Down at the ravine, stretched out
at full length beneath the shade of a great tree,
Bert and Tom were watching the progress of the work,
as it slowly neared completion. There was more
to do than was at first thought, but after making
allowance for this, it seemed to drag on endlessly.
“Not much genius in that crowd, I imagine,”
said Bert.
“What do you mean?” asked Tom, looking
up in surprise.
“Why,” returned Bert,
“I forget what philosopher it was Carlyle,
I think who says in one of his books that
’genius is only an infinite capacity for hard
work.’ You don’t see much of it straying
around loose here, do you?”
“Well no,” laughed Tom,
“not so that you would notice it. I’ve
just been looking at that fellow over there with a
hammer. I’ll bet I could take a nap in
the time it takes him to drive a nail.”
“They ought to have as foreman
one of those husky, bull-necked fellows I’ve
seen in some of the section gangs laying out a railroad
in the Northwest,” went on Bert. “Those
fellows are ’steam engines in breeches.’
There isn’t much loafing or lying down on the
job when they’re around. When they speak,
the men jump as though they were shot.”
“Yes,” answered Tom, “or
perhaps a mate on a Mississippi steamboat would fill
the bill. Those colored roustabouts certainly
get a move on when they feel his gimlet eye boring
through them.”
“After all, I suppose the climate
is a good deal to blame,” mused Bert. “It’s
hard to show much ginger when you feel as though you
were working in a Turkish bath.”
“Right you are,” responded
Tom. “We fellows born and bred in a cold
climate don’t realize how lucky we are.
It’s the fight with old mother nature that
brings out all that’s strong and tough in a man.
I guess if the old Pilgrim Fathers had landed at
Vera Cruz instead of on the ’stern and rock-bound
coast’ of New England they’d have become
lotus eaters too.”
“Well, that’s what we’re
getting to be already,” said Bert with a yawn,
“and if I lie here much longer I’ll strike
my roots into the bank.”
“Sure enough,” assented
Tom, “here we are talking about the laziness
of these fellows, but I don’t see that we’re
wearing any medals for energy.”
“Energy,” drawled Bert.
“Where have I heard that word before.
It sounds familiar, but I wouldn’t recognize
it if I saw it. I don’t believe there
is any such thing south of the Rio Grande.”
“Come, wake up,” retorted
Tom. “Get out of your trance. I’ll
tell you what I’ll do. Do you see that
tree up there? I’ll race you to it.
That is, if you give me a handicap.”
“Done,” said Bert, who
could never resist a challenge. “How much
do you want?”
“How about a hundred feet?
That oughtn’t to be too much for a Marathon
winner to give a dub like me.”
“You don’t want much,
do you?” laughed Bert. “Your nerve
hasn’t suffered from the heat. But get
your lead and I’ll start from scratch.”
Tom, quick as a cat, was not to be
despised. On more than one occasion he had circled
the bases in fifteen seconds. But he was no match
for the fellow who at the Olympic games had won the
Marathon race from the greatest runners of the world.
For a little he seemed to hold his own, but when
Bert once got into his stride that space-devouring
lope that fairly burned up the ground it
was “all over but the shouting.”
He collared Tom fifty feet from the tree and cantered
in an easy winner.
Tom had “bellows to mend”
and was perspiring profusely, but to Bert it had simply
been an “exercise gallop” and he had never
turned a hair.
“Well, you got me all right,”
admitted Tom disgustedly. “I’ve got
no license to run with you under any conditions.
But at any rate the run has waked me up. I’ve
lost some of my wind, but I’ve got back my self-respect.
But now let’s go and hunt Dick up. I wonder
where he is anyway.”
“Probably stretched out on a
couple of seats and taking a snooze,” guessed
Bert. “I’ll bet he’s lazier
even than we are, and that’s saying a good deal.”
“Well, let’s rout him out,” said
Tom. “Come along.”
But when they reached their section
of the car, Dick was nowhere to be seen.
“Taking a snack in the buffet,
perhaps,” suggested Bert. “There’s
something uncanny about that appetite of his.
I’d hate to have him as a steady boarder.”
But here their search was equally
unavailing. The attendant at the buffet did
not remember having seen any one of his description
lately.
“Great Scott,” ejaculated
Tom. “Where is the old rascal anyway?”
Bert bent his brows in a puzzled frown.
It certainly did seem a little queer.
“He must be close by somewhere,”
he said slowly. “He can’t have vanished
into the thin air. Perhaps the porters or the
train men have seen something of him.”
With a growing sense of uneasiness
they went from car to car, but the mystery remained
unsolved until they reached the engineer.
“Sure,” replied that worthy,
“I know who you mean. He was talking to
me alongside the engine here.”
“How long ago?” asked Bert, anxiously.
“O, it must be all of two hours,”
was the reply. “I remember it was just
a little while after the train stopped. When
he left me he started up that road,” pointing
to the path beside the track. “Said he
was going to stretch his legs a little.”
“Two hours ago!” exclaimed Bert.
“And not back yet!” cried Tom.
The boys looked at each other and in their eyes a
great fear was dawning.
“O, I guess he’s all right,”
said the engineer, “though he certainly was
taking chances if he went very far. Things are
rather risky around here just now, and it’s
good dope not to get too far away from the train unless
you’re pretty well ‘heeled’ and
have got some friends along.”
But his last words fell upon unheeding
ears. With a bound, Bert was back in the car,
closely followed by Tom. They rummaged hastily
in their bags until they found their Colt revolvers the
good old .45s that had done them such good service
in their fight with the pirates off the Chinese coast.
Not a word was spoken. There was no time for
talk and each knew what was passing in the mind of
the other. Dick was gone dear old
Dick and at this very moment was perhaps
in deadly peril. There were only two things to
be done. If he were alive, they would find him.
If he were dead, they would avenge him.
That they were taking their own lives
in their hands in the effort to aid their comrade
did not even occur to them. It seemed the simplest
thing in the world. It was not even a problem.
Not for a moment did they weigh the cost. Were
they hucksters to split hairs, to measure chances,
when their comrade’s life hung in the balance?
As for the risks well, let them come.
They had faced death before and won out. Perhaps
they would again. If not there were
worse things than death. At least they could
die like men.
They thrust their weapons in their
belt, threw a handful of cartridges in either pocket,
leaped from the car and started on a run up the road.
As they ran, they gathered speed.
The road fell away like a white ribbon behind them.
The wind whistled in their ears. The canter
they had already indulged in had put them in form
and their anxiety gave wings to their feet.
No time to spare themselves when every minute was
precious fraught with the chances of life
or death. More than once they had run for glory now
perhaps they were running for a life. And at
the thought they quickened their pace until they were
fairly flying.
Their keen eyes scanned each side
of the path for some sign of Dick’s presence,
but not until they came to the turn in the road was
their search rewarded. Then they stopped abruptly.
Something had happened here.
There were no signs of a struggle, but the ground
was torn up as though by the pawing of horses.
The upturned earth was fresh at the edges and the
prints of hoofs could be clearly seen. A bit
of cloth fluttered on a tree and a broken strap lay
on the ground. An ace of spades near by made
it look as though a card game had been suddenly interrupted
and this impression gathered force from the presence
of an empty bottle that still smelled strongly of mescal,
the villainous whisky of the Mexicans.
Like hounds on the scent the boys
circled round the spot, trying to get the meaning
of the signs. Their experience in camping had
made them the keenest kind of woodmen and they could
read the forest like an open book. Bert’s
sharp eyes caught sight of the bark of a sapling freshly
gnawed. By its height from the ground he knew
at once that this had been made by the teeth of a
broncho. The mark of a strap a little lower
down showed that the beast had been tethered there.
All around the clearing he went, until he had satisfied
himself that at least twenty horses had been standing
there a little while before.
Tom in the meantime had been studying
the hoofprints. One of them especially arrested
his attention. He followed the trail some hundred
feet and came running back to Bert.
“One of those horses has carried
double,” he panted. “See how much
deeper and sharper his prints are than the others.
And though he started off among the first he soon
came back to the rear. The others with a lighter
load got on faster.”
Bert hastily confirmed this conclusion.
There was no longer any room for doubt. They
saw the whole scene now as clearly as though they had
been on the spot when it happened. Dick had
come unexpectedly and unarmed upon this band of guérillas.
They had at least been twenty to one, and he had
had not the ghost of a chance. They had carried
him off into the mountains. For what purpose?
God only knew.
But at least they had spared his life.
There was still a chance. While there was life
there was hope. And they would never leave the
trail until that last spark of hope had gone out in
utter darkness.
Now that they had fully settled in
their own minds just what had happened, the next thing
in order was to plan the rescue. And this promised
to be a tremendous task. The chances were all
against them. They had no delusions on that score.
The odds of twenty to two were enormous. Mere
courage was not enough to settle the problem.
With a heart of a lion they must have the cunning
of a fox.
The boys sat down on the grassy bank
and cudgeled their brains. The fierce excitement
of the last few minutes had gone down, to be replaced
by a steady flame of resolution. Bert’s
mental processes were quick as lightning. He
could not only do, but plan. It was this instant
perception and clear insight, as well as his pluck
and muscle, that had made him a natural leader and
won him the unquestioned position he held among his
friends and comrades. Like a flash he reviewed
in his mind the various plans that occurred to him,
dismissing this, amending that, until out of the turmoil
of his thoughts he had reached a definite conclusion.
He lifted his head from his hands
and in short crisp sentences sketched out his purpose.
“Now, Tom,” he said, “we’ve
got to work harder and quicker than we ever did before.
Here’s the game. Make tracks for the train.
It must be pretty nearly ready to move now.
Go through Dick’s bag and get his revolver.
It may come in handy later on. Grab another
big bunch of cartridges. Get the pocket compass
out of my valise. Go into the buffet and cram
your pockets full of bread and meat. We might
shoot small game enough to keep us alive, but shooting
makes a noise.
“Do these things first of all,
and then hunt up Melton. You know whom I mean that
cattleman from Montana that we were talking to yesterday.
He’s a good fellow and a game sport. He
told me he was going to Montillo on business connected
with his ranch. That’s the first station
on the other side of the bridge. The train will
be there in an hour. Tell Melton the fix we’re
in. He’s chased outlaws himself and he’ll
understand. Ask him to go to the American Consul
the minute he gets to Montillo and put it up to him
that American citizens need help and need it quick.
It’s an important town and we’ll probably
have a consul there. If not, ask Melton to put
the facts before the Mexican authorities. They
don’t love Americans very much, but they’re
a little afraid that the Washington people may mix
in here, and they may not want to get in bad with
them. Besides they hate the guérillas just
about as much as we do. Anyway we’ll have
to take the chance.”
“How about following the trail?”
suggested Tom. “There are plenty of bloodhounds
around. They use them to chase the péons
and Yaquis. Shall I ask Melton to send some
along if he can?”
“No,” replied Bert.
“I thought of that, but their baying might give
us away. If they suspect pursuit, they might
kill Dick and scatter before we could get to them.
You and I are woodmen enough to follow a trail made
by twenty horses. If there were only one they
might get away with it, but not when there are so
many. Now get a move on, old man. I’ll
wait for you here studying the signs, and we’ll
start as soon as you get back. If reinforcements
catch up to us, all right. If we can get Dick
without them so much the better. If not, they’ll
help us later on.”
Without another word Tom leaped to
his feet and was off down the road like the flight
of an arrow.