General by the officer alone,
the guard remaining on duty before the door. The commander was seated
at a desk in the center of a well-lighted, cheerful-looking room, a
uniformed orderly at his elbow. The other occupant of the room was
the Secret Service man who had arrested him the day before. Both were
poring over the drawings of the lightning arrester which the detective
had confiscated, while on the corner of the officer’s desk was Jack’s
traveling bag which had been forced open, possibly for the purpose of
finding other evidence against him.

The detective and the officer looked up as the youth entered. Jack’s
officer escort saluted and retired to the rear of the room, leaving the
lad standing in the middle of the floor alone. The detective cleared his
throat and spoke.

“I shall be what you call the interpreter. I spik Mexican, I spik also
Inglis. Shall you be content?” he queried.

“I will be contented if you will believe what I tell you,” said Jack
rather curtly. “It is ridiculous to arrest me as a spy. I am an American
citizen and those drawings are not war plans or details of a ‘war
machine,’ as you suggested yesterday. They are plans for an electrical
appliance that is to be built by Mr. Harry Ryder, in order to give better
light to Mexico City.”

The detective looked at him with doubt plainly written on his
countenance. Then he turned and in rapid fire sentences imparted Jack’s
story to the general. The officer also appeared to doubt the youth’s
statement. He was silent for a few moments, however, while he pondered
the situation; then through the interpreter he asked:

“Why does Mr. Ryder trust his valuable papers to you?”

“Because he didn’t care to trust your unreliable mail service,” said Jack
vindictively.

The wrath of the detective was stirred immediately.

“Mexico is a great country. She has a dependability of mail service. You
are a gringo who spies for the revolution. Do not tell me not. I saw you
with my own eyes pass some secret something to a sympathizer in the plaza
at Vera Cruz. Ah, but he are arrest already and your secret is now known.”

Jack was startled at first. Then as he recalled the whining beggar in the
plaza he laughed heartily.

“Why, he was only a beggar. I gave him a few coins. You are making a
mountain out of a mole hill, Mr. Detective. Why not have done with all
the foolishness by summoning Mr. Ryder from Necaxa? He will prove that
the drawings are his and that I am no spy.”

The General and the Secret Service man debated this suggestion for some
time. Evidently they thought it a good idea, for the officer presently
began to use the telephone at his elbow while the detective talked to
Jack.

“We will call Señor Ryder. General Rodriguez say the great electrical
engineer is in Mexico City now. He spoke with him in the café last
evening. He will come maybe, and then if you can prove, you must prove.
If you don’t, you will be shot to-morrow.”

The commander ceased his telephoning after a few moments and spoke to the
interpreter, who, turning to Jack, announced:

“Señor Ryder is at the office of the Compania de Luz y Fuerza Montriz in
Calle de Tetuan. He will be here quite soon.”

The General and the Secret Service agent spent the next fifteen minutes
smoking numerous black paper cigarettes and talking quite excitedly to
each other while Jack was left standing in the center of the room. The
waiting was ages long for the American. But finally there sounded the
tooting of an automobile horn and roar of a motor from the parade ground
outside and a moment later a tall fine-looking American, clad in linen
trousers and soft shirt, entered the commander’s office.

Jack stepped forward instantly and held out his hand.

“Mr. Ryder,” he said, “I am John Strawbridge, Dr. Moorland’s messenger.
I have been arrested and am being held as a spy because I happened to
have your drawings in my wallet. You see it excited the curiosity of the
customs inspector yesterday and the result is I am in the hands of the
Mexican Secret Service to-day. I sincerely hope that you can get me out
of this rather disagreeable position; otherwise I’ll furnish the target
for a firing squad to-morrow morning.”

“Why, this is ridiculous,” said Mr. Ryder as he saw his drawings spread
out before General Rodriguez. Then he began to talk in Spanish to the
natives. A few moments conversation was all that was necessary to
convince the Secret Service agent and the officer that a serious mistake
had been made, and each was profuse in his apologies to Jack Straw.

“It is a great regret that I arrest so honorable friend of Señor Ryder,”
said the detective with a sweeping bow. “I hope you will pardon, Señor.”

And Jack showed the sort of stuff Americans are made of by stepping
forward and warmly shaking hands with the Secret Service agent and the
commander.




CHAPTER VII

OFF FOR NECAXA


Jack was not long in discovering that Harry Ryder was a prince of
companions. After the little incident at the barracks they were fast
friends. Of course the engineer was somewhat older than the boy from
Drueryville, having just turned twenty-nine, but withal he was decidedly
boyish in spirit. The big gray motor car that stood in front of the
commander’s house was the engineer’s latest toy and nothing would do
but that Jack should accompany him on a tour of the capital of “this
benighted country,” as he termed Mexico. And he made an excellent guide.

Until long after midday they went flying up one street and down another,
while Mr. Ryder pointed out all the places of interest. First they
visited the Plaza Mayor, or Zocalo, as it is frequently called. And
while Jack was noting each interesting detail about the imposing public
buildings, the Cathedral and the National Palace, the engineer explained
the history of that remarkable section of the City of Mexico.

“This,” he said, “was the heart of the Aztec capital four hundred or more
years ago. Indeed, that building over there, the National Palace, was
constructed on the very site of the splendid palace of the old Indian
ruler Montezuma. And as for the Cathedral, that is built on the very
foundation stones that held the wonderful Tecalli, the Aztec temple,
where from twenty to fifty thousand lives were sacrificed annually to the
powerful Indian deity Huitzilopotchli. The present Cathedral with its
towering spires was erected in 1573 and is the most imposing edifice of
its kind in the whole of North and South America.”

From the Plaza Mayor they turned to other interesting portions of the
community. The famous tree under which Cortez is said to have wept was
pointed out by Mr. Ryder; also the various monuments and buildings
associated with the old Spanish adventurer. They traversed the causeway
over which Cortez retreated and ultimately visited Chapultepec where the
Indian rulers once maintained magnificent dwellings.

It was nearly one o’clock when the car rolled into the heart of the city
again and stopped before the door of the American Hotel. There Jack and
the engineer climbed out, but before Mr. Ryder entered the hotel he
inspected his new machine thoroughly.

“That’s a great plaything,” he said enthusiastically. “I bought it a
month ago, and I usually arrange to get into the city every Sunday to
take a drive. You see I have to leave it here because there is no roadway
out to Necaxa, only a pack train trail and our narrow-gage railroad.
I couldn’t very well use it out at the power plant anyway for it’s a
trackless wilderness there.”

On entering the hostelry the two Americans lost no time in finding the
dining-room, for the drive had given them both a ravenous appetite. They
ate in silence for a time, for the business of satisfying their hunger
was of great importance. But when coffee was finally served and each
felt that they had done credit to the ample portions afforded to them,
Mr. Ryder began to talk.

“You know, Jack, I think it was mighty lucky for you that I happened
to be in Mexico City. Otherwise you would probably have been compelled
to spend several days in jail. And it is even possible that they would
not have taken the trouble to send to Necaxa for me. A Mexican’s idea
of justice is rather crude. Frequently they shoot a suspect and then
debate his guilt or innocence over his body. Old Rodriguez and his Secret
Service friend were quite positive that you were a spy, and I am afraid
that the cartridges with which you were to be executed had already been
dealt out, figuratively speaking.”

Jack shuddered as he thought of his narrow escape.

“I guess that I _was_ very fortunate having you so near at hand,” he said.

“Well, I’ll be quite honest with you, Jack, this visit to Mexico City
was not a matter of choice with me. I was requested to appear before the
officials of the company and old Huerta himself. You see things have
been in a devil of a mess at the plant recently and we have had some
trouble in keeping the old city supplied with enough light. I fancy it
has been getting on Huerta’s nerves and he has been calling the company’s
officials to account. They in turn pass the calls along to me.

“You see some of the hundred or more workmen at the plant have developed
revolutionary ideas. They seem to be Zapata sympathizers and they are
doing all they can to make things unpleasant for Huerta. They have been
crippling machinery from time to time, tampering with the searchlights,
putting dirt in the bearings of the generators and raising the dickens in
general. Of course this reflects on my management and I feel rather ugly
about it all. But the men who do it keep pretty well under cover. I wish
that I could find out just which of the greasers are the trouble makers.
I’d have them line up against the station wall and drilled through with
some of their own soft-nosed bullets. That may sound a little inhuman,
but honestly one cannot afford to treat them otherwise. As a matter of
fact their fate is not in my hands. The moment we discover a sympathizer
the rurales stationed at the plant as special guards take the matter in
their own hands and all that we hear of the case after that is the report
of the carbines. Oh, they make very little bones about human life down
here. And that reminds me, have you provided yourself with a protector in
the form of a revolver? If you haven’t we’ll see that you are supplied
with one before we start back for the plant this afternoon.”

“I have my father’s big blue steel Colt,” said Jack with pride. “It’s
right here in my traveling bag. But I haven’t much ammunition, only the
cartridges in the belt.”

“Well, you’d better buckle it on your hip when we start. You will
probably find a great deal of comfort in having it handy all the time
you remain in Mexico. Why, you should see our plant. It’s a veritable
fortress with its rows of trenches, its barbed-wire barriers, its
squadron of rurales and detachment of infantry. And our working force
is drilled to do some fine defense work too. We are all equipped with
Mauser rifles and we have a battery of new French rapid-fire guns and
a three-inch fieldpiece that can throw a shell clean over the top of
the nearest mountain. We know it will do that for not long ago we had
occasion to bombard a handful of Zapatistas from a position on the cliffs
a mile away. The rats had an old fieldpiece and they managed to get a
couple of solid shot down through the roof of a storehouse near the
plant. Oh, we have had an interesting time out there for the last eight
or ten months. The Zapatistas have been hovering around like a swarm
of bees. They haven’t managed to do much damage, however, but we never
know when they will be joined by other mobs of guerrilla soldiers who
are operating in that section of the mountains. When that happens then I
guess we can look for real trouble.

“I arranged with General Rodriguez last night to have another detachment
of infantry accompany us to the plant this afternoon. I think it would be
wise to strengthen the guard out there at any rate. We are going out on a
train of flat cars that will be ready to move shortly so I guess we had
better be getting ready. I’ll drive you over to a gunsmith’s and you can
get all the ammunition you want, then we’ll start for the railroad.”

At the gunshop Jack laid in five hundred rounds of ammunition. This
seemed a ridiculously large amount but Mr. Ryder assured him that it
was wise to be on the safe side in such matters. Several other stores
were visited where Jack purchased some clothing suggested by Mr. Ryder
for service at the plant. The most important purchase was one of the
huge sombreros such as the natives wear. This was secured at a little
hat booth on one of the side streets. Jack was amazed at the size
of some of these hats and while he was looking over the assortment
offered, Mr. Ryder explained that the natives were very vain about
their hats. He said that in former days the wealthy Mexicans vied with
each other to see who could wear the hat with the largest brim and the
most costly embellishments. This competition reached the point where it
finally became a public nuisance, for the big hat brims were decidedly
objectionable on crowded thoroughfares or street cars. The federal
government finally took the matter in hand and imposed a tax of a certain
amount for every four inches of brim over a stipulated size. This
ordinance put the hat brims at a universal width.

After the shopping they hurried back to the hotel where Mr. Ryder always
maintained a room. Their clothes were changed and garments of the
rough-and-ready sort adopted. Jack felt very self-conscious as he buckled
on the heavy revolver and donned the high-crowned sombrero, but he did
his best to hide it from his companion. On his way out of the hotel,
however, he surreptitiously glanced at his reflection in one of the large
mirrors and found to his great satisfaction that such toggery was not at
all unbecoming. He secretly resolved to have some photographs made which
he intended to take back to Drueryville when he returned.

The train that was to carry them out to Necaxa was, as the engineer had
said, nothing more than a string of flat cars with a yellow caboose at
the end. It was a narrow gage railroad that was built especially to carry
supplies to the power station, one hundred and twenty-five miles back in
the mountains.

Two of the flat cars were heaped high with boxes of provisions and
barrels of flour, all on the way to the little community at the power
house. Three other cars were occupied by the detachment of infantry from
the barracks. The soldiers were not a prepossessing lot, Jack thought, as
he viewed them. They were uniformed alike, of course, and for the most
the uniforms were in rather good order though somewhat dirty. Their hats
were not unlike the forage caps of the United States troops during the
Civil War, with the exception that they were higher in the crown. The
men were all dark skinned and ugly looking, and the young American was
quite certain that as enemies they would probably be decidedly vicious
customers.

Three officers accompanied the detachment but they held themselves
aloof from the rest of the soldiers, sharing the caboose with Jack and
Mr. Ryder. They were tall, fine-looking specimens of Mexican manhood,
very jaunty in their gold-braided uniforms, and Jack found them very
companionable after they became acquainted, for they could speak English
after a fashion and some of the war stories they told helped to make the
slow journey into the mountains less tedious.

On leaving Mexico City the train started to climb immediately for the
way was entirely up grade, the plant being situated at a higher altitude
than the capital. As a result of this and the unusually heavy load, the
little engine made slow progress. Indeed, at some points in spite of its
snorting and puffing it could not go on and the men were forced to get
down from the flat cars and walk, thereby lessening the load. Because
of this slow progress it was long after nightfall when Jack discovered
a long pencil of light reaching out across the sky. It looked weird and
uncanny off there in the solitude of the mountains. But as he watched it
began to move along the ridges, searching out each valley and depression.
Then Jack understood. It was the huge searchlight at the plant, looking
among the hills for lurking bands of Zapatistas.

The lad watched the light travel from point to point until finally it
located the supply train, which it escorted all the way to the station,
illuminating the tracks just ahead of the engine.




CHAPTER VIII

THE CRIPPLED GENERATORS


It was a veritable fortress that Jack entered when he left the caboose
of the supply train. Before him, on a slight eminence, was the massive
building of the power station with the searchlight mounted on the
roof. The grassy slope below was marred by a double line of trenches
unoccupied, of course, save for one or two white-clad sentinels who paced
back and forth restlessly. On the lawn between the first trench and
the station, the lad noted a bulky object covered with canvas. This he
immediately decided was the three-inch fieldpiece about which Mr. Ryder
had spoken. To the north of the station was the irregular outline of many
small cottages. As the searchlight threw its rays in that direction, the
boy observed that nearly all of them were constructed of wood and erected
after the fashion of the cottages furnished to the quarrymen in Vermont.
There were also several long low shed-like structures which he learned
later housed the soldiers. The entire community did not occupy more than
five or six acres and was entirely cut off from the surrounding country
by barbed wire barricades. Indeed, the place looked well-nigh impregnable
to the American. To approach from the north, south or west, invaders
would have to get through the mass of barbed wire first and carry two
lines of trenches before they reached the station, and as far as the east
side of the plant was concerned, approach in that direction was made
impossible by the roaring mountain stream that furnished water to the
station’s turbines.

The enclosure became a perfect bedlam a few moments after the supply
train rolled in. To the roar of the river and the grumble of the huge
generators inside were added the shouts of the soldiers detraining and
unloading the supplies. The entire barracks had turned out to welcome the
reinforcements, for it happened that they composed two companies of the
same regiment. Altogether Jack estimated that there were more than 200
men ready to defend the place against the rebels, not including the squad
of twenty-five rurales who were stationed there to patrol the surrounding
country. The rurales, the lad learned, were not soldiers in the stricter
sense of the word. They are maintained by the Mexican Government to
do practically the same work as that required of the famous Canadian
mounted police; which is to rid the country of bandits, smugglers and bad
men, and run down the outlaws that hide in the mountains. They are far
better drilled than any of the Mexican troops and are well equipped with
clothing and firearms. Their horses are the best that Mexican dollars can
buy. These men ride exceptionally well, shoot almost as accurately as the
Texas ranger and are brave and fearless. A Mexican president who believed
in the old saying that “it takes a thief to catch a thief,” organized
the rurales years ago when the country was infested with bandits and bad
men. Every time one of these men was apprehended he was forced to join
the rurales and hunt down bandits. In this way his vicious nature was
well satisfied and at the same time he was able to consider himself a
law-abiding citizen, which usually appeals to all individuals who have
been outlaws for any length of time. To Jack these soldier-policemen were
very picturesque as they swaggered about in their dark-green, tightly
fitting uniforms and broad-brimmed hats. He noticed, however, that they
did not associate with the white-clad regulars, but stood apart in a
little group by themselves and watched the other men unload the cars.

Mr. Ryder and Jack lingered long enough to see that the unloading was
well under way before they turned toward the station.

“I’ve a strange premonition that the troublemakers hereabout have taken
advantage of my absence,” said the engineer as they approached the
office. “I would not be surprised to find the plant dynamited some day.
These rebel sympathizers will go the limit to make it disagreeable for
old Huerta.”

The office of Ben Nedham, first assistant engineer, was vacant. When Mr.
Ryder saw this he looked worried. Immediately he bounded up the spiral
iron staircase to the balcony-like control room where the switchboards
were located. Allen Lyman, a tall light-haired American in charge of that
section of the plant, advanced to meet him, and his face also bore a
troubled look.

“They’ve been at it again, Mr. Ryder,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t been
able to carry the load all evening. Machines five and six are out of
commission. Couldn’t even start them. Nedham and a gang are down there on
the generator floor now trying to patch them up.”

“What is the trouble?” demanded the engineer, his brow wrinkled by a
perplexed frown.

“Well, some one got in after two o’clock this morning, evidently, and
threw a bucket full of fire sand into the gears of both machines. Nedham
has had only one watchman here and he must have gone to sleep.”

“Have you heard from Mexico City yet?” demanded Mr. Ryder anxiously.

“No, not yet, but we can gamble that the lights are mighty dim there.
Shouldn’t wonder but what we’ll get a call before the night is over.”

He had hardly completed the sentence when the telephone bell on the desk
in the center of the room jangled sharply.

“Dollars to doughnuts that’s Mexico City now,” exclaimed Lyman as he
removed the receiver. A moment he talked with the man on the other end of
the line; then he beckoned to Mr. Ryder.

“It’s President Huerta himself,” he said, holding his hand over the
transmitter. “He’s as mad as a Mexican bull too. Wants to speak with you.”

For fifteen minutes the chief engineer attempted to explain the situation
to the country’s executive, and in the meantime Jack busied himself
trying to puzzle out the reason for all the switches, knobs, handles
and indicators on the huge marble switchboard that extended all the way
around the circular room. He knew that all the machinery in the station
was controlled from that board, but just how it was done he had not the
slightest idea. He decided, however, to take advantage of the first
opportunity and learn the function of each of the mysterious looking
black rubber handles.

Mr. Ryder left the ’phone apparently thoroughly angry. He paced the
narrow room for some time before he uttered a word. Finally, pausing
before the desk again, he brought his fist down with a resounding blow.

“By Jupiter,” he thundered, “this _must_ stop or I’ll know the reason
why. The old man is as peeved as a wet hen and I don’t blame him. He
informed me that we had made a failure out of the most important state
function of the year simply because the palace was so poorly lighted.
They had to resort to smoky oil lamps to help out. He was furious. Told
me the city looked like an Indian village, it was so dark. Oh, if I could
only get my fingers on the villains who did this work!”

Thus did he storm to Jack and the operator until he became thoroughly
out of breath and was forced to pause. Then turning he called Jack and
started down the spiral stairs again. Three flights they descended until
they reached the floor of the generating room. Six huge generating units
occupied the space. They were great black monsters of steel that looked
like so many mastodons chained to the floor. Water was roaring down from
the forebay through four of the massive penstocks that supplied the
turbines, but the other two were silent. Around each of these silent
machines was gathered a group of workmen. They had unbolted the steel
protecting plates and were assiduously wiping the sand from the delicate
armature bearings. Some of these workmen were Americans but there were a
number of Mexicans among them, many of whom were distinctly of the peon
class, with bared feet and shabby garments.

As Jack and the engineer hurried across the floor a short, dark-haired
American advanced to meet them.

“We’ve trouble on our hands this time!” he exclaimed. “The two machines
are full of sand and we won’t be able to get them cleaned until long
after midnight.”

“Well, how did it happen, Nedham?” demanded Mr. Ryder. “You were in
charge while I was away and you are responsible. Are you going to let
this plant go to the devil? I got a good blowing up yesterday from the
board of directors and here to-night President Huerta himself had me on
the long distance telephone. Told me flatly that things would have to go
smoother; and I propose to see that they do go smoother hereafter.”

“How do I know how it happened? Maybe I was in charge, but they manage to
work the same tricks when you are here too, so you can’t altogether blame
me,” said Nedham indignantly.

“Well, I suppose not,” replied Mr. Ryder in calmer tones. “I didn’t mean
to accuse you of neglect of duty. I know they work the same tricks on me
too. I hope you’ll pardon my temper.”

The chief engineer extended his hand in cordial apology and Nedham
grasped it, his anger disappearing immediately.




CHAPTER IX

JACK PROPOSES A TRAP


Nedham was right. It was some time after midnight before the big
generators were in condition to operate again. For hours the men toiled
to get every vestige of the gritty substance out of the machines. Mr.
Ryder went at the task with the rest, and Jack, unwilling to remain idle,
rolled up his sleeves and seized a piece of cotton waste also. With the
steel jacket removed, an excellent opportunity was afforded the lad for a
better acquaintance with the mechanism of a water turbine generator, and
as he worked beside Mr. Ryder, the engineer briefly explained the details.

“This is not really a generator that we are working on, Jack,” said Mr.
Ryder, “because a generator is supposed to create energy. This does not
do that. The real energy is in the water that turns the turbine, and
this machine merely converts that energy into electric current, so you
see the word ‘generator’ is a misnomer in this case. It is the same in a
steam plant. Steam furnishes energy which is converted into electricity
by the so-called generators. In fact, man-made electricity is nothing
more or less than some other kind of energy in a new and more useful
form. I guess you follow me.”

“I understand all right,” said Jack, “for it is very simple, though I
must confess I had never considered electricity in that way before.”

“The energy here comes from the water that plunges over the dam we built
across the river about a mile back in the mountains. The dam is sixty-odd
feet high and the water that is stored up behind it is carried down to
the plant here through a very large flume. The flume is built at the same
level as the dam and brings the water around the mountain to the north of
the plant and into the big forebay or reservoir just back of the station.

“The water in the forebay is kept at about the same height as the dam
also, so it can get a sixty-foot direct drop to the turbines here in the
building. The stream rushes down through the large penstocks, or feeders,
and strikes against the mass of concaved blades on the waterwheel or
turbine. The blades are set across the drum of the wheel and at a slight
angle, thus giving the turbine the full benefit of the force of the water
striking against them as well as the suction of the water after it leaves
the blades. This is known as the reaction type of turbine and is only
used in plants where the fall of water is less than 100 feet. There is
another type of waterwheel on which buckets take the place of blades.
This is known as the impact type and is driven entirely by the pelting
of the water against the bottom of each cup. This wheel is used chiefly
where the fall of water is more than 100 feet.

“The armature of the generator is also mounted on the shaft or axle of
the turbine. The armature, you know, is composed of coils of wire wound
very close together on an iron frame, or spider. Since the turbine whirls
around very fast the armature is bound to turn at the same rate of
speed. Now, the armature is surrounded by electrically excited magnets,
which are the positive and negative poles of the generator. And as the
coils of wire on the armature rush past the magnets the attraction
or lines of force between the poles are cut abruptly and immediately
electricity is created. By means of those brass collecting rings which
you see on the armature the coils are connected to the transmission lines
and the electricity flows through them to the lights in Mexico City.”

Mr. Ryder’s description of the hydro-electric plant was so simple and
so easily understood that Jack was able to follow the entire process of
converting water power into electrical energy. The conversation had also
helped to lighten the rather disagreeable task of cleaning the generator
and it was midnight almost before they realized it.

At this hour Mr. Ryder gave up all hope of using the generator that
night, for, as he explained to Jack, the lights were fast being put out
in the houses and stores of Mexico City, thus cutting down the load on
the power plant to a point where the supply could be easily furnished
by the remaining four machines. That being the case, he suggested they
quit work and leave the task entirely to the peons and other workmen
under Nedham. Jack’s arms were black to the elbow with dirty oil when he
finally tossed his piece of waste away, and Mr. Ryder’s condition was
little better.

“Come on, we’ll wash up a bit and start for the cottage; I am rather
tired and I fancy you are too.”

Together they proceeded to the washroom and a few moments later left the
station building and started up the short dusty street that led between
the two rows of cottages. The searchlight was still playing from the roof
and here and there a lonesome sentinel could be seen silhouetted against
the skyline. Otherwise the little community was quite lifeless.

Mr. Ryder’s cottage was at the very end of the short street. It was a
one-story affair but somewhat more prepossessing in appearance than the
rest of the dwellings. The engineer lived there entirely alone save for
Tom Why, his aged Chinese cook. In fact, each American at the plant had
a separate cottage, which was usually taken care of by some old Indian
woman. There were only two white women in the village. One was the wife
of Allen Lyman and the other was Mrs. Harriet Clifford, the wife of a
young American foreman in the plant-maintenance department.

Mr. Ryder’s cottage was no better furnished than any of the rest. The
main room, which was living room, dining room, library and study all in
one, was equipped with several heavy wooden chairs, a square table and
a flat desk littered with old magazines and papers. The remaining three
rooms boasted small iron beds and washstands. Just in the rear of the
cottage was a little house in which Tom Why and his American cookstove
were quartered. Tom was acknowledged to be the best cook in the village,
excepting, of course, the two American women.

Though it was very late, Tom was up and waiting for the engineer. He had
prepared a rather substantial midnight luncheon and when Jack caught
the odor of steaming coffee he suddenly realized that he was extremely
hungry. Neither he nor Mr. Ryder had tasted food since their dinner at
the American Hotel in Mexico City, and they were both ready to do justice
to Tom’s tempting spread. Between mouthfuls, however, they did find time
to talk over the recent trouble at the plant.

“I must get at the bottom of this and find out who the rebel sympathizers
are. Of course they are among the peon laborers, at least I think so,
for none of the white employees have the slightest interest in Zapata
and his gang of cutthroats, as far as I know. Still, the way the trouble
makers have tampered with the big switches and other dangerous machinery
that most of the peons are afraid of, makes me believe sometimes that
the culprits are white men or natives who know a little more about
electricity than the peons.”

“I should think then, that you would try and find out whether you are
dealing with peons or Mexicans of another variety,” said Jack.

“Find out!” demanded the engineer sharply. “Do you think I have been
sitting with my hands folded all this time? I’ve had the place watched.
I’ve done everything I could to discover who is up to this crooked work.
You see, after two in the morning things slacken down at the plant. There
isn’t much of a load to be carried, only the street lighting in Mexico
City, and one or two generators are enough to take care of that. At that
time most of the men leave the plant. There is only the night operator
and two or three watchmen in different parts of the building, and they
are not always as alert as they might be. Well, between two o’clock
and the time the day force comes on at six o’clock in the morning,
the meddlers get in their best work. The day men usually discover the
trouble, though in a case like to-night, when one of the big machines
have been tampered with, the disturbance isn’t noticed until the operator
tries to start up at nightfall.

“We’ve watched everything and everybody, but when we are in one place
trouble turns up in an entirely different part of the plant. The
thing that worries me the most about the whole business is that some
night after the meddlers have been at work the rebels out there in
the mountains might take it in their heads to attack. Suppose the
searchlight generator was crippled. In that case we’d have a serious
time, wouldn’t we? Indeed, I would like to find out whom we are dealing
with. But how can I?”

“Well,” said Jack after a moment’s reflection, “at least we can learn
whether we are dealing with peons or white men. Here’s a suggestion. Why
not sprinkle a little powder or dust around the machines, switchboard and
other apparatus likely to be tampered with? Sprinkle it at two o’clock
every morning and sweep it up again at six. In the meantime if any one
has tampered with these contrivances they are bound to leave footprints.
If the prints show naked feet we’ll know it is one of the peons, and if
we find the trouble maker wears shoes then we’ll know it is a white man.”

“By Jove, that’s a corking idea,” said Mr. Ryder enthusiastically; “we’ll
do it. We’ll sprinkle cement dust on the floor. Let’s try it out to-night
and keep it up religiously until we get an imprint of the villain’s feet.
We’ll saunter over to the plant after those workmen clear out, which I
judge will be about three o’clock; meanwhile, if you care to, you can
snatch an hour’s sleep.”

To Jack sleep sounded particularly good and as soon as Mr. Ryder pointed
out his room he tumbled into it without even removing his shoes. But it
seemed to him however that he had only closed his eyes when he felt the
engineer’s hand upon his forehead.

“It’s after three o’clock,” said Mr. Ryder, “and the workmen have all
left the plant. What do you say to setting our trap now?”

Jack was on his feet in an instant, for he was as eager as the engineer
to see how his plan would work out. First they visited a tool shed where
they secured a bucket, then Mr. Ryder ripped open a bag of cement with
his jack knife and by the light of an electric pocket flash lamp supplied
himself with a pail of the fine gray powder.

As they passed the front of the plant they could see Nedham in his office
working over some papers. They continued on around the corner of the
building where Mr. Ryder opened a large door that let them in on the
generator floor. Two of the big machines were running, but there was not
a soul in sight. Through the glass front of the control room, high up
among the girders, they could see Lyman watching the switchboard.

“Is there any wonder that the rebel sympathizers can tamper with the
machines?” said Mr. Ryder; “there isn’t a watchman in sight, and Lyman
would not be likely to see us down here unless he made a point of looking
out of the window, which is not necessary, for he can see how the
machines are running by looking at the indicators on his board. Nedham is
in his office and the only other man on duty is the engineer and he is
probably in his office watching for signals from Lyman. There should be a
watchman here on the floor, but I guess when no one is looking he steals
off and takes a nap. I’ve fired at least five men for doing that, but you
can’t teach these Mexicans anything. They’ll do exactly as they please in
spite of you.”

In fifteen minutes Jack and the engineer had set their trap and returned
to the cottage again. They were both thoroughly tired and Mr. Ryder began
to take off his things the moment he entered the house. As he unloosened
the front of his shirt, however, a rather bulky yellow wallet slipped out
and fell to the floor.

“There are those drawings,” said the engineer. “I’d almost forgotten them
with all our activities to-day. Here’s your wallet, I guess I won’t need
it any longer.”

He removed the envelope of blue prints as he spoke and opening the top
drawer of his desk dropped it inside, at the same time handing the wallet
to Jack.

“I’ll be up at six to look for results,” said he as Jack started for his
room, “but I really don’t expect to find any footprints right off. I
rather think the trouble maker has done enough damage to satisfy him for
several days at least.”




CHAPTER X

FOOTPRINTS


In spite of the fact that he had been able to get but a few hours’ sleep,
Jack was awake before six o’clock. The noise Mr. Ryder made in the
adjoining room aroused him, and when he realized that the engineer was
getting ready to start for the power plant, he dressed with all speed.
But though they were up early, old Tom Why had been awake fully half an
hour before them as a steaming breakfast testified.

The two did not linger long over their coffee, however, for they were
too eager to reach the station before the day men arrived and tracked
through the cement powder. Indeed, they left the cottage still munching
the last of their meal. The sun had been up two hours, but the mountains
across the river were so tall that its rays were only just getting down
into the broad valley that held Necaxa. Jack’s first view of the place
by daylight pleased him greatly. As Mr. Ryder had said, the country was
wilderness, the only evidence of civilization being the tracks of the
narrow gage railroad and the steel poles that carried the four black
serpent-like transmission lines across the clearing and into the forest
toward Mexico City. Necaxa was completely shut off from the rest of the
world by mountains, the nearest community being a little nameless Indian
village down the river.

However, the lad had no time to gaze at the scenery just then, for in a
few minutes the workmen would be on the way to the plant. Jack and Mr.
Ryder hurried to the side door they had used but three hours before,
and in a few moments they were looking at their recent handiwork. From
one machine to another they hurried, closely inspecting the dust on the
floor, before sweeping it into the pail again. Though they did not expect
to find traces of a nocturnal visit by the mysterious trouble maker they
were keenly alert for every little clue. They inspected each appliance
in the main room but all seemed to be in good order, nor did the cement
powder reveal a single telltale mark. There remained only the small
generators of the exciter sets to be inspected. Jack hurried forward to
brush up the dust about these machines, for the men were already entering
the plant and he did not care to let them know of the trap.

And as he stooped over, his eyes caught the distinct outline of a foot
close to the base of the generator! Another and still another were
discovered close by. He could scarcely credit his eyes. But Mr. Ryder,
who was directly behind him, saw the imprints also.

“By George, we’ve a clue at last!” he exclaimed, leaning forward and
examining the tracks. “They have been made by naked feet too! What do you
think of that!”

“And I’ll be hanged if that isn’t the mark of a scar on the left heel!”
he ejaculated, as he dropped to his hands and knees and scrutinized the
tracks. “Oh, our task is an easy one now! I’ll guarantee to have the
meddler in the hands of the rurales by sundown with this evidence to
work on. But look how they have riddled the exciter!”

As Jack bent closer he too could see the mark of a scar. The foot had
removed the concrete dust completely except for a little ridge diagonally
across the heel. This showed plainly that there had been a sharp
indentation in the flesh at that point. And as the same mark showed in
every other imprint of the left foot there was small room for doubt.

“Well, it looks as if our trap had worked far better than we expected,”
he said jubilantly, as they prepared to obliterate the track by sweeping
up the dust.

“Indeed it did,” replied Mr. Ryder. “Here’s positive proof that the
culprit is a peon, and with this telltale scar to help out it is only
necessary to inspect every peon in the plant and pick out the guilty
individual. We’ll have them lined up immediately.”

Together they hurried out of the station and across to the quarters of
the army officers. The captain in command of the post was on the front
porch of his cottage washing his face in a tin basin when Mr. Ryder
interrupted him. The engineer spoke a few words in Spanish and the
officer hastily reached for a towel, at the same time calling loudly
for an orderly. That individual arrived from behind the cottage as if
produced by magic, and after listening to the captain’s brief orders
saluted and hurried to the barracks building, from the door of which the
soldiers were just emerging in various stages of attire.

He returned presently, to be followed five minutes later by a young
officer in charge of a squad of ten soldiers. Curt instructions were
issued by the commander and the soldiers broke ranks immediately and went
hurrying here and there about the plant, rounding up every peon in sight.

Some of the native laborers protested violently against being hustled
into line along the south wall of the station, for they were afraid that
they were about to be shot, this being the spot where all the executions
in Necaxa were staged. But their protests were of no avail, for the
soldiers took keen delight in hurrying them along with the sharp point of
their bayonets or the flat stock of their guns.

In less than no time two score natives were facing the gray stone wall.
They were a heterogeneous assortment of half-breeds and full-blooded
Indians with ragged garments and hair long and unkempt. None wore shoes
or even sandals.

When every native had been located and the line was complete the soldiers
withdrew a short distance and the captain then turning to Mr. Ryder,
spoke nervously and with great concern:

“Here are they, Señor, maybe now you find them sick mans, yes.”

“Why did he say ‘those sick men?’” asked Jack, somewhat puzzled.

“I told him there was a rumor abroad that one of the peons had leprosy
and that we wanted to find him and put him in a pest house. Though I know
very little about the disease I understand it shows first on the face,
palms of the hands or soles of the feet,” answered the engineer.

“But why did you tell him that?” demanded the lad.

“Well, for the simple reason that I do not care to let any one know what
we have discovered. I think the less said about the scar the easier it
will be for us to catch our man. If we keep it to ourselves he will never
suspect that we set a trap for him. Now for the search.”

Mr. Ryder, Jack and the captain began a tour of inspection. Each Indian
was commanded to lift first one foot and then the other, while Jack and
the engineer scrutinized them closely. The engineer in addition examined
their hands and face as well, though not with as keen an eye as he
watched the feet. The peons all submitted to the inspection meekly, but
it was quite evident from the expression on their faces that they could
not understand the whole proceedings. One by one they were passed and as
Mr. Ryder neared the end of the line his brow wrinkled in a perplexed
frown. Finally when the last man was allowed to go he turned to the
officer in charge of the squad and demanded:

“Are these all the peons there are about the plant? There must be more!”

“No more are here, Señor. But maybe those sick mans you look on is
here in the night men. There are—ah—_diez hombres_,” said the officer
excitedly.

“Jack,” said the engineer, “that fellow may be right. It is possible that
my man _is_ on the night force or he may be a strange peon who gets into
the plant somehow. I think the next move for us to make is to go down to
the Indian village and do some detective work there. Most of the peons we
hire live down there and it is more than likely that we will find the man
with the scarred heel among them.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Jack, after considering the question. “Why
not go down there while the trail is hot?”

“All right,” said Mr. Ryder, “but let me warn you that we will have to
travel through about five miles of country infested with rebels and, as
you know, they do not look upon any of the white men from the plant with
very great favor.”

“I am willing to take the chance,” said Jack, laconically.

“Very good, only be sure your gun is in working order and your cartridge
belt is full.”




CHAPTER XI

SEARCHING FOR THE MAN WITH A SCARRED HEEL


A drove of thirty or more horses and half as many pack mules were
quartered in the large corral behind the barracks for the use of the
rurales stationed at Necaxa. From among them a rather docile mustang was
selected for Jack. While a native was saddling the horse, a _mozo_, or
Indian servant, arrived with the engineer’s steed, a beautiful creature
that had cost Mr. Ryder nearly three hundred Mexican dollars, which is a
very high price indeed to pay for horse flesh in that country. Three of
the rurales were detailed to accompany them as a special guard and before
leaving the enclosure the entire party made a careful inspection of their
firearms.

For the first two miles the trail skirted the high bank of the river
and was wide enough to permit the men to ride two abreast. The three
soldier-policemen took the lead while Jack and the engineer brought up
the rear, and as their horses jogged along Mr. Ryder explained briefly
the life of the Mexican Indians since the conquest of the country by
adventurers from across the sea.

“These natives,” he said, “have been veritable slaves since their
ancestors yielded to Spain’s warriors. The peons, who are all Indians or
half-breeds, are the lowest type of Mexicans. They are uneducated and
uncivilized and for that reason they rarely advance above the class of
servants and laborers. Since the day they were conquered they have been
without opportunity, however, so we cannot blame them altogether for
their condition. There is every reason to believe, from the relics that
are left to-day, that the Mexican Indians were semi-civilized at least.
They erected magnificent temples, they laid out large cities, and they
even built aqueducts and sewer systems. Indeed, they were much farther
advanced than the North American Indian of the plains, but with the
advent of the Spaniards they began to deteriorate for the simple reason
that they were not allowed to progress. As you already know, a man or
a nation cannot stand still. It must either develop or retrogress. The
Spaniards made slaves of the Indians and while they are not slaves in
name to-day they might just as well be, for they have not as much freedom
as the negro had in the United States before the Civil War.

“The peons live as tenants on _haciendas_, or large farms, where they
till the soil and raise crops. For this work they are paid a few
_centavos_ a day which in American money does not amount to five cents;
with this pittance they are supposed to buy food and clothes. But the
hacienda owners sell them food and clothes at a figure far above their
daily earnings and as a result the Indian is always in debt to his
master. And since it is a capital offense in Mexico for an employee to
leave an employer while still in debt to him, the peon is bound to the
hacienda on which he is born for the rest of his life. He can never leave
and he can never cease working for the same man. Whole communities of
natives are often controlled in this way by Mexican farmers.”

“It seems ridiculous that such conditions can exist to-day,” said Jack,
very much surprised at this revelation. He had always considered the
Mexican Indian as a shiftless being who did not work and lived from hand
to mouth simply because of his own laziness.

“Do not get the idea that these natives are blind to their present
condition or that they do not care to elevate their general plane of
existence,” continued Mr. Ryder. “They are just as eager for a chance to
advance as is the Jew or other foreigner who immigrates to America. That
is the reason why the present revolution is being waged in the north by
Carranza and Villa, and that is why our bloodthirsty friend Zapata has so
many peon followers.

“The only trouble is the moment one of these revolutions is successful
and the new leader is in power all pledges to the peon are forgotten
and the native goes back to exactly the same condition that he has been
fighting to clear himself from. It is a very unhappy situation, but some
day, perhaps, a leader will keep his promise to his people. Then the huge
_haciendas_, which often embrace hundreds of thousands of acres, will be
confiscated and this land with the millions of acres of government land
will be cut up into small farms and sold to the natives at reasonable
terms exactly as our country opened up the great West. When this happens
Mexico will develop into a wonderful nation. Give these people public
schools and the other advantages of civilization and you will soon see
what kind of stuff they are made of. The old Indian blood is strong in
them and Indians, properly trained, often make excellent men.”

Mr. Ryder’s talk had changed Jack’s opinion of the peons a great deal.
Indeed, he soon found that instead of despising them he was sympathizing
with them. He could not understand, however, how the engineer could
feel kindly disposed to the natives when they were causing him so much
trouble. He was on the point of mentioning this thought when Mr. Ryder
spoke again.

“I feel very sorry for the peons even though I am an agent of Huerta.
But as I have weighed it out, my duty to my employer comes first no
matter whether the employer is a scoundrel or not. It is not for me to
judge. I am asked to keep Mexico City illuminated and I will keep the
lights burning no matter who is in the National Palace, and, moreover,
I’ll do it in spite of this man with the scarred foot, whoever he is.”

Thus recalled to their mission, Jack instantly became attentive to their
surroundings. He found that the trail had narrowed and that the rurales
ahead had formed in single file. His little mustang was patiently picking
its way through rough places and underbrush to keep beside the animal
ridden by the engineer.

“I guess we have been talking too much and paying too little attention to
our horses, Jack,” said Mr. Ryder. “Push ahead and get in single file.
This is a section of the trail that carries us over the shoulder of a
mountain and it is rather narrow.”

Soon the shoulder was topped, however, and the horses began to descend
in single file toward the Indian village. The community was somewhat
larger than the villages Jack had seen from the train window on his way
to Mexico City, otherwise it was the same collection of dilapidated
huts that looked as if they had been literally thrown together by their
builders.

As they drove down through the single street a regiment of barking dogs
and screaming naked Indian children greeted them. Robust, dark-skinned
men lounged about before the huts (most of them clad in pajama like
cotton garments), while their women folk worked hard at grinding corn
between stones or carried water from the river in tall earthen jugs which
they balanced deftly on their heads. Down at the river bank Jack could
see other women busy washing clothes. This laundry work was accomplished
by pounding the garments between stones much to the detriment of the
garments, for the hard stones rubbed innumerable holes in the cloth as
Jack found later when he gave his linen to a native washerwoman.

In the village Mr. Ryder took the lead and Jack followed, leaving
the rurales to their own diversions. The engineer drove toward a more
pretentious hut than the rest, where a very much wrinkled old Indian sat
sunning himself before the door and idly watching a half dozen scrawny
razorback pigs rooting in the dirt almost at his very feet.

The two Americans reined up before the house and viewed the picture that
the old fellow made as he sat there staring absently at the animals.

“That,” said Mr. Ryder, “is Señor Yuai and his pigs. Pigs and vultures,
as you know, are the scavengers of Mexico. But for their able services
the country would be unfit to live in because of its filth and carrion.
And Señor Yuai, though he is neither pig nor vulture, is also a very
useful inhabitant. He is the Indian doctor who attends to all the natives
in this vicinity. The old fellow is very much looked up to and every one
comes to him for advice. He is aged and very nearsighted but his mind is
as keen as ever. He knows every peon for miles around and I’ve an idea
that he can identify our trouble maker with the scarred foot if he wants
to. Come, we’ll hear what he has to say on the question.”

The Americans dismounted and after kicking their way through the drove
of grunting pigs confronted the austere old Indian. Señor Yuai peered up
at them with eyes bleared by age and demanded in Spanish to know whose
shadow fell across his doorway. (The following conversation then took
place which Mr. Ryder translated for Jack’s benefit.)

“It is I, Señor Ryder, from the electrical plant,” said the engineer.

“Gringo friend come over mountain to see me?” asked the old Indian.

“Yes, I’ve come to see you, Señor Yuai, but not because I am sick of
_calentura_. It is another reason. Tell me, in all your years do you
remember a peon ailing of a cut heel. Did you ever cure a very deep
wound that would leave a scar across a peon’s heel, thus?” Mr. Ryder
illustrated his question by drawing his finger diagonally across the old
man’s heel. The Indian was silent a long time and while his memory went
slowly back over the many years he had been doctoring the natives, Mr.
Ryder slipped a cigarette between his lean old fingers, saying, “Here,
Señor Yuai, perhaps a little smoke will make you remember better.”

The Indian accepted the roll of brown paper and tobacco with a grunt of
satisfaction and lit it on the glowing end of Mr. Ryder’s own cigarette
which the engineer held for his convenience.

For five minutes the old native puffed in silence, exhaling great clouds
of blue smoke from time to time. Finally he spoke.

“As many years ago as I have fingers came a young man to see me. He had
stepped on a _machette_ and the flesh of his foot was laid open to the
bone. My medicine cured him. Soon he could walk, he could run, he could
swim. He was a fine big fellow. He could shoot well, he could ride well
and he was a good boy except he liked _pulque_ too much. One day he went
away. Two summers later he came back in clothes as green as the banana
palm. He was then a rurale. He went away again and never came again. His
name—ah—his name went with him.” Here the Indian touched his forehead
with his finger as he spoke and this action told the American plainer
than his words that he had forgotten the young man’s name.

Jack and the engineer looked at each other significantly when Señor Yuai
finished speaking.

“Can it be that we have traitors among our rurales!” demanded Mr. Ryder
incredulously.




CHAPTER XII

THE DRAWINGS ARE STOLEN


“Well, this is a mighty serious state of affairs,” said the engineer as
they returned to their horses and prepared to remount.

“Yes, indeed, and from all appearances we have a real enemy to contend
with,” replied the lad.

“You are right, we have,” confirmed Mr. Ryder. “If our man with the
scarred foot is a member of the rurales, we are going to have the devil’s
own job locating him too. We cannot accuse at random and moreover we
cannot take our troubles to the captain, for the reason that where
there is one traitor there are likely to be many more. The captain may
be a revolutionist himself, and if he is, heaven help us when he finds
out that we have a way of identifying the trouble maker. We would be
murdered in less than a week. I think we had better feel our way very
slowly before we make an arrest.”

“But why should a rurale go traveling about in his bared feet at night?”
queried Jack, suddenly discovering a puzzling question.

“I thought of that myself,” confessed the engineer, “and the only reason
I can give is that the culprit is always afraid that the jingle of his
big spurs will attract attention and rather than remove them he removed
his boots instead and goes about his work silently. That sounds perfectly
plausible, doesn’t it?”

“By George, that’s capital reasoning! I believe you’ve hit it exactly
right,” exclaimed the lad enthusiastically.

“I see our three guards over on the river bank,” said Mr. Ryder, abruptly
changing the subject; “we’ll drive over and join them there, for I’ve an
idea that our horses could stand a drink before starting for the plant
again.

“And by the way,” he warned as they urged their mounts forward, “I
wouldn’t say much about our friend of the scarred foot in the presence
of the rurales either here or at the plant, for you never can tell just
how much English some of these fellows understand. I’m a little worried
over the impression that our search among the peons created, even though
I did tell the captain the falsehood about the suspected leper. Who
knows, perhaps the very man we are after was looking on all the time. In
that case our lives are in danger every moment. He would kill us rather
than run the chance of being identified.”

It was quite evident to Jack that the engineer regarded the business at
hand as rather hazardous and the lad from Vermont could not help feeling
slightly concerned about his own safety. He put on a bold front before
Mr. Ryder, however, for he did not care to have the engineer think that
he was the least bit worried.

The river’s course through the valley was broad and the stream ran
sluggish and shallow where it passed the village. Indeed, just below
the point where the women were washing on the rocks was a ford, with a
sloping sandy beach on either bank. Here it was that the pack trains
leaving the valley toward the north crossed the stream. On the bank
opposite, Jack saw several large alligators sunning themselves, and here
and there on the surface of the water he also saw the scaly backs and
heads of others that had come up to rest awhile and get a fresh supply of
air. Some of them were fully ten feet long.

But in spite of the presence of these reptiles, the horses did not
hesitate to wade belly deep into the stream and cool themselves while
they slaked their thirst. Jack noticed this and remarked about it to Mr.
Ryder.

“Alligators are not disposed to attack anything very large,” said the
engineer, “although sometimes they do make away with sheep and small
calves that come down for a drink. The ’gator is not as ferocious as his
cousin the crocodile and I have never heard of any natives being devoured
by one, in spite of the fact that the Indians wade the ford here daily.”

Mr. Ryder had hardly finished speaking when a young Indian appeared on
the opposite bank followed by a full-grown hound dog. The native was
clad only in abbreviated canvas trousers and slung across his back was a
tiny mail bag. Jack learned later that his first name was Miguel and that
his last name was almost unpronounceable, also that he was the official
runner, or messenger, of that section of the country, and that his
forefathers had been runners as far back as the days of Montezuma.

The native stood knee deep in the river a moment and emitted several
loud whoops at the same time churning the water furiously with his feet.
At this the alligators on the bank slipped into the water with a splash
and every scaly back and head disappeared. Then the Indian plunged into
the stream and waded across, at the same time coaxing the dog to follow.
The hound stood whining at the water’s edge, however, and the messenger
reached the opposite shore before the animal found sufficient courage to
follow. Finally, after much coaxing, he took the plunge and swam toward
his master. But he had scarcely passed the middle of the stream when he
began to whine again, half raising himself out of the water with his
frantic efforts to swim faster. The next instant there was a swirl just
behind him and an ugly head appeared on the surface. The dog fairly
leapt out of the water at this but he could not avoid the reptile whose
dripping jaws closed upon one hind leg.

The native shouted wildly and plunged back into the river again to rescue
his pet. But before he had gone two steps, Jack, with great presence of
mind, whipped out his revolver. Twice he fired and each bullet found its
way into the scaly body. Instantly the water was lashed into foam by the
death struggle of the monster. The great jaws opened wide and the reptile
awoke the echoes in the hills with a bellow like that of an angry bull.
Then it sank out of sight.

Half drowned and with one leg dangling limp and useless the hound
dragged itself from the river. The young Indian lifted it in his arms
and caressed it gently, at the same time talking effusively to Jack. Of
course the American could not understand the messenger, but it was quite
evident from the expression on the red man’s face that he was very
grateful to Jack and that he admired his quick and accurate shooting.

“What is he saying?” asked the Vermonter, turning to Mr. Ryder.

“He says that you are a very good marksman and that you have a warm heart
for a gringo. He promises never to forget your kindness.”

Jack smiled his acknowledgment and prepared to remount his horse,
which with the others had withdrawn from the river when the struggling
alligator began its frenzied lashing of the water.

It was past midday when the five riders started on their return journey
toward the power plant, and the heat was intense. However, as soon as the
horses had climbed out of the valley the trail led through a dense forest
where huge trees and thickly matted vines shut out all sunlight and all
heat as well. Travel, under such circumstances was thoroughly enjoyable,
and the five riders swung along in single file until they reached the
open country in the vicinity of the great hydro station again.

“Well,” said Jack as he reined in beside Mr. Ryder at the gate in the
barbed-wire barricade, “I thought you said the woods were full of rebels.
We haven’t seen a sign of one all day long. What do you make of it?”

“It is more than likely that they are off in some other section of the
hills, burning and pillaging. But don’t think that they haven’t an eye on
us, for they have and you’ll see signs of them again before long, I’ll
warrant.”

The soldier on guard at the gate had unfastened the intricate lock by
this time and the cavalcade entered. The rurales hurried off at top speed
to their long low barracks hall where they hoped to find the remains of
the noonday mess. And as for Jack and the engineer, they were not slow
in reaching the cottage, for they knew that faithful old Tom Why had
something tempting waiting for them.

A _mozo_ met them as they reined in before the door and when they had
dismounted he took charge of the horses. The few hours in the saddle had
been rather tiresome to the lad, for he was not accustomed to that form
of exercise. Indeed, the shaking up he had received on horseback and the
lack of sleep the night before had made him so thoroughly fatigued that
even the cartridge belt and holster weighed heavily on his hips and as
he walked toward the cottage he started to unbuckle the leather girdle.
Just as he was mounting the steps the buckle opened suddenly and the belt
swung free, upsetting the holster and toppling the revolver to the ground.

Hastily Jack stooped to pick it up. But as he reached down he caught
sight of a naked footprint in the dust! He bent closer, hardly able
to believe what he saw! The footprint bore the mark of a deep scar
diagonally across the heel!

“Hi! Mr. Ryder! Look! Our man with the scar paid a visit here as well!”
he shouted to the engineer, who had already entered the cottage.

Mr. Ryder hurried out and examined the footprint with Jack.

“By George, you’re right! What could he have wanted up here!” exclaimed
the engineer.

Jack did not wait to answer the question. He bolted into the house and
rushed to the flat-topped desk, for he had suddenly thought of the
precious blueprints. Eagerly he drew open the top drawer into which he
had seen Mr. Ryder drop the yellow envelope the evening before. But the
compartment was empty! The drawings were gone!




CHAPTER XIII

A WEAKENED GARRISON


With the disappearance of the engineer’s drawings the mystery that
surrounded the man with the scarred foot was doubled. Neither Jack nor
Mr. Ryder could be quite positive of the clue they had been following. To
them the fact that the trouble maker went about without shoes argued that
he was a peon, and they could well understand why a peon, imbued with the
spirit of revolution, should seek to make conditions as uncomfortable as
possible for President Huerta, against whose rule they were revolting.
That the person in question should undertake to wreck the power plant,
or portions of it, seemed quite natural. But when it came to stealing
drawings that were absolutely useless to them the whole affair took on a
different complexion.

Who was this individual with the scar on his foot? Was he a peon or was
he some one of the other employees about the plant? Or again, was he a
soldier, or a member of the band of rurales, or was he some one of the
bandits in the mountains who ran the guard at night and accomplished
his trickery under the very eyes of soldiers and employees? The whole
situation was thoroughly muddled and Jack and Mr. Ryder spent days trying
to fathom the knotty problem. To a technical man the drawings were of
the utmost value, for they laid bare to him the secret of an invention
that would make him wealthy. But on the other hand it would seem that the
man was moved more by his sympathies with the revolutionists than by his
desire for personal gain, since it was quite apparent that the person who
was so industriously engaged in making things disagreeable for President
Huerta and the man who stole the drawings was the same individual.

“It is a mighty peculiar situation,” said Mr. Ryder one evening, after he
and Jack had been puzzling over the matter for several hours. “This is
my only conclusion. The man must be a peon, or a soldier, for they are
the only persons hereabout who are interested in the revolution at all.
He has heard of the drawings somehow, and believing that they would be of
value to Zapata or Carranza (or whoever else he favors), he stole them.
Later on he will probably turn them over to some one of these leaders
with the hope, perhaps, that he will be given a commission or some other
form of recognition for his service to the cause.

“But after I have reached that conclusion,” he added, “I am not
absolutely certain that I am shooting in the right direction.”

For some time after the disappearance of the papers everything ran
smoothly at the plant. But in the meantime disconcerting rumors were
coming in from the mountains about bands of Zapatistas who were
gathering at all points. The rurales who went out to patrol the hills
and in particular to ride the transmission line to see that it was not
disturbed were the first to bring in reports of skirmishes with these
rebels. Almost daily several of the soldier-policemen would locate a
handful of armed natives somewhere in the hills. Always a fight followed
which resulted in at least one or two fatalities. More than once these
green-clad riders came into Necaxa with dead or wounded comrades in their
arms. And on several occasions they appeared at the power plant with
prisoners bound hand and foot and tied to the backs of horses or burros
like so many sacks of flour.

Short work was made of these men. Their fate was sealed the moment they
were captured by the rurales. As a matter of form they were given a
drumhead trial; that is, they were taken before the chief officer of
the rurales and asked a number of unimportant questions. No matter how
these questions were answered the sentence was the same. The natives were
always condemned to be shot at sunrise the following morning.

Jack was present at the trial of one of these unfortunates and after the
rebel was taken to the guardhouse the lad and Mr. Ryder went to visit
him. It gave Jack a rather uncanny feeling when he realized that the man
with whom they were talking would be dead and cold in ten hours. The
Vermonter was up before sunrise to see the prisoner led out and placed
against the gray wall of the power plant. The firing squad was composed
of five men and an officer who stood with sword drawn while a soldier
bound a handkerchief about the eyes of the victim. When this was done the
executioners took careful aim and waited for the abrupt command to fire.

The five guns roared simultaneously, and Jack grew sick as he saw the
blindfolded figure sway backward first, then recover its balance only
to pitch forward with a groan and become an inert and lifeless mass.
When the smoke had cleared away the officer walked calmly up to the dead
man and drawing his revolver emptied the entire six chambers into the
already lifeless body. This, Jack learned, was prescribed by the military
regulations of Mexico, which state that an officer in charge of a firing
squad, is held responsible for the certain death of the victim.

The rurales, however, were not the only ones to bring in word of the
gathering of the Zapatistas. One day three men left the plant on a
handcar trip of inspection along the narrow gage railroad track.
One took a Winchester rifle with him while the others carried their
revolvers. On their return journey they were met at a bend in the road
by six rebels. One had a rifle but the others were armed only with
_machettes_, or long brush knives. The men from the plant were ordered to
stop, of course, but they did not obey. Instead they started to pump the
handles harder and since the tracks were down grade at that point their
car had gained tremendous headway by the time they reached the natives.
Fortunately the peons had not had forethought enough to plug the railroad
tracks or loosen a rail in which case the car would have been wrecked and
the inspectors killed immediately. As it was they ran past the natives
at top speed. The Mexican with the rifle opened fire and the man with
the Winchester replied, but he was only able to get in one shot before
the handle of the car knocked the rifle from his grasp. One of the other
men drew his six shooter and emptied it as he went flying past. It was a
narrow escape and the three inspectors were glad when they reached the
power plant.

Shortly after this experience some excitement was created at the station
when Lyman noticed that one of his indicators recorded a grounded
transmission line. Two linemen and a squad of rurales were despatched to
locate the trouble. Five miles back in the mountains they found a dead
peon clinging to one of the steel transmission poles and the story of
the ground was revealed instantly. This peon had climbed the pole and
with his steel _machette_ tried to cut through one of the transmission
lines. The moment the blade came in contact with the cable a circuit was
formed and the entire 88,000 volts were sent through the man’s body. His
companions, seeing his fate, had fled without even attempting to rescue
him.

These demonstrations on the part of the rebels did not add to the peace
of mind of the men at the power plant. Indeed every one began to feel
the strain, for the station was veritably in a state of siege. Rumors
came into Necaxa by way of the peons from the Indian village down the
valley, that José Cerro, one of the fiercest of the mountain bandits and
a strong ally of Zapata, was in charge of the horde that was gathering in
the hills in that vicinity. After that no one felt inclined to leave the
station except when accompanied by a guard of rurales and all inspection
of railroad and transmission lines was done with the aid of soldiers.

Then one day in the midst of it all the officer in charge of the infantry
reported to Mr. Ryder that he had been in communication with General
Rodriguez and had received orders to move his entire detachment back to
Mexico City. The engineer could not believe his ears. With all haste he
called up the capital on the long-distance telephone.

“Why, you won’t need soldiers out there any longer,” said the military
officer after the engineer had protested vigorously to the removal of the
guard. “You don’t need soldiers because Zapata is moving his whole army
toward the Atlantic coast. He’s evidently heard of the shipment of arms
coming in on the German steamer and hopes to intercept them on their way
to the capital. If he takes the railroad we are lost. That’s why we want
your soldiers. We must have them. The rebel chief has withdrawn all his
men from your section of the country so I’m sure you won’t need them.”

“Oh, is that so,” said Mr. Ryder, thoroughly angry. “Well, there are a
few hundred lurking out here in the woods just now and I am expecting an
attack almost any time.”

“You are mistaken, I am sure,” said the officer; “there may be a few
bandits about in the mountains but the Zapatistas have all followed their
leader. I am very sorry, but we need all the soldiers you have at Necaxa.
However, if you are at all alarmed I will leave you a detachment of
twenty-five infantrymen who, with the squad of rurales you have stationed
there, will be able to defend the place against a few bandits. Good-by.”

The soldiers entrained that very afternoon, much to the chagrin of Mr.
Ryder and the other Americans.

“By George, this is the queerest piece of work I have ever seen,” said
Mr. Ryder. “If Zapata has moved his men, José Cerro did not follow his
leader, for he’s out there in the mountains with two hundred men and
he’ll swoop down on us in short order when he hears how weak our garrison
is. Just watch how bold those greasers get when they learn that the
infantry has been called back to Mexico City.”




CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT WATCH


Mr. Ryder’s prediction came true. It was not two days later when a half
dozen peons appeared on the edge of the forest and occupied their time
shooting out the windows in the workmen’s cottages and sending leaden
greetings to any one who appeared out of doors. They remained in their
positions until the soldiers mounted a light machine gun in the window of
the barracks house and poured a rain of steel-jacketed bullets in their
direction. But José Cerro’s followers were not the only ones who were
made bold by the withdrawal of the troops. The traitor inside the power
plant became active too.

One evening while Jack and Mr. Ryder were partaking of one of Tom Why’s
elaborate meals, Phil Underwood, the young American whose duty it was to
take care of the huge searchlight, rushed into the dining room.

“Mr. Ryder,” he exclaimed with a savage note in his voice, “there’s a
peon in Necaxa I’d like to lay hands on. He’s that blasted sympathizer.
If I knew who he was I’d choke him to death. What do you think he’s done
now to help that bunch of cutthroats out there in the mountain? He’s put
the big searchlight out of business! He’s wrecked the entire outfit and
there isn’t a place this side of New York where we can get the broken
parts replaced! It looks as if we were up against it for sure.”

The engineer looked thoroughly worried.

“When did it happen?” he demanded.

“The light was all right up to dawn this morning. I shut it off promptly
at four o’clock, put the canvas jacket over it and went to bed. When I
tried to start it a few moments ago I found the whole mechanism gone to
smash.”

For a long time Mr. Ryder was silent. His brow was wrinkled and it was
evident to both Phil and Jack that the situation was causing him some
deep thought. Finally he spoke.

“Look here, Phil, this condition is mighty serious and I am at a loss
to know exactly how to proceed. I think the best plan is not to mention
this last piece of treachery. Merely go to Lieutenant Hernandez and
tell him that the searchlight suddenly became out of order and until we
can repair it or make better arrangements he must keep a double guard
along the barricade and the first trench. If we spread the news about
this broadcast we can’t tell what sort of an effect it will have on the
soldiers. Mexicans are a peculiar lot, you know, and for that reason
alone I think it would be far better for us to keep this incident secret.
In the meantime you and Jack and myself can keep a watchful eye on
everything in general and I’ll try to work out a plan for an improvised
searchlight.”

“Very good, sir,” said Phil, as he hurried off to the military barracks.

When the youth had gone Mr. Ryder turned to Jack and said: “I trust you
are still willing to help me in this difficulty, my boy.”

“You’re right I am,” exclaimed Jack enthusiastically, “I am as much
interested as if I were employed here and I’ll do anything I can to be
of assistance.”

“Very well then, Jack, I’ll look to you to do a man’s share of the
watching around here until we can get things straightened out. This
trouble with the searchlight may mean that a night attack is impending. I
purpose doing some guard duty myself to-night and I should like to have
you help me out. Will you?”

“Only tell me what you want of me and I’ll do it without a word of
protest,” said Jack loyally.

“Well, suppose you buckle on your revolver now and start patroling the
village. Keep an eye out for anything that does not look absolutely
normal. At midnight report back to the cottage here and wake me up. I’ll
do my trick between midnight and dawn, for I do not intend that this
traitor shall get in any more of his underhanded work without being
caught at it.”

“That’s a capital scheme,” said the young Vermonter and finishing his
coffee he hurried to his room. There he secured his belt and holster
which he had tossed on his bed an hour previous. Also before he left he
rummaged through his traveling bag until he had located a tiny electric
pocket flash lamp which he had brought with him all the way from
Drueryville. Ten minutes later he was sauntering down the single narrow
street toward the power plant.

Darkness was just coming on as the sentries were changed and the lad
watched the small squad of regulars leave the barracks and take their
places at various points around the tiny village.

“I wonder,” mused the boy, “how many actually keep awake all night? I’ll
warrant half of them find some sheltered spot and go to sleep after
midnight.”

For an hour or two the little community resembled the quarry towns of far
off Vermont to such a degree that Jack actually became a little homesick
as he viewed the scene. Every cottage window glowed with cheerful light
and the day men, free from their tasks for a while, were indulging in the
only sociability Necaxa afforded: that was to gather in twos and threes
on cottage porches and spend the evening in telling stories and smoking.
Now and then some one of these groups would burst forth in songs and what
the tunes lacked in harmony was made up for in the enthusiasm of the
singers. Most of the songs Jack recognized as having been popular back in
the States two years before.

At half past nine the groups began to dwindle, the men going off to their
various cottages. One by one the lights went out and by ten o’clock the
place was in total darkness, save for the lights in the power plant. Jack
felt very lonesome then. Except for the steady grumble of the generators
inside the big gray building, not a sound disturbed the stillness. From
place to place about the village the youth roamed, peering here and there
for signs of trouble. But mostly he watched in the vicinity of the power
plant.

This constant vigil was very tiresome, however, and several times he
paused in a secluded angle of the building and flashed his electric lamp
on the face of his watch. He was thoroughly glad when the hands pointed
out the hour of midnight.

He made one more tour of inspection after that, then started up the
street toward Mr. Ryder’s cottage. He had almost reached his destination
when suddenly his attention was attracted by a gray shadow moving
between two cottages some distance to his left. Jack remembered that
both buildings were occupied by Mexican linemen and his suspicions were
aroused immediately. As softly as a panther he moved across the roadway
and gained the corner of one of the buildings. The shadow still lingered
in the alley and the youth softly slipped his revolver from its holster.
But just as he was on the point of calling to the man to throw up his
hands he became aware of another gray shadow moving about. This one was
coming stealthily up the roadway he had just left and Jack thanked his
lucky stars that he had hidden himself when he did.

It was quite evident to the Vermonter that the two shadows intended to
meet, but in order to accomplish this either one or the other must pass
within six feet of him. For a moment he scarcely knew what to do, for he
realized that he could not handle two men at once.

The man in the alley had paused, but the one in the roadway came forward
softly and swiftly. When he was within fifteen feet of the crouching
youth Jack could see him quite distinctly. He wore a very broad hat and
the tight jacket of a rurale. Of a rurale! Instantly the old Indian
doctor’s story about a rurale with an injured foot flashed upon him! This
must be the man of the scarred heel!

Throwing all caution to the wind, Jack dropped his revolver and leapt
toward the shadowy figure. It was a perfect flying tackle and the man
came down with a crash, his legs pinned tightly together, exactly as
Jack had pinned the legs of many an opposing fullback on the field at
Drueryville.

The attack was so sudden that the man lay stunned for a moment. Then as
if he suddenly realized that it was a human being and not a vice that had
gripped him, the soldier began to struggle. He tried to kick and squirm
his way out of the boy’s arms, at the same time thrashing about with his
fists and cursing lustily in Spanish. He was a big man and exceedingly
powerful and Jack had all that he could do to hold him on the ground.

The lad had the advantage, however, since the native was almost flat
on his stomach. By careful maneuvering and the help of two or three
wrestling holds that are known to every American boy he was soon able to
work himself astride the prostrated one and pin the refractory hands down
as well. This accomplished, the youth began to shout for help at the top
of his voice.

Mr. Ryder was first on the scene. He came running across from his
cottage, a revolver in one hand and an electric flash lamp in the other.
The Mexican linemen came tumbling out of their cottages a few moments
later and immediately after two Mexican regulars arrived, all out of
breath.

“Well, I think we’ve captured our man,” said Jack, panting in his
excitement. “Here, lay hold of this fellow, so I can stand up.”

The soldiers seized the prostrated one but they still kept him pinned
flat on his stomach, in spite of his protests.

“Mr. Ryder,” said Jack, “I think this is the man with the scarred foot.
Turn your light this way until we have a good look at his feet. He hasn’t
any boots on, that’s certain, for he moved about like a cat.”

Hurriedly the engineer turned the light on the native’s naked feet and
there, standing out plainly in spite of the dirt and dust, was a long
scar that extended across the heel and partly up the side of his foot
toward the ankle. The wound looked exactly as if the man had at one time
stepped on a very sharp stone that had laid the flesh open to the bone.

“By George, you’re right! He’s our man!” exclaimed the engineer
jubilantly. Then to the soldiers in Spanish he said:

“Hustle him off to the guardhouse, men, and put a double watch over him,
for he’s a traitor. I’ll pay a peso a day to the men who watch him, but
I’ll have the scoundrel shot who lets him get away.”

Without any ceremony the regulars jerked the big man to his feet and
marched him off down the street, Mr. Ryder and Jack following directly
behind with their revolvers cocked and ready for action. But the heavy
door to the prison pen had hardly been bolted behind the rurale when
the town was aroused by another sensation. From down along the line of
barbed wire fence came the sharp report of a rifle. The first report was
followed by two others in quick succession.

“What is it! An attack!” gasped Jack as he rushed forward with Mr. Ryder.
The sound of firing aroused every man in the camp and in an instant
half-clad soldiers and workmen came tumbling from barracks hall and
cottage.

“An attack! an attack!” was the cry they all uttered as they hurried into
the trenches.

But after the third shot the sentry’s guns were silent so long that Mr.
Ryder and Jack and Lieutenant Hernandez and Captain Alvarez went to
investigate.

“What was the trouble?” they demanded of the first soldier they met.

“Shadows came along the fence. Three, four, five of them all came to try
and cut the wire. One dropped this,” said the sentry as he held up an
ugly looking _machette_.

“That’s mighty bad news,” said Mr. Ryder, “for it looks to me as if the
rebels are planning an attack. But we’ll fix these wire cutters to-morrow
night. In the meantime you fellows keep awake and on the lookout until
dawn.”

But when the news of the shadowy wire cutters was spread about among
the men there was little need for extra vigilance on the part of
the sentries, for every man in the village stayed up until daylight
discussing the possibilities of an attack. Indeed, the sun was just
rising as Jack and Mr. Ryder turned in for some much-needed sleep.




CHAPTER XV

IMPROVISED SEARCHLIGHTS


“Velly vell, on’y me no likee losee dlishe pans, Misler Lyder. Me no
velly much can usee pailes to washee dlishes in sometimes. Jus’ samee me
no likee losee dlishe pan.”

Tom Why’s voice accompanied by the clatter of tin pans awoke Jack next
day, from a very sound sleep. The lad at first was thoroughly mystified,
for it was rarely that good natured Tom ever objected to anything either
he or Mr. Ryder did. It was evident, however, from the pitch of the
Chinaman’s voice that he was slightly indignant.

“Me can no savvy leason to put holes in him dlish pan. Him alle samee no
glood then,” continued Tom.

“Well, I want to put wires through the bottom of the pans and make
searchlights out of them. What if your old pans are spoiled, Tom. When
the next train comes up from Mexico City I’ll have a carload for you if
you want them,” said Mr. Ryder.

“Me no wantee clarload. Me wantee tlu dlishe pans, and me no wantee liars
put thlu him bottom, too.”

“All right, Tom,” laughed the engineer; “you shall have two of the finest
dishpans south of the Rio Grande if you’ll only let me have these two.”

“Velly vell, velly vell,” said Tom somewhat appeased at such an
attractive offer.

The conversation had done more than amuse Jack. It had made him
thoroughly curious, for he could not understand how Mr. Ryder could make
a searchlight out of a tin dishpan. He lost no time in tumbling out of
bed and dressing, and five minutes after the engineer had left the house
the youth was ready to follow him. Just as Jack entered the main room,
however, Tom Why came in at the back door.

“Hello there, Tom, did Mr. Ryder confiscate your dishpans?” asked the
boy.

“No him no dloo lat. Him just takee him dlish plans. Him get Tlom Why tlu
flines likee clums to Melexeclo,” said Tom with a grin. Then he added,
“Allee samee Jack want him dlinner now?”

“Dinner?” exclaimed the boy, “why, what time is it? Well, by George, if
it isn’t three o’clock. I’ve slept nearly ten hours. How long has Mr.
Ryder been up?”

“Him alle samee come from him room an’ slay, ‘Tom, glet my bleckflast!’
Then him look at him clock him slay, ‘Gleat Clats, him one o’clock. Tom,
glet me my dlinner!’” Tom tried to imitate the engineer as he quoted Mr.
Ryder’s remarks and the result made Jack laugh heartily.

In a surprisingly short time the Chinaman had the table spread and a
steaming hot meal before the young American. But the lad hurried every
mouthful (much to Tom’s displeasure), for he was eager to reach the plant
and witness the operation of converting tin dishpans into searchlights.
Also, he was curious to know what had transpired since dawn that morning.

When Jack reached the little machine shop on the north side of the power
plant he found Mr. Ryder in the center of a pile of wire, pieces of iron
pipe, electric light bulbs and all sorts of odds and ends. The engineer
was busily engaged with one of Tom’s precious tin dishpans.

“Oh! there you are, I thought you were due to sleep all day,” said the
engineer banteringly as Jack arrived. “You are just in time to witness
an attempt to build a genuine spotlight out of the cook’s most cherished
possession.”

“I heard all about it when you were trying to persuade Tom to be generous
with his pans. What do you mean to do anyway?” said Jack.

“Why, I intend to spring a little surprise on our wire-cutting friends
this evening if they should happen around, which I expect they will. I’m
going to put a cluster of electric bulbs in each of these tin dishpans,
and put them up on iron rods in position so that they will sweep the line
of barbed-wire defense. I’m going to keep them dark until the sentries
see the ‘shadows’ that visited us last night, then I’m going to switch
them on and have a firing party ready. Oh! the wire cutters will receive
an ideal reception, I’ll warrant. You see, fairly bright tin shaped in
this manner will magnify the light beam from three to five times and
that will throw a spotlight as far as necessary. Tin is an excellent
reflector for all ordinary purposes. With the ten thirty-two candlepower
lamps which I intend to use in each cluster, I will get a beam of light
1600 candlepower intensity. Of course that amounts to very little when
compared with the huge thirty-inch searchlight of ours that magnified a
light several hundred times.

“These searchlights will be operated by remote control; that is, a wire
will be run from the lights to the roof of the power station where Phil
will be on duty as usual. The moment he gets a signal from the sentries
he will throw on a switch which will connect with both wires and the line
of fence will be lighted from either direction at once. The firing squad
will be just beyond the lower trenches and behind the lights, so that
they will not be blinded by the sudden glare. The bandits on the other
hand will be surprised and made temporarily blind by the sudden flash of
light and before they get away the riflemen will discourage any idea of
future wire cutting parties.”

“It sounds like a first-rate scheme,” said Jack appreciatively. Then
suddenly remembering the prisoner of the night before he queried: “How is
our friend, the rurale? Have you seen him to-day?”

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” said the engineer as he paused in his work of
fitting a group of lamp sockets inside the tin pan. “He’s a mighty meek
individual too just now. I guess his thoughts are on the trial he’s to
have to-morrow morning. The chief witnesses over-slept this morning or he
would probably have faced court-martial before this. It was a lucky thing
for him that we did oversleep too, for it gives him a few hours longer to
live at any rate.”

“What does he have to say for himself?” asked the lad.

“Well, in the first place, he’s the man whom Señor Yuai described. He did
live in the Indian village over the mountain, and he did cut his foot
by stepping on a _machette_. His name is Alfonso Perro. I asked him why
he was sneaking about the place last night and he said that he had made
arrangements with the peon who keeps the cottage for the lineman to get
some _pulque_ for the troopers. _Pulque_ is the Mexican drink, you know.
It is made from the sap of the century plant or _maquay_ plant and when
properly prepared is a very fiery and highly intoxicating drink. Don’t
ever touch it, my boy, for it has ruined the chance of more than one
American who acquired a taste for it. We do not allow it to be brought
into Necaxa at all, but the rurale says that every time the linemen’s
peon goes to the village he smuggles in several jugs of the stuff. Some
was smuggled in yesterday and the rurale said he was on his way to get it
and bring it back to the barracks when you captured him. Of course I have
had the peon arrested also. He too is in the guardhouse, but he swears
that he has never smuggled _pulque_ into Necaxa.

“I accused Perro of having tampered with the machinery in the plant from
time to time and also of stealing my plans, and I must say he is a very
good actor, for he feigned surprise wonderfully well. But when I told him
how we set a trap for him and discovered that he had a scar on his foot
he looked even more surprised, and that surprise was genuine. I think
Captain Alvarez, of the rurales, is decidedly angry over the whole affair
and he is determined to have the prisoner face a firing squad as soon as
possible.”

“Well, I can’t help feeling a little sorry for the man,” said Jack, who
felt rather unhappy when he realized how much he had helped in sending
the man to his end.

“I feel sorry myself,” added Mr. Ryder, “and if he would only tell the
truth about the plans and give me some idea where they are I’d do my
utmost to save his life. However, the best that I could do would be
of little avail, I’m afraid, for Captain Alvarez takes charge of all
prisoners and the man’s fate is entirely in his hands.”

The two searchlights were completed late that afternoon, but Mr. Ryder
did not make an attempt to erect them until after dark, for as he
explained to Jack, “Those bandits may have lookouts stationed on the
mountains, and to have them see our new lights would knock the little
surprise party into a cocked hat.”

It required but a very little time to put the lamps in place, for the
engineer had fastened each tin pan to a section of iron pipe and this
was easily strapped to a tree at either end of the clearing in front of
the plant. The sentries were carefully coached that night before they
were sent to their post, and most of the men in the village as well as
the extra soldiers and rurales, gathered in the trenches to watch for
developments.

But hours of waiting under such strained conditions was far from
comfortable and after a while the men grew restive. In twos and threes
they began to leave for their cottages, quite disappointed that nothing
spectacular had happened. Jack, who was in the first trench, began to
grow tired of the suspense too. Indeed, he was just on the point of going
back to the cottage himself, when suddenly a rifle shot rang out at one
end of the clearing. This was followed by another further up the line of
fence and instantly Phil Underwood, on the roof, jammed home the switch.

The flood of light that swept along the barricade revealed almost a score
of bandits, with _machettes_ and big wire nippers. Some were discovered
in the very act of snipping strands of wire while others, thoroughly
frightened, were turning to flee, but they had scarcely moved two steps
before the roar of a dozen rifles burst forth.

Jack saw two men toss up their hands and pitch forward in the grass.
Another staggered a few steps, then he too fell in a limp heap. Other
shots rang out, but the rebels got beyond the range of the improvised
searchlights and were lost in the dark before any others were brought
down.

It all transpired so quickly that Jack could hardly believe his eyes.
He felt as if he had been looking at a motion picture of something that
had taken place in a far-off land. But he realized the horror of it all
when several soldiers crawled under the barbed wire fence and picked up
the three lifeless forms. Indeed, he was forced to turn away, for the
whole scene became very repulsive to him. The idea of trapping human
beings like rats and slaughtering them, was hideous. But the other men
laughed and joked over the occurrence exactly as if they had but recently
witnessed a performance at a theater.




CHAPTER XVI

A WARNING


“Hi there, Jack, is that you?” called Mr. Ryder as the lad entered the
cottage.

“Yes, but what on earth are you doing here with all the rumpus down at
the plant?”

“Oh, I’ve been here for the last hour or more. To tell you the truth, my
boy, I did not have the heart to remain and see the outcome. I knew the
trap would work; in fact, I was afraid it would work too well. How many
men did they kill, Jack?” There was a note of anxiety in the engineer’s
voice as he asked the question.

“Three,” replied the boy.

“Well, thank heavens it wasn’t more,” said Mr. Ryder somewhat relieved.
“The riflemen would have had no compunction if the number had been
thirty-three, but I have. It seems wicked and inhuman to sacrifice three
lives in order to teach the beggars a lesson. It makes me very unhappy.”

Jack was glad to find that Mr. Ryder took this attitude in the matter.
If the truth were known he had secretly felt a little bitter toward the
engineer for concocting such a diabolical trap. But when he saw how
unhappy it had made the man his bitterness turned to sympathy.

“It does seem mighty hard to kill three men in order to teach the rest
of them a lesson, but I suppose it was absolutely necessary for our own
safety,” said the youth in an effort to relieve the engineer’s feelings.

“You are quite right, my lad. It is hard, but it had to be done.
Sometimes, you know, the lesson is almost as disagreeable to the teacher
as it is to the pupil. I hope to goodness we’ll have no more of this
slaughter, but the way the rebels are acting I am very much afraid
that we will be in for a real battle before the trouble is settled. I
sincerely hope I’m wrong.”

The engineer was sitting at the table in the center of the room, a mass
of blueprints, drawings and typewritten data spread out in front of him.
His shirt was open at the throat, for the evening was very warm and his
revolver and cartridge belt had been removed and tossed carelessly on the
table before him.

“What are all the plans?” queried Jack as he sat down opposite the
engineer.

“These are the original sketches and preliminary drawings from which I
worked out my lightning arrester,” replied Mr. Ryder. “It begins to look
as if the stolen papers weren’t going to turn up. Our rurale with the
scarred foot denies all knowledge of their whereabouts, which means that
he will never tell where they are, even if he does happen to know, for a
Mexican can be mighty stubborn when he feels disposed that way. Under the
circumstances, I fancy I’ll have to dig a new set of blueprints out of
these old plans.

“And that isn’t going to be the easiest work in the world, let me tell
you. I have paid very little attention to the preliminary papers since
I worked out the final plans and the consequence is many of the more
important sketches and formulas have disappeared. I am mighty sorry that
I did not make duplicate drawings before I sent the plans to Drueryville.
The worst feature of the whole thing is the fact that I have not yet
applied for patent rights either in this country or the United States.
I could not take this step until I had secured Dr. Moorland’s formula,
you know, because that was one of the fundamental features of the new
appliance. In that case whoever has the plans can very easily apply for
patents in his own name and then all my work will have been for nothing.
Indeed, if I wanted to use my own invention after that I would probably
be forced to pay a royalty to some one else. That would be a fine
how-de-do, wouldn’t it?”

Though the boy could be of very little assistance to the engineer, just
then, he remained at the table. Somehow, plans and blueprints had a
certain fascination for Jack, who hoped to become an engineer some day.
He spread one of the more simple charts before him and tried to work out
the details for himself. How long he had been absorbed in this task he
did not know, but suddenly, just outside the cottage, sounded a patter
of naked feet, then some one sprang upon the porch in front of the door,
shouting as he did so:

“_Los Zapatistas! Los Zapatistas! Viene Ellos!_”

“The rebels, they are coming! What can he mean!” shouted Mr. Ryder as he
leaped from his chair and reached for his revolver. The next instant the
door was pushed violently open and an Indian exhausted and with blood
dripping from an ugly wound in his shoulder, plunged into the room.

“It is Miguel the Indian runner, and he’s wounded,” exclaimed Jack,
immediately recognizing the red man as the one whose dog he had saved
from the alligator several weeks before.

Clutching the end of the table for support, the native began to talk very
rapidly, and as the engineer listened, his face took on a startled and
somewhat puzzled look.

“He says that he has run ten miles to warn us that José Cerro and his
band are planning to attack us to-night!” explained Mr. Ryder when the
native finally ceased talking. “He says that they are on the way now
and that we must hurry and prepare to meet their attack or we will be
overwhelmed!”

“How does he know this?” demanded Jack, thoroughly excited.

“He carried mail to Los Angeles to-night,” said Mr. Ryder, “and while he
was lingering in the village a native told him that the famous bandit
José Cerro was there. The native pointed out the very house where José
Cerro was drinking _pulque_ with some of his lieutenants. He became
curious to see a man of such a villainous reputation and crept close to
the shack and peered into the window. He not only saw the villain but
he heard most of their conversation. He was startled, for he realized
that he was overhearing the plans for an attack on the power plant. He
heard José Cerro say, ‘The fence wires are all cut by now and the big
searchlight crippled. Everything is ready for the attack. Our men need
only to rush in, seize Señor Ryder and carry him off. Then I will collect
three thousand pesos from our benefactor before we start to join Zapata
and capture the railroad. Then if we play our part right we can hold
this great electrical engineer for a ransom from his friends in America
perhaps. If we can’t do that we can kill him at least, though I’d much
prefer to hold him and collect gringo gold for his release. How say you,
men?’ At this there were many cheers.

“Miguel became less cautious for he wanted to hear more. The result was
that José Cerro saw him through the window and fired his revolver at him.
The bullet hit him in the shoulder. The town was in an uproar immediately
but the runner did not wait. As fast as he could he ran toward the power
plant, glad, he says, of an opportunity to be of service to the gringo
who saved his dog from the alligators.”

The Indian had stood by the table during Mr. Ryder’s recital, his
face distorted with the pain of the wound in his shoulder, and as the
lad looked at him he realized just how much hardship the red man had
withstood to repay a debt of kindness.

“We must prepare to meet the attack immediately,” said Jack calmly, “but
before I move a step I am going to bind up this poor fellow’s wound and
see that he is comfortable.”

“Fine! Take care of him and I’ll go and spread the alarm. Hurry down to
the trenches when you’re through,” said Mr. Ryder as he seized a rifle
and rushed out the door.

Although Jack could not talk to the Indian, he soon made the red man
understand by motions that he wanted to take care of the bullet wound.
The native smiled gratefully at this and sat down in Mr. Ryder’s chair
while the young American hastened out to Tom Why’s cook house. The lad
routed the worthy Chinaman out of bed and bade him heat some water
immediately. In the meantime, he found some clean linen with which to
make bandages.

Tom Why was a willing assistant and in short order all blood stains
had been wiped from the runner’s chest and arm and the wound bathed.
Then Jack bound a bandage tightly about the injured shoulder and after
preparing a cup of steaming hot coffee, showed the native to one of
the bedrooms and insisted that he lay down and rest for a while. During
all this, the tawny yellow hound which had followed the Indian into the
cottage, kept close to his master’s side. The animal seemed to appreciate
everything that Jack and Tom did for the redman, for his tail wagged
furiously all the time. And when the runner lay down upon Jack’s bed the
hound curled himself up in the doorway as if to keep guard while Miguel
was sleeping.

When the Indian was comfortable, the Vermonter buckled on his own
revolver, and slinging a heavy cartridge belt over his shoulder seized
one of the rifles in the corner and hurried out to the trenches.

At the plant every one was in a state of excitement. The ugly-looking,
three-inch fieldpiece had been unjacketed and made ready for action. The
battery of French machine guns, those death-dealing instruments that
fired more than four hundred shots a minute, had all been mounted and
manned, and soldiers and workmen alike all fully armed, waited crouching
in the trenches. The two improvised searchlights were still burning and
by their light the whole scene looked weird and uncanny.

Mr. Ryder was as active as the rest, directing the position of the
defenders and arranging other details. But in the midst of it all he
found time to call Jack aside and hold a brief conversation with him.

“That Indian’s story has me thoroughly puzzled. If all he says is true,
and I have no reason to believe otherwise, some one is certainly plotting
for my downfall. Whom do you suppose José Cerro’s ‘benefactor’ is anyway?
This is the most mysterious situation I have ever been mixed up with
in my life. It certainly has me guessing. I wonder if—Look! Look! See
that flash over there! On the mountain! Listen! Hear the roar! It’s the
rebels! They’ve lugged their old fieldpiece up there again. They are
trying to drop shells down here! Ho, boys! Bill! Joe! Did you see that
flash! Throw a shell or two up there the next time they fire!” The last
was addressed to the men in charge of the three-inch gun.

Again came the flash, then the far-off roar and Jack heard the shell go
humming high in the air above the plant and burst against the mountain
across the river. But this time the gun on the mountain was answered
by the one at the plant. The battery belched forth a cloud of fire and
smoke and a moment later Jack saw a flash of fire in the woods across the
valley where the shell exploded. The fieldpiece at the plant was of the
quick-firing variety and four shots were hurled up on to the mountain
before another one was sent toward the station.

Twice shells burst within the inclosure about the plant, one carrying
away a section of the rurales’ barracks hall and setting fire to the
rest of it. The flames added to the excitement of the occasion but were
quickly extinguished by two men with a hose, held in readiness for that
very kind of emergency. Until just before daylight, the firing kept up,
then the gun on the mountain became strangely silent and the men at
Necaxa concluded that their shells had put it into disuse forever. But
when the first golden streak of morning showed above the mountain tops,
and the valley became light enough for the men to see any distance,
a new terror took the place of the gun on the mountain. From here and
there in the underbrush across the valley bottom came tiny jets of
smoke, and Jack for the first time in his life heard the ominous hum of
bullets fired with deadly earnestness. José Cerro’s sharpshooters seemed
everywhere and the flying pellets of lead and steel kicked up the dust in
all directions. For a long time the rifles in the trenches were silent,
for the men could locate no one to fire at. The fieldpiece, however, kept
shelling the forest but with little effect, for the gunners could not see
the enemy.

Then suddenly two natives showed themselves on the edge of the wood.
Instantly, a volley rang out from the defenders and the French machine
guns began to rattle viciously. The battle was on!




CHAPTER XVII

“WHO WILL BE FOOD FOR THE VULTURES!”


Of the two men, one advanced. The other lay writhing in pain on the
ground, but his place was taken by twenty more, forty more, eighty more,
a hundred, two hundred. They emerged from every bush, from behind trees,
they arose from the long grass, they appeared as if by magic. On they
came, yelling, screaming; swarthy faces distorted, the lust of battle in
their eyes.

“Here they come, boys! Steady! Keep cool and fight, _fight_, FIGHT!”
screamed Mr. Ryder to the men in the trenches.

His instructions were answered by a mighty cheer; a war-cry that sent a
thrill down Jack Straw’s back.

All thoughts of danger, all thoughts of everything but the fight, were
driven from the lad’s brain by that cheer. In his hands he gripped a
rifle. About his shoulders were two hundred rounds of ammunition. With
these he must fight, _fight_, FIGHT!

He was surprised to find how calm and collected he felt as he crouched
there in the first trench, shoulder to shoulder with a rurale on one
side and Harvey Carroll on the other. Over his head whistled a thousand
screaming messengers of death. They plunged into the earthy embankment
in front of him and threw dirt and pebbles into his eyes and mouth.
They whistled past his cheeks and thumped against the wall of the power
station behind him. Yet for all he was calm, insanely calm, it seemed to
him.

Carefully and methodically he slipped a shell from his cartridge belt
and held it between his teeth while he threw open the breech block of
his rifle. Without any apparent haste he slipped the brass thing home,
closed the breech and put the piece to his shoulder. Then with the utmost
deliberation he selected one of those ugly distorted faces for his target
and taking careful aim pulled the trigger.

Thus did the boy load and fire, load and fire, a dozen times while the
screaming mob came on. All along the double line of trenches, workmen
and soldiers were doing the same as he. And behind him the battery of
French machine guns, two on the roof and the others against the wall of
the power station, spat vehemently four hundred times a minute. Yet with
all this stubborn defense the motley mob advanced. They rushed, shrieking
and screaming, across the valley bottom toward the barbed-wire barricade,
pausing only to reload and fire. They came on, on, on, sombreros and
jackets flapping, red lips parted and white teeth showing like a pack of
bloodthirsty wolves. Two men reached the barbed-wire fence, one began to
climb but he stopped at the second strand and his bullet-riddled body
hung on the fence for the rest of the battle. The other hacked away with
a _machette_, trying hard to sever the wires. Jack was surprised to see
how long he remained exposed to the grueling fire before he fell.

Others reached the fence; one man clutched the top strand and vaulted
clear, but he did not stand on his feet when he landed. Another climbed
a post only to pitch backward, bowling over two men directly behind him.
But they came so thick and fast after that, that Jack could only see them
as a mass. They pressed against the barrier like cattle; they raged, they
cursed, they screamed, while the bullets from the machine guns mowed them
down like rye before a scythe. But the press was too great! The fence
came down with a crash and the way to the plant was cleared for them!

A groan arose from the trenches when the men saw this, for the Necaxa
force was outnumbered five to one in spite of the havoc of the machine
guns. Jack’s spirit sank with the rest, for he realized that the end
was near unless they could stop the rush of that bloodthirsty mob. But
suddenly he heard a voice above the roar of battle and looking in the
direction from whence it came, he saw Mr. Ryder standing exposed on the
embankment of the first trench.

“Boys, boys!” he shouted; “look overhead! The vultures! Shall they feed
on us or the greasers to-night?” Jack looked aloft, there in the blue
heavens were two huge birds circling slowly around over the battle
field. It was dramatic! It was hideous! Others looked, too, and the grim
specter had its effect.

“The greasers! the greasers! let them be food for the vultures! Make
them carrion, fellows!” was the cry that went up from the trenches, and
some men in their anger stood bolt upright to load and fire. The rain of
bullets that swept down the grassy slope was annihilating. The oncoming
mob stopped! The rebels’ dogged rush was checked! For five minutes they
tried to hold their ground against the withering fire. Then suddenly they
broke and ran for cover.

[Illustration: “They pressed against the barrier like cattle”]

At this a shout of triumph went up from the trenches. The men all stood
upright then and pumped bullets after the scattered force of José Cerro.
Jack discarded his rifle entirely and drawing his revolver leapt to the
top of the breastworks and fired, round after round at the tattered
brigade that was hurrying across the valley, until the last of the
Mexicans was lost in the forest. Then he paused and as he wiped the
perspiration from his brow, he remarked to no one in particular:

“By crackey, for excitement this beats all.”

Harvey Carroll overheard him and smiled. “So it appeals to you, eh?” he
queried.

“Appeals to me? No, not exactly, but nevertheless it’s exciting! How long
did it last? About fifteen minutes, I guess.”

But Jack was disillusioned on this point when he looked at his watch. He
could hardly believe it but he had been in the midst of death for two
hours and had come through it all without a single scratch. This was
not true of others, however. From here and there in the trenches came
groans of anguish, telling plainly that more than one of the murderous
soft-nosed Mexican bullets had found its mark. Jack saw many motionless
forms too, and he knew that the power plant would be short handed for a
while.

The lad did not have long to view the situation, however, for soon
he heard the voice of the engineer giving commands in English and
Spanish. These were to the effect that every man should get busy and
repair the broken-down barricade before the rebels rallied and began
another assault. Rifles were discarded immediately and axes and shovels
substituted. With these, soldiers and workmen alike began to reset the
broken-down posts and restring the wires. Jack and Mr. Ryder did their
part. They worked side by side with the rest, in spite of the fact that
they had been longer than twenty-four hours without sleep.

Once Jack paused in his work and standing erect, viewed the valley. Dead
men lay everywhere. They were piled thick along the line of fence and
scattered broadcast from the bottom of the slope to the edge of the wood,
and though the bodies were not yet cold the vultures were feeding. The
scavengers of Mexico were already at work clearing the battle field.

As soon as the fence was repaired and reinforced with hundreds of feet
of extra barbed wire which the workmen brought from the storehouse,
Mr. Ryder appointed a hospital squad and a burial squad from amongst
the infantry men. They were detailed to go across the valley gathering
up the dead and the wounded. When this was well under way the engineer
returned to the plant, to look after the hospital work there. Lyman,
Carroll and several other Americans who were not needed inside the plant
at that time, had gathered up the injured and taken them inside a big
well-lighted toolhouse.

Mr. Ryder glanced about the room; he studied the faces of the wounded and
scrutinized the attendants closely. Finally, he turned to Jack and said:

“Say, son, have you seen my assistant? Nedham, I mean. I haven’t seen him
since last night. I was looking for him in the trenches, but couldn’t
find him. Thought maybe he was wounded early and brought here.”

Jack could not recall having seen Nedham. So Mr. Ryder called Lyman.

“Hi, Lyman, come here.”

Lyman made his way between the prostrated forms to his chief’s side.

“Have you seen Nedham, lately?” queried the engineer.

“Why—er—ah, why I think the last glimpse I caught of him was when the
three-inch fieldpiece opened up. He came through the operating room.
Said he was on his way to the roof to look after some machine guns up
there. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Well,” said Mr. Ryder, “that’s a peculiar place for my assistant when I
need him alongside of me all the time. If you see him again tell him I
want him. He’ll find me here with the wounded.”

Jack was surprised to find out how many had been injured in the battle.
There were more than a score of workmen and soldiers stretched out on the
toolhouse floor, and the few Americans available had all they could do
to care for the wants of the wounded. Jack noted that one of the busiest
of the attendants was the Indian runner whom he had left in his room
before the battle started. The red man was going about among the wounded
with a gourd of water in his right hand. His left was bandaged tightly
across his breast and entirely useless because of José Cerro’s bullet.
Jack learned later on that the messenger had entered the trenches at the
opening of the battle and all through the conflict had handled a huge
six shooter which he had found in Mr. Ryder’s cottage.

The youth and the engineer turned to with the rest and tried to make
things more comfortable for the sufferers. They had not been at work
long, however, before Arthur Strong, the tall, light-haired day operator,
came rushing in. The moment he saw Mr. Ryder he began to shout:

“The lines are down! The lines are down! Mexico City’s service is cut
off.”




CHAPTER XVIII

THE WIRES ARE DOWN


The news was staggering! Mr. Ryder stood blinking at the man for fully
a minute before he could comprehend the situation. Then as he realized
that his one desire, to keep the current flowing uninterruptedly into
Mexico City, had been thwarted, his face grew very white and tense, but
instantly this expression changed to one of determination.

“We’ll put these lines back again in the face of every obstacle,” he
thundered. Then, turning, he addressed the men in the room.

“Boys, the lines are down! For the first time since I’ve been in charge
of Necaxa, Mexico City is without juice! I’m going to open the service
again! Who is going to help me!”

“I am!” came the chorus and every man who could stand crowded about the
engineer and pleaded to be taken along. Even some of the wounded men
raised themselves on their elbows and begged to be permitted to help in
the crisis.

Quietly and methodically Mr. Ryder went about picking out his assistants.
Two burly Mexican linemen were the first selected, then Harvey Carroll of
the maintenance department under whose jurisdiction came all the repair
work along the transmission line, and last of all a swarthy rurale, known
among the men as the best rider and best marksman of all the Necaxa troop.

“You five will be enough. Carroll, you and the linemen get your
repair kits and have the _mozos_ saddle five horses. We’re to start
immediately.” Then as the men were turning to go, the engineer called
them together again.

“Perhaps I should warn you boys of the dangers that face us. I have
an idea that this breaking down of the transmission lines is nothing
more or less than a trap. Where we find the trouble we will also find a
swarm of rebels ambushed. They may shoot us from the poles just as they
would shoot so many pheasants. In fact, the more I think of it the more
confident I am that they have pulled the wires down for the very purpose
of luring some of us out into the mountains so that they can square
accounts. Considering the situation in that light, do you all feel just
as enthusiastic about going?”

“You bet we do,” came the hearty response and the five men hurried out to
get their equipment together.

“Fine,” said Mr. Ryder, then turning and addressing the rest of the men
in the toolhouse he said:

“It will be up to you fellows to guard the place from an attack until we
return. I know your number is small now and some of our best fighters
are out of commission, but just the same you must hold the place against
any further assault. I don’t expect you’ll have much trouble after the
way we treated José Cerro and his rebels this morning, but nevertheless
you can’t afford to have your eyes closed. Clear up the place and get
everything shipshape and ready for instant action.

“And as for you,” he continued, turning to Jack Straw, “you’ve acquitted
yourself well to-day and I must compliment you. Now, to top off all
this, I want you to keep your eyes on the clock. It is exactly eleven
o’clock. If we are not back or you do not get word from us by three this
afternoon, arrange with Captain Alvarez, of the rurales, to have the
whole squad ride the transmission line in search of us. They may get
there in time to find our dead bodies, but anyway we can feel certain of
a decent burial, can’t we, my boy?”

“You’re right you can, but I certainly hope that we’ll be able to locate
you before burial is necessary, if we have to look for you at all,”
replied Jack.

A few moments later the four other members of the repair squad rode up
to the door of the improvised hospital, leading Mr. Ryder’s mount. The
engineer shook hands with all his friends and bade them good-by while his
assistants did likewise. Then when all were mounted and ready, word was
given and the five horses went racing across the enclosure, through the
gate and on to the trail that followed the line of transmission cables.
For half an hour they pushed ahead at a steady canter, keeping a careful
watch on the shrubbery and underbrush for signs of the enemy. They saw
any number of dead rebels. All along the trail were bodies of men who had
been wounded in the recent battle and who had followed their companions
until they dropped from sheer exhaustion.

About four miles from Necaxa they located the break. The four large
cables were completely down, but fortunately the parallel telephone wire
was still in service. At first Mr. Ryder was at loss to know just how the
peons had done the work until he examined the cable and discovered bullet
marks.

“I have it,” he exclaimed suddenly; “the greasers have pumped shot into
the cables and insulators until the lines simply couldn’t stay up. I
guess the telephone wire was too small for them to hit. I’m mighty glad
they are such poor shots. They have done very little damage for the
cables are not cut to amount to anything. All that is necessary is some
new porcelain insulators on the poles and a little patchwork on the lines
and we will be able to give Huerta his service in an hour. Come, boys,
up the poles there and get the insulators in place. Cut in on the ’phone
line and tell the station we’ll have the work done in an hour.”

The men became active immediately, even the rurale taking a hand in the
work. From the four repair kits enough insulators were secured to equip
the pole. The two linemen were sent aloft to install these while Mr.
Ryder, Carroll and the rurale stayed on the ground to repair the lines.
They were all so thoroughly busy and so absorbed in their work that none
of them heard the soft patter of naked feet on the trail and in the
underbrush about the pole. Indeed, they were surprised almost to the
point of speechlessness when a wicked-faced little Mexican, revolver in
hand, stepped into full view before them and requested them in Spanish to
hold up their hands.

Mr. Ryder and the rurale jumped up simultaneously and reached for their
guns but the ugly-looking Mexican merely smiled as he turned his revolver
to cover them completely.

“Ah, Señor Ryder, I would not try to shoot if I were you, the woods are
full of rifles,” he said very politely in Spanish. And it was true. Mr.
Ryder could see a peon behind every bush and tree.

“It is José Cerro,” hissed the rurale as he put his hands above his head.

“Yes, it is I, José Cerro,” answered the Mexican calmly. Then turning to
the engineer he said, “I hoped to get some of you in this trap, but I
never expected to have the good fortune of capturing Señor Ryder, I am
sure. I am indeed honored to have you as my prisoner. I am also pleased
for other reasons, for your capture means three thousand pesos to me and
perhaps more, who knows.”

“Three thousand pesos! Who will give you that amount?” demanded the
engineer.

“Ah, señor, would it be loyal of me to reveal the name of my benefactor,
especially when he does not want his identity known?” asked Zapata’s
lieutenant suavely. Then he answered the question himself by saying, “No,
no, that would not be kind. I cannot tell you, Señor Ryder, but I can
tell you that you must come with me. You must hurry too, before your
rurales hear of this trap. For my force is far too small as it is, thanks
to the excellent fighting of you gringoes. Ho! men! come, take these
monkeys from their perch on the pole. We must away with our prisoners.
Come!”

A horde of battle-scarred peons appeared immediately, and with
threatening speech and gestures managed to persuade the two Mexican
linemen to climb down from the pole. Each of the five prisoners
was commanded to mount his horse, then according to José Cerro’s
instructions, peons bound their feet together under the horses’ stomachs
and tied their hands behind their backs. This done the leader gave a
few brief commands and the band started to move, striking off at right
angle to the trail that followed the transmission line. They seemed to be
following an invisible path through the thicket that led into a narrow
ravine between the mountains in the direction of the broad valley where
Los Angeles was located.

But they had hardly left the tiny clearing about the pole when the
figure of an Indian and a tawny hound crept out of the bushes. The redman
was clad only in canvas trousers that were rolled up to his knees, and
his left arm and shoulder was swathed in bandages. A moment he paused
while his black eyes searched the ground and the surrounding shrubbery.
Suddenly he caught sight of the narrow trail left by the cavalcade.

“Ugh,” he grunted, “they have gone toward the sunrise. They have no
horses. We shall easily catch José Cerro.” He paused a moment longer to
examine the trail, then, standing erect, he mused:

“I am right. Only so many horses as I have fingers, no more. Those are
Señor Ryder’s.”

And he disappeared as silently as he came.




CHAPTER XIX

TO THE RESCUE!


It was some time before Jack and the rest of the Americans were able to
make the wounded comfortable in the makeshift hospital. When the task was
accomplished, however, Phil Underwood and Lance Carpenter were put in
permanent charge of the toolhouse. Their first action was to bar everyone
else from entering the building and disturbing their patients.

Since nothing remained for Jack to do but obey these orders, the lad soon
left the place and sought employment with the men who were engaged in
eliminating the evidences of the recent battle from the vicinity of the
power house. In the meantime, however, he kept careful track of the time
and constant watch for some message from Mr. Ryder and the repair crew.

As a result of the industriousness of the regulars, the dead and wounded
were fast being removed from the valley. Those who still showed signs of
life were carried to the toolhouse to be cared for by Phil and Lance. The
dead men were carried into the forest to the west. This puzzled Jack for
he could not understand why graves were not dug in the open. Indeed, he
became so curious about the whole thing that he finally asked Lyman what
the regulars did with the bodies.

“In Mexico,” explained Lyman, “they don’t bother to bury dead men after
a battle. They merely gather them all in one pile, saturate them with
kerosene and touch a match to them. You see, bodies must be removed
quickly in the Tropics or serious disease will be spread immediately. The
funeral pyre is the quickest and best method of avoiding this danger.”

“Goodness, but that’s a gruesome way of caring for the dead. But then, I
suppose, it is best from a sanitary standpoint and it certainly is far
better than leaving the remains for the vultures.”

“Si, señor, it es best zan ze vultures,” said some one in broken English,
and Jack and Lyman turned to find Captain Alvarez, of the rurales,
addressing them. “I hear your remarks what you say about dead mens and I
agree. Fire es best zan ze vultures. Oh; ze vultures zay are ah—what you
call—ah—higeous, eh!”

“Indeed they are hideous. They are the most repulsive creatures I have
ever seen,” said Jack.

“Ah, you are right, Señor Jack, but it is not of vulture I wish to see
you for. It is of my mans Alfonso Perro, the one wiz ze scar foot which
is in ze guardhouse now. We mus give him ze court-martial soon and ze
execution. Also his peon assistant must we shoot. Will you and Señor
Ryder be ready for ze court zis evening?”

“I think so,” replied Jack. “I will be ready and I think Mr. Ryder will—”

“Who is that,” interrupted Lyman, pointing across the clearing in the
direction of the trail that followed the transmission line.

Jack beheld a swarthy, long-haired individual clad only in white trousers
running toward the power plant, a dog loping along at his heels. The
man’s stride was long and regular, like that of an experienced distance
runner, and the lad recognized him immediately as the Indian messenger.

“Why, it’s the runner. I saw him here at the plant only an hour ago. I
wonder where he’s been? I’ll warrant he has word about Mr. Ryder.”

Together Jack and Lyman hurried to greet the messenger who by this time
had crawled under the barbed-wire fence and was swinging up the slope.
But while he was still some distance away he began to call in Spanish.

“What does he say?” queried Jack of Lyman, who had been listening
intently to catch every word.

“Quick, call out the rurales!” replied Lyman; “he says that the repair
crew has been taken prisoners by José Cerro himself!”

“But how does he know? How did he get the information?” demanded Jack.

“Don’t know, he must have slipped out and followed Mr. Ryder and his men.
Hurry, we’ve no time to lose. He will guide us.”

But Captain Alvarez had followed them down the slope and he needed no
persuading. He had understood everything the Indian said and even while
Lyman was urging him to hurry the officer drew a tiny silver whistle
from his pocket and blew three shrill blasts upon it. A moment later an
orderly appeared running toward the commander.

Brief instructions were given and the soldier hurried back toward the
plant again. Five minutes later the clear notes of a bugle echoed and
re-echoed through the valley, calling the troopers to saddle.

By the time the three arrived at the corral the rurales were ready. There
were other horsemen, too, eager to go to the rescue of Mr. Ryder, for the
news had been spread throughout Necaxa and all the Americans who could be
spared and who could find horses or mules to ride upon had gathered with
the troopers.

_Mozos_ found mounts for Jack and Lyman and the Indian runner, and in
less than twenty minutes after Miguel appeared upon the trail the troop
was galloping out of the enclosure and along the path that followed the
transmission lines. Captain Alvarez, the Indian, Jack and Lyman were in
the lead and the rest of the band was strung out behind, their position
depending entirely upon the speed of their horses. And as they galloped
toward the break in the transmission line the wounded Indian explained
how he had left the toolhouse hospital and followed the repair crew at
a distance, hoping to be of assistance in case of trouble. But soon
he began to find traces of the presence of rebels along the trail. He
tried to reach Mr. Ryder and warn him of the ambush, but he said that
the woods in the vicinity of the pole on which the men were working were
so full of José Cerro’s men that he could not get through their lines
without running the risk of being shot. Quietly he waited until he could
be certain of the direction José Cerro and his men would lead their
prisoners. Then he returned to Necaxa as fast as he could run.

[Illustration: “The horsemen in green swept down the valley”]

Half an hour after the rurales left the plant they arrived at the point
where the transmission line was down. Here the Indian dismounted and
looked over the ground carefully.

“They are many peons,” he said laconically to Captain Alvarez as he
remounted and started toward the trail that led into the ravine. In
single file the horsemen followed their guide, for nearly an hour before
they reached the end of the rocky pass, from the mouth of which they
could look down into the broad valley that held Los Angeles. Off in the
distance Jack saw a line of soldiers winding its way toward the little
community.

“There, there, over there! Those are José Cerro’s men with their
prisoners!” exclaimed Captain Alvarez in Spanish. “Come! At them, men!”

The call of the bugle trumpeting the charge sounded through the
valley. José Cerro and his men heard it and began to hurry forward at
double-quick time. But they soon saw that escape was impossible, for the
horsemen rushed down upon them swiftly. All that remained for the peons
to do was stand and fight. Hurriedly they formed a circle about their
prisoners and with guns pointing on every side prepared to repel the
rurales.

The horsemen in green swept down from the ravine ’mid the thunder of
hoofs and the shouts of infuriated men! Indian fashion the squad split, a
wing skirting either side of the valley. On they came firing from their
saddles with carbine or revolver and menacing José Cerro’s men from every
side. But the little knot of peons were courageous. They loaded and fired
in lightning fashion and the rattle of their musketry sounded like a
battery of machine guns in action. They were making a last and desperate
stand and they fought doggedly!

Round and round the little group of men swept the cavalry, making the
circle ever narrower. Jack rode with the rest of them, lying close to his
horse’s neck and firing his revolver. But in the heat of it all he never
took his eyes from the prisoners in the center of the circle of rebels.
There were Mr. Ryder and his assistants exposed to the fire of the men
from the plant. Jack expected to see one of them topple from his horse at
any moment, pierced by the bullets of their friends.

But gradually the nerve of the fighting rebels began to go. Three of them
left their companions and tried to break through the line of horsemen.
Jack saw a rurale ride one of them down. The other two were shot before
they had gone a dozen yards. Two more tried to get through, only to
be trampled down by the flying horsemen. José Cerro and his men were
trapped. There was no way for them to get beyond the circle of horsemen.
Some threw down their arms and cried for mercy while others broke and
ran; ran as far as they could go before a bullet brought them to the
ground or a horse trampled them under foot.

Then in the midst of it all, while Jack was still keeping a watchful eye
on Mr. Ryder, the lad saw the engineer suddenly jerked down from his
mount, and in his place on the horse’s back appeared a wicked-looking
little Mexican. The man set spurs to the horse immediately and tried to
ride through the crush of humans about him. He cursed and shouted for his
men to make way and those who did not move fast enough he beat over the
head with the butt of his revolver.

“Look! look!” shrieked Jack; “their leader is getting away! José Cerro
is escaping!” Then rolling his spurs across his animal’s flanks he gave
chase. But others saw the escaping leader and more than one horseman
turned his mount down the valley after the fleeing rebel.

It was a short race. José Cerro had hardly time to get his steed down to
its pace before Jack and two rurales reached his side. One man seized the
horse’s bridle and threw the animal back up on its haunches. With a curse
the Zapatista drew his revolver. But Jack happened fortunately to be on
the right side of the rebel. His revolver spat fire twice before the
Mexican could raise his arm. José Cerro shrieked with pain. The revolver
dropped from his helpless fingers and he reeled in the saddle. The other
rurale caught him as he was falling and steadied him on the prancing
horse.

The fighting had ceased by this time for most of the peons, seeing
their leader in full flight, had surrendered. The Mexican linemen and
the Americans who were still tied to their horses had been liberated
immediately and the rurales were busy forming the remainder of the rebel
band in a double line and disarming them.

Jack and Mr. Ryder greeted each other warmly when the former drove up,
escorting the wounded leader.

“By George, boy, I’m mighty glad you got the rurales out when you did. It
began to look to us as if we were in for a rather disagreeable time with
José Cerro. José, you know, is a dangerous individual at best, and any
one who is unfortunate enough to become his prisoner is very liable to
suffer.”

“Yes, I am glad I arrived before it was necessary to superintend your
‘decent burial,’ but the credit is not due me. Miguel, our Indian runner,
once more appeared in the nick of time. He saw you leaving for the
mountains and all unknown to us he trailed you. He saw you captured and
hurried back to the plant and spread the news. Where is he now?”

“There he is yonder on his horse, looking like a bronze statue. I’m
going over and shake hands with him. He’s a brave boy,” said Mr. Ryder.

To have the great gringo engineer shake hands with him and compliment
him pleased the Indian runner a great deal in spite of the fact that he
became very self-conscious when Mr. Ryder told him how brave he really
was.

“I’m not brave,” he said in Spanish. “I merely repay a kindness. Also, I
am glad to see José Cerro captured. If he is not killed by the rurales I
myself will kill him for this.” The Indian pointed gravely to his wounded
shoulder as he spoke.

But Mr. Ryder did not hear all that the Indian said for the grounded
transmission line was worrying him. He looked at his watch then hurried
off to where Carroll and several men from the plant were standing.

“Come, we’ve still time to fix up that transmission line before
nightfall. Get the linemen together and we’ll start back through the
ravine. The Indian will lead us and if we hurry we will be able to put
things in condition so that Mexico City can have light to-night.”




CHAPTER XX

“SHOOT! SHOOT!”


It was long after sunrise next morning when the cavalcade of horsemen
and their prisoners appeared at the station. Though the wires had been
restrung and service started at nightfall the previous evening, the
rescuers and rescued as well were too tired even to make the four-mile
ride back to the plant. They had all been without sleep for practically
forty-eight hours and even while the lines were being repaired many
of the rurales tossed themselves on the ground and promptly became
unconscious. The result was a night camp along the transmission line
trail with no guard except that maintained over the prisoners, and this
was hardly necessary for the rebels had been awake as long, if not
longer, than the men from the power house, and were equally as tired.

Necaxa was not awake either when the rurales arrived. Aside from the few
regular soldiers who were doing sentry duty, no one seemed to be stirring
about the little town. The night men, who had been forced to stay awake
longer than the rest, had already left the station and crawled into bed
thoroughly weary. But the clatter of hoofs and the shouts of the soldiers
greeting the returning fighters awakened many of them and attracted the
attention of the men at work in the power station. Soon the community
was alive with curious soldiers and workmen, all eager to hear of the
adventures of Mr. Ryder and his repair crew. But when they saw the line
of prisoners and beheld José Cerro, helpless on a stretcher made of one
of the rurale’s blankets, they cheered lustily, for the capture of the
rebel leader meant that the country was rid of one of its most vicious
bandits.

Arthur Strong, the day operator, was one of the first to greet the
engineer. The moment he heard the soldiers arrive he left the control
room in charge of his assistant and hurried downstairs.

“By Jove, we were mighty pleased to get your telephone message last
night,” he said to Mr. Ryder. “We thought that Cerro had done away with
all of you. I am glad to see you again. You too, Jack, old boy.” Strong
shook hands with his superior as he spoke. “And, say, perhaps you don’t
think we’ve had one fine time around here since you left yesterday
afternoon,” he continued, to Mr. Ryder. “Things nearly went to the devil
until we locked that man Nedham up.”

“Nedham,” exclaimed Mr. Ryder; “what’s he been doing?”

“Doing?” exclaimed Long; “why the man’s been drunk on _pulque_! You know
what that stuff will do with you. I hadn’t seen him since the battle
until last night after the rurales cleared out. About eight o’clock he
came stumbling into the control room. His eyes were bulging out and his
face was red and ugly. I was on duty and I had about made up my mind to
stick through the night, since Lyman had gone with the rescuers. Nedham
came staggering in just when I was busiest. He said _he_ was going to
run the plant for the night. I could see that he was in no shape to run
anything nor to issue orders either, so I told him to get back home and
sleep it off. Then he got ugly. But I knew he was drunk so I did not
bother with him. Then he became insistent and noisy and when he tried to
punch me I had to call in two soldiers. They took him to the guardhouse.
He was in there all last night. This morning I let him out. I think he is
up at his cottage now, very much the worse for his spree.”

“What a fine assistant I have!” said Mr. Ryder sarcastically. “Tell Lyman
to go and rout him out. I want to talk with him.”

While the engineer and the operator were talking, Captain Alvarez and
his rurales arranged their prisoners in line along the south wall of the
power station. This scene had interested Jack far more than the recital
of Nedham’s drunken actions for it began to look to the lad as if a
wholesale slaughter was about to take place.

“Heavens, I hope Captain Alvarez doesn’t intend to execute them all,”
said the youth to Mr. Ryder when the day operator ceased talking. “That
would be hideous. It would be brutal murder. You can’t countenance such
actions, Mr. Ryder?”

“Indeed I can’t,” said the engineer, hurrying toward Captain Alvarez,
“and besides I want to have a word with Cerro before any execution takes
place. I think that man knows some things that will help clear up the
mystery that surrounds all our recent trouble.”

To do justice to the Mexican commander it must be said that he had not
intended to have a wholesale execution. He explained this to Mr. Ryder
quite frankly and stated that he merely intended to make the rebel leader
face the firing squad while his followers looked on. He thought that
it would be a capital way of teaching a lesson. After the execution he
purposed sending the whole horde of prisoners to Mexico City, where they
would be turned over to General Rodriguez to be confined in the military
prison.

“If it is all the same to you,” said Mr. Ryder, “I would like to have a
few words with Cerro before he is shot.”

“Certain,” said the officer, “only et ez not so easy to mek him to talk,
he is ah what you call—ah—to handle hard you know.”

The rebel leader was lying on the ground near the entrance to the
guardhouse. His wounds had been bound up the evening before by one of his
followers, but in spite of all efforts to ease him, it was quite evident
that the man was suffering a great deal.

Mr. Ryder bent over the prostrate form and spoke in Spanish. “José Cerro,
you are going to die. You will soon face the firing squad. Tell me who
would give you three thousand pesos for my capture.” But in spite of his
pain the little black-haired Mexican smiled grimly and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I cannot tell, no, no.”

Mr. Ryder was about to press his question again, however, when Lyman
appeared, leading a very white and very nervous-looking individual whom
Jack recognized as Nedham.

“Here’s your assistant, Mr. Ryder; you said you wanted to see him,” said
Lyman.

But before the engineer could speak Nedham caught sight of the man on the
ground. He shrank back in terror and gasped.

“Oh, it’s José Cerro!”

Mr. Ryder looked searchingly at his trembling assistant, for he could not
understand what made the man so frightened at seeing the wounded rebel
leader. He did not have long to speculate on the reason for such strange
actions, for Captain Alvarez came to speak to him.

“You could no make José speak?” queried the officer.

“No, he refused to answer my questions.”

“Ah-ha, did I not tell you zay all are so like that.” Then turning to
José Cerro, he said in Spanish, “You are to die. Can you stand up to face
the firing squad or must we prop you against the wall?”

“I shall die standing,” said the rebel proudly, “and you shall not
blindfold me either.”

“All right, get up; we have not time to lose, two others are to be shot
after you. Perro, our traitorous rurale, and his peon companion die
to-day,” said Captain Alvarez brutally.

“Carlos! Jesus! come, help your leader to rise; he must die standing,”
called José Cerro to two of the peon prisoners.

The faithful followers left their places and raising the wounded man to
his feet, assisted him to the spot designated by the commander of the
firing squad. That his effort to walk was causing the rebel excruciating
pain was evident from the expression on his face. It took him some time
to limp across the space in front of the firing squad even with the help
of his men.

While he was taking his place before the five executioners, a hush
fell over the scores of men that stood about. Every one was tense and
silent. José Cerro’s attendants shook hands with him solemnly and left
him standing there alone. Slowly the five riflemen brought their guns to
position and took aim. Then just as the officer was raising his sword to
give the firing signal, José Cerro spoke.

“A moment,” he said in Spanish, “just a moment. I wish to speak—”

“No! No! Shoot! Shoot! Don’t let him speak,” screamed a voice in English.

It was Nedham, trembling and on the point of collapse. His face was
distorted with fear and he was forced to cling to Lyman to keep from
falling to the ground.

“So, Señor Nedham, you turn against me now,” hissed the rebel leader.
“You would have me shot without speaking my last words. You thought me
a traitor who would tell your plot. That was not intended. But now I
will tell. Come, Señor Ryder, listen. It was Señor Nedham who plotted
against you. He it was who offered three thousand pesos for your capture,
I—I—was—.” The sentence was cut off abruptly for the wounded man, weak
with the exertion of standing, suddenly pitched forward on his face.

The rebel leader’s two loyal followers hurried to his side to lift him
back up on his feet, but he was only semi-conscious and it was evident to
both that in a few moments more the firing squad would be cheated of its
work.

In the meantime, Nedham, regaining some of his shattered nerve, tried to
bolt through the crowd but Jack and Lyman seized him and threw him to the
ground.

“Hurry, Mr. Ryder, take off his left shoe,” cried Jack. “I have an idea
that this is the man who stole your drawings and tried to wreck the
plant.”

The shoe and stocking were quickly removed and much to the engineer’s
amazement a deep scar was revealed running diagonally across Nedham’s
heel.

“But—but—why I thought we had the man with the scarred heel under
arrest,” said Mr. Ryder thoroughly mystified.

“Yes,” said Jack, “but it flashed upon me a moment ago that the rurale’s
scar was on his right heel, while the scar mark in the dust was on the
left foot. Don’t you remember? Here comes the rurale now, go look for
yourself.”

Two men were leading Perro from the guardhouse toward the firing squad.
He was still barefooted for no one had been considerate enough of his
comfort to return his cavalry boots to him since his arrest.

“Let me see your left heel,” said Mr. Ryder in Spanish, and obediently
the rurale raised his foot.

“By George, there’s no scar there! Is it on the right foot? Let me see!
But it was not necessary for the rurale to raise his right foot for the
scar extended half way up the man’s ankle and was plainly visible from
the right side.

“Well, this came near being a fatal mistake,” exclaimed the engineer.
Then to the rurale in Spanish he said, “I’m glad to know you’re not a
traitor anyway, my man.”

And the Mexican grinned for he could see by the expression on Mr. Ryder’s
face that he was not to be executed.




CHAPTER XXI

“YES, YES, I DID IT!”


Nedham’s _pulque_ drinking had completely shattered his nerves and the
effects of the liquor combined with the revelation of José Cerro had
well nigh made a physical wreck of the assistant engineer. Indeed, as he
stood in the center of the room in Mr. Ryder’s cottage, where he had been
brought by Lyman and Captain Alvarez, he swayed backward and forward,
and if Jack had not brought him a chair in all probability he would have
collapsed completely.

He looked at his inquisitors with staring bloodshot eyes, and his fingers
worked nervously at the buttons on the front of his shirt. His condition
was pitiable and Jack and Mr. Ryder both felt sincerely sorry for him.

“Nedham, where are those plans you stole from my desk! You are the
thief, aren’t you?” demanded Mr. Ryder.

“Plans?” said Nedham, trying his best to feign ignorance. “What plans?
I—I—know—”

“Stop,” roared the engineer, “don’t lie, we know you are the guilty man.”

“I tell you—I—I—Oh, God, yes, yes, I did it! It’s true.” Nedham could
control his shattered nerves no longer. He broke down completely. “I
stole the plans! I stole them! They are under the mattress of my bed!
They’ve been haunting me ever since I took them! Curse the things! If I
had had the courage I’d have burned them long ago! I did the rest too!
I crippled the generators! I smashed the searchlight! I offered the
three thousand pesos for your capture! I did it all—all—and now, thank
goodness, I’ve confessed! It’s all over! The strain! The strain! It was
horrible! I had to get drunk—beastly drunk.”

Thus he raved until he was almost completely exhausted, and his physical
self, unable to bear the strain any longer, caved in completely. His
head dropped forward on his chest and his hands fell helplessly over the
arms of the chair. He was unconscious for nearly a quarter of an hour
and it was only by administering violent restoratives that Jack and the
engineer managed to make the man himself once more.

For some time the four sat staring at the helpless engineer. Finally Mr.
Ryder spoke.

“Why did you do this deviltry, Nedham?” he asked with a trace of
disappointment in his voice.

“I—I—well I was ambitious—and—I guess a little jealous of you too,”
said Nedham weakly. “You know you only beat me out by two points in the
competition for chief engineer and—well—I couldn’t help feeling bitter
toward you. I wanted your job, and I wanted it badly, and from the time
you appointed me your assistant I started to scheme ways of getting you
out.”

“But what good would all your plant-wrecking have done? Why did you put
sand in the generators and disrupt the place in general?” queried the
engineer.

“Well, first off I hoped to frighten you into resigning. I—I—thought
perhaps when you found you had traitors among the men at the plant you
might fear for your own safety and resign, but when I learned how angry
Huerta grew with each new occurrence and how often he called you on
the telephone and raised the devil with you I saw a new way of getting
your job. I concluded that if the trouble was kept up long enough the
President would dismiss you entirely as an incompetent manager and put
me in charge. The day they called you down to Mexico City and had you up
before the directors I felt mighty confident that you would not last long.

“You brought this youngster back with you and from then on my plans
began to go wrong. I saw you two pass the office the first night Jack
was here. I followed you into the generating room and hid behind one of
the machines. I saw you sprinkle the cement dust and I knew you were
setting a trap. But as I watched it suddenly occurred to me that you were
unconsciously giving me a capital opportunity of throwing you off the
trail entirely. Thereafter I decided to work with my feet bared so that
you would think a peon was doing the damage. I forgot completely about
the scar on my heel until it was too late.”

“But the plans; the drawings of the lightning arrester. How did you even
know of their existence? I kept my work on that appliance very secret
indeed,” interrupted Mr. Ryder.

“Well, after I watched you set your trap I followed you back to the
cottage for I was curious to hear what you might have to say about the
situation. I saw the bundle of drawings drop from your shirt. Also I
saw where you put them. And although I did not have the slightest idea
what the plans were about I decided that so long as I had gone that far
I might just as well take a look at your private papers too. I thought
perhaps they were orders or instructions you had received from Huerta
that day.

“I waited until you were both sound asleep, and slipped into the room
and opened your desk. It did not take me long to learn that the papers
were drawings of a lightning arrester of a type I had never seen before.
Then it occurred to me that the appliance was one of your own invention.
I looked for patent marks and could find none and on the impulse of the
moment I slipped the yellow envelope into my pocket and went back to the
plant. I figured that I had made a double coup, for if you were to build
that lightning arrester and install it here you would win the favor of
President Huerta and consequently my efforts would all be wasted. Also I
was dishonest enough to think that perhaps I could easily secure a patent
on the appliance in my own name when I finally got you out of the way.”

“Nedham! I never would believe it of you,” said the engineer
reproachfully.

“Don’t, don’t, please don’t reproach me, Heaven only knows where my
manhood has gone to,” cried Nedham in agony.

“And do you mean to say that you deliberately brought on battle and
caused hundreds of lives to be sacrificed merely to get me out of my
position?” asked Mr. Ryder incredulously.

“Yes, yes, I did. I offered José Cerro three thousand pesos to get you
out of the way. I did not want you killed. No, no, I was not as base as
that. I merely wanted you captured and kept a prisoner so long that when
you were finally released I would be safely intrenched here and in the
favor of the President to such an extent that you could never regain your
position. José Cerro thought an attack the only way to get you, and I
smashed the searchlight and did everything else to help him. Oh, it was
villainous work, I know. Heaven forgive me, I must have been mad.”

The three Americans present were utterly amazed at the man’s treachery,
but Captain Alvarez did not understand fully, for his knowledge of
English was so meager that he could not follow the strange recital in
every detail. When the story was translated for his benefit, however,
his fiery temper became aroused to such a pitch that the three Americans
could hardly restrain him from rushing at the helpless assistant engineer
and beating him senseless with his fist.

“The dog! The traitor!” roared the Mexican in Spanish. “_He_ should be
killed! _He_ should face the firing squad! Come, drag him out! We will
shoot him! We will shoot him!”

“No! no!” shrieked Nedham, a look of horror coming into his ashen face.
“No! no! you cannot kill me! You cannot shoot me! I am an American
citizen!”

“He is right,” said Mr. Ryder. “We cannot execute him without bringing
on international complications that would be distasteful to President
Huerta. No, we can’t shoot him, even though he does deserve it. But we
can expel him from the Republic of Mexico. Put him in the guardhouse,
Captain Alvarez, and this afternoon we will ship him to Mexico City with
the rest of our prisoners. We can turn him over to the authorities there
and request that he be sent out of the country immediately.”

A look of relief spread over Nedham’s face when he heard Mr. Ryder’s
opinion.

“Oh, never fear, I’m only too willing to be quit of this country. I can’t
see how any man can keep straight in this hole of iniquity.”

“It was not a hole of iniquity until treacherous villains of your stamp
came into it,” retorted Mr. Ryder. Then turning to Captain Alvarez
he said, “Call in your trooper and have him taken to the guardhouse.
The train for Mexico City will be made up as soon as possible. In the
meantime you and Lyman stay here and sample one of Tom Why’s excellent
dinners. Things have gone so far to the devil lately that I haven’t had
time to enjoy a good dinner myself. After dinner I’ll accompany you to
Mexico City for I will have to make a report of this whole matter to our
directors. I guess the plant will be safe enough in the hands of my new
assistant, Mr. Lyman.”

The night operator’s face beamed when he heard, thus abruptly, of his
promotion and he blushed like a schoolboy when Jack and Captain Alvarez
congratulated him.

“I envy you,” said Jack Straw heartily, “for there’s nothing I’d like
more than to be connected with a huge generating station like this.”

“Well, we’ve room for a boy here, and we could teach you a great deal
about the electrical industry. Why don’t you apply for a position,” said
Lyman meaningly, at the same time glancing in the direction of Mr. Ryder.

“Oh, no,” said the lad from Vermont, “I’ve already been away from
Drueryville a month and I think it is about time I hurried back. In
fact, I’ve decided to go in on the train this afternoon with Mr. Ryder.
Some day after I have acquired a real training at ‘Sheff.’ or some other
engineering school I may visit Necaxa again. Who knows?”

“Well, if we are still here you can be certain of a welcome, my boy,”
said Mr. Ryder heartily.




CHAPTER XXII

GOOD-BY, NECAXA


The string of flat cars and the snorting steam engine were waiting when
Jack, Mr. Ryder, the new assistant engineer and Captain Alvarez arrived.
Indeed, the soldiers and rurales were already hurrying their prisoners
aboard. Wicked-looking regulars were stationed at each end of the cars
and there appeared to be small chance of any of the peons escaping from
the train during its journey toward the capital.

In half an hour everything was ready. Jack found that a large group of
workmen had gathered to see him depart and he shook hands with each one
of them before he finally swung aboard the platform of the yellow caboose
and took his place beside Mr. Ryder and Captain Alvarez. Slowly the
little train gathered headway and with the cheers of the men ringing in
his ears Jack Straw said good-by to Necaxa. But the string of cars had
scarcely gone two hundred yards when a figure elbowed its way through the
crowd of workmen and soldiers and came swinging down the narrow track at
a rapid pace. His shoulder was bandaged about with white cloth and at
his heels followed a tawny, long-eared hound. It was Miguel, the Indian
runner, and his dog.

After some effort the agile messenger overtook the train and jumped
aboard the steps of the caboose. Hastily he held out his hand toward
Jack and mumbled something in Spanish. The lad from Vermont was greatly
pleased that the redman was so eager to say farewell to him that he
risked jumping aboard the moving train, and he wrung the Indian’s hand
warmly.

“What did he say?” asked Jack of Mr. Ryder when the messenger had swung
to the ground.

“He said ‘I am still in debt to you for saving my dog. Many thanks, many
thanks,’” replied Mr. Ryder.

“Well, it strikes me that he paid that debt off several times during the
last few days,” laughed Jack as he waved to the Indian who remained
standing in the center of the track watching the departing cars.

The news of the battle and the treachery of Nedham at Necaxa reached the
capital over the long-distance telephone wire long before the train with
the prisoners arrived and when Jack and Mr. Ryder entered the American
Hotel after Nedham and the rest of the prisoners had been turned over to
the proper authorities, they found the evening papers crowded with the
news. Pictures of the prisoners that had been brought in, pen sketches of
the battle and photographs of the plant at Necaxa occupied the front page
of the dailies and scare headlines fairly shouted the details attending
the capture of José Cerro and his band. Fortunately one of the papers
printed an American as well as a Mexican edition and Jack was able to
read the full account of his own adventures.

The capture of José Cerro was the subject of conversation in the
dining-room of the hotel that evening too, and many of Mr. Ryder’s
friends sought him out and congratulated him on the successful way in
which he had handled things at Necaxa through all the trouble. Indeed,
after a time the publicity that they were attracting became distasteful
to the two Americans and they made haste to finish their meal.

But just as they were leaving the dining-room a tall sun tanned
individual rushed up and clapping Mr. Ryder on the shoulder fairly
shouted:

“Why, Harry Ryder, you old fighting engineer, I am glad to see you alive
after such a mixup. And as I live here is my young friend, Jack Straw.”
Jack instantly recognized the man as Mr. Warner, the marine engineer whom
he had met on board the _Yucatan_ on his way south to Vera Cruz. The
lad was more than pleased to see Mr. Warner once more and shook hands
cordially.

“Hello there, Jim Warner!” exclaimed Mr. Ryder; “what the dickens are you
doing down in this part of the world?”

“Why, I’ve been tinkering with the old Lobo’s Island Light for nearly
a month. To tell you the truth, I’ve just finished the job and knowing
that you were within a few hundred miles of me I decided to run in to
see you. I was going out to Necaxa to-morrow and spend a week or two
with you, but unfortunately that can’t be done for I’ve just received
a telegram from Washington instructing me to go ahead with a mighty
big undertaking I’ve been figuring on. I’ll have to hustle back to the
coast immediately. And in view of the fact that you have been having
quite a fuss out there I’m rather glad my plans have been changed. I’m
not hankering to be drilled through by a soft-nosed bullet just now,”
concluded Mr. Warner with a smile.

“Oh! you would soon get used to those little things,” said Jack
banteringly.

“I suppose so,” replied the marine engineer. “You must have had rather an
adventurous month there.”

“Indeed I did,” answered Jack.

“Well, how would you like to have another month of thrills? If you feel
inclined that way, come along with me. If you don’t fight men you’ll
fight the elements. I am going to cruise the high seas for Uncle Sam.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Jack, “but I am going north on the next
steamer from Vera Cruz.”

“So am I, and we’ll get a chance to talk it over anyway,” said Mr. Warner.


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