Biggles in Mexico

by W E Johns

  This may have saved his life. It did not take the gang long to realize they had been tricked and the bushes on the line Ginger had taken were slashed with bullets. They all went over him. The instant the shooting stopped he sprang to his feet to go on, only to stumble and fall again as an excruciating pain shot up his leg. He had to clench his teeth to prevent a cry. He knew what had happened.

  If he hadn’t broken his ankle he had sprained it badly.

  He managed to crawl a little way, the dead cactus thorns with which the ground was covered running into his hands. The underbrush thickened and he could get no farther. Sick with pain he sank down and lay still.

  He was still too near the men to risk the slightest movement, for in the profound silence of the desert any sound would be heard. Sometimes the men moved. They were very close. Sometimes they stood still, apparently listening. One of them said: ‘I think we got him. I heard him fall. He can’t be far away.’

  ‘We’d better make sure,’ came in Schultz’s deep, guttural voice. ‘Shoot at anything that moves.’

  Footsteps approached, slowly, cautiously. Sometimes a dry twig would crack.

  All Ginger could do was he still, flat on the ground, holding his breath.

  * * *

  1 Small donkey.

  CHAPTER 16

  WHAT BIGGLES WAS DOING

  TAKING the short cuts José drove Biggles back to Eltora with all possible speed. Throughout the journey Biggles kept a look-out for Ginger, but knowing that his chances of finding him in such a vast area were remote he did not go out of his way to look for him. The vegetation was often sparse, but there were places where it was high enough to conceal a man behind it. He saw neither Ginger nor the Cadillac.

  They cruised down the hill into Eltora. Again Biggles looked eagerly for Ginger or the Cadillac. He could see neither. The implication was that the blue car had stopped somewhere between Sonoyta and Eltora. As José remarked, why they did not see it was understandable. They had taken a different route — the short cuts.

  At the inn Biggles sought Pepe for information. What he learned relieved him, but also astounded him. Ginger had been back. He had arrived tired, thirsty and hungry. Pepe had made him one of his best Spanish omelettes. The last he had seen of him he was resting on the patio. Pepe shrugged expressive shoulders. Where he had gone after that he didn’t know.

  Biggles was completely mystified. What could Ginger be doing? The only place he could think of was the villa. He got José to drive him to Los Palmeras. Ginger wasn’t there. No one was there. Not even Nifty. What to do next Biggles didn’t know.

  José said the brake needed petrol so they drove back to Lorenzo’s store. There the mystery of Ginger’s disappearance was solved.

  Lorenzo said he had seen Ginger on the patio. He appeared to be asleep when the Cadillac drove up. The men in it had spoken to Ginger who had gone with them to the car. The car had then driven off in the direction of the border. Lorenzo remarked that he thought there was something strange about the way this was done. Ginger had behaved as if he didn’t want to get in the car, but had been pushed in. Lorenzo hadn’t actually seen any weapons used.

  ‘Have you seen Brabinsky?’ asked Biggles.

  Lorenzo said no. He had not been in the car.

  Biggles was seriously alarmed. ‘You can see what’s happened,’ he told José. ‘The Cadillac, not seeing Ginger on the road, came back here. They found him on the patio. No doubt they asked him where he had left Brabinsky’s car. He must have refused to tell them, whereupon they forced him to go with them to show them the place. Knowing nothing about the diamonds being in the car he might, under pressure, show them where it was.’

  ‘We had better go back over the road to see if we can find them,’ offered José. ‘We shall have to go back to watch for the plane.’

  ‘I’m taking up a lot of your time,’ said Biggles, apologetically.

  José smiled. ‘Time is of no importance. It is in a good cause.’

  ‘It’s a good cause where Ginger is concerned,’ declared Biggles. ‘If Schultz gets the diamonds he’s likely to shoot him, in which case we’d never find him. What on earth could have happened to Brabinsky, I wonder?’

  ‘They must either have shot him or abandoned him on the mesa,’ offered José.

  They got back into the brake.

  ‘This time we stay on the road,’ said Jose, as they set off. ‘If the Cadillac is on the road we must see it.’

  With every mile covered Biggles’ alarm mounted. They did not see the Cadillac, the reason being, of course, that it had been parked off the road, and out of sight of it. But Biggles was not to know that, and a fear grew on him that Ginger had already been shot and the Cadillac was now well on its way to Sonoyta with the diamonds. But the gems had become secondary. It was Ginger he was worried about.

  Several times José stopped the brake to enable Biggles to survey the landscape from the roof. But it was all in vain.

  ‘We had better get a bit nearer the border,’ he said, after one such fruitless reconnaissance. ‘Then we shall see the plane when it arrives. It might be here any time now. We’ll watch it. That seems to be about all we can do.’

  José agreed.

  They had gone on a few more miles, still searching, when a lonely figure appeared on the sandy trail ahead. It resolved itself into a man with a donkey, plodding across the waste.

  ‘An American prospector going home,’ guessed José, correctly. ‘We get a few of them here, looking for gold, but they seldom find any.’

  ‘He may know something.’

  ‘I’ll stop and ask him.’

  The old man told them all he knew, but it did little to clear the air and it certainly did nothing to relieve Biggles’ anxiety. He said earlier in the day he had seen a young man walking along the road to Eltora. He had given him a drink. Then a big blue car had come along heading in the same direction. The driver asked him if he had seen anyone on the road and he had answered yes; there was a feller walking to Eltora. That, really, was as much as he knew.

  The prospector and his burro continued their long walk to the border leaving Biggles standing beside the brake. What had happened on the road that morning was now apparent. Ginger had had a breakdown. He had abandoned the Overland somewhere in the chaparral and had walked back to the village.

  ‘What would you like me to do now?’ asked José.

  ‘Unless you can think of anything better we might as well wait here for the plane to arrive,’ replied Biggles. ‘Whichever way we go we could be wrong. The plane is our only chance. If there is anything moving in that blistering desert my friends shouldn’t have much difficulty in spotting it.’

  Shortly after this a distant purr announced the arrival of the aircraft, which Biggles saw was a Piper Cub. Forthwith it commenced quartering the ground on both sides of the road, and it wasn’t long before it spotted the brake and flew low over it. A figure waved. Biggles waved back, and made a signal with his hands to indicate that Ginger had not been found.

  The light plane resumed its criss-cross flight, up and down, then on a little way and across again, its altitude varying between five hundred and a thousand feet. All Biggles could do was stand and watch it, or walk beside the brake as Jose moved on from time to time to keep level with the aircraft. This went on for some time, hopes sinking as the day wore on. The search could not go on indefinitely. Assuming that the plane had started from a point far beyond the frontier it would soon be running short of fuel; it would have to keep enough in hand to get back to its base.

  Suddenly the Cub slipped off some height and began circling.

  ‘They’ve seen him,’ cried Biggles, galvanized into action.

  The little machine came droning towards them. Approaching, the engine was cut, and as it passed low over the brake at little more than stalling speed a small white object came hurtling down to bounce on the road. Biggles ran to it and picked it up. It was a piece of paper — a used envelope addressed to Bertie to be prec
ise — with two English pennies to give it weight. On it a message had been scrawled. For José’s benefit Biggles read it aloud: ‘Party of five in gulley. Car there. Half mile from road. Will mark again, then home. Petrol low.’

  Biggles waved to the banking plane to show that he understood.

  The machine flew out again, circled twice, and then stood away to the north.

  Said José: ‘He must mean the arroyo that flattens out as it crosses the road about a mile on from here. Our best plan would be to drive on to it, then get out and follow it. In that way we can’t miss them.’

  ‘You know best,’ returned Biggles. ‘There are five of them. I take that to mean Brabinsky’s with them. Let’s go.’

  The brake raced on to where, looking like a dry river bed, the arroyo crossed the road. José drove as far as he could into the chaparral to leave the road clear. They jumped out and set off at a fast walk up the sandy bottom of the cutting. This went deeper into the ground as they advanced so they were unable to see anything outside it. Not that it mattered if the party was actually in the arroyo. The heat was overwhelming, although José, accustomed to such conditions, may have felt it less than Biggles, who, having been out in the sun all day, was approaching a state of nervous exhaustion. Their feet made no sound on the soft sand, and for this reason a short sharp fusillade of gun-shots came plainly to their ears.

  Biggles looked at José. ‘They’ve shot him,’ he said through his teeth, and broke into a run.

  In a few minutes, rounding a bend, they saw the car. There was no one with it. At least, no one alive. But as they ran up they saw a body face down on the sand. Biggles dashed up to it. ‘Brabinsky,’ he said, with a deep breath of relief.

  He made a quick examination of the body. ‘Shot through the back. He must have been running away. No diamonds. No money.’ He took a German automatic from Ritzy’s pocket. ‘Queer. He didn’t even try to defend himself. I’ll keep this. I may need it.’

  ‘Caramba! Look what they’ve done to the car!’ exclaimed José. ‘They’ve even cut the tyres to pieces.’

  ‘I can see what’s happened here,’ asserted Biggles. ‘The diamonds were in the car. Only Brabinsky knew where. He wouldn’t tell them, so they tore the car to pieces and then shot him so they wouldn’t have to pay him. In that way Schultz gets the diamonds and the money. They must now be making for the road.’

  This was a reasonable theory, but it was not entirely correct.

  ‘The easiest way to the road would be up the arroyo,’ Jose pointed out. ‘Why didn’t they go that way?’

  ‘They may be making direct for their car. It can’t be far off. Let’s see if we can see them.’ So saying Biggles scrambled up the bank to the lip of the arroyo and looked around. ‘Not a sign of ‘em,’ he muttered. ‘Where can they be? They can’t have gone far.’

  ‘It’s unlikely you’d see them if they were walking through the chaparral,’ said Jose, joining him. ‘One must get above it. Wait a minute.’ He ran to a ridge of out-cropping rock and clambered to the top. ‘I see them,’ he called, pointing. ‘Four of them. As you thought, making for the road.’ He jumped down.

  ‘How far away are they?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘They’re nearly there.’

  ‘Let’s get after them,’ said Biggles, tersely.

  ‘If the Cadillac is there we shall be too late,’ observed José. ‘They’ve got a long start.’

  Biggles didn’t answer. He realized only too well that what José had said was true, but they could at least try. It was all they could do.

  They set off again, dodging in and out through the chaparral at a speed that even sent the sweat pouring down the face of the acclimatized Mexican. To make matters more difficult the light was beginning to fail. Biggles expected every second to hear the Cadillac start, and although he didn’t hear it, in his heart he felt sure it must have gone.

  They still hadn’t heard it when they came to within sight of the road. Common sense now counselled prudence. Ignoring thorns Biggles climbed on the stump of a fallen saguaro and to his unspeakable relief saw the blue top of the Cadillac, in the chaparral a little distance off the road, not far away.

  In the deepening twilight they approached it cautiously, guns in hand, listening at intervals for the sound of voices. They heard none. And when presently they walked up to the car they saw no one with it.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ said Biggles, quietly. ‘What can they be doing?’

  ‘Maybe they can’t find the car. They may have struck the road at the wrong place. But they’re bound to come back here sooner or later. I’d say our best plan is to wait for them, or we might miss them in the dark. One can’t see far even on the road in this light.’

  Biggles agreed, although in his anxiety he was by no means convinced they were doing the right thing.

  Presently, as they stood there in the sultry silence, listening intently, there came a sudden shout, followed immediately by a volley of pistol shots. The noise was comparatively close.

  Without a word Biggles ran out on to the road. He looked up and down. There was no one in sight. He raced in the direction from which the shots had come, and as he ran he shouted: ‘Ginger! Where are you?’

  Ginger heard him but he daren’t answer. Schultz was too close. A sound, he thought, would bring more shots. He could hear stealthy movements in the mesquit. His nerves tingled when there was a sudden rush, a shot, the crash of a falling body, then more furtive movements in the underbrush. Footsteps pattered softly on the dusty road, running. They stopped. Again came Biggles’ voice, very close. ‘Ginger! Where are you?’

  Fearing he might go past Ginger took a chance and shouted: ‘Here I am. Be careful. Schultz —’

  The rest of what he was going to say was lost in such a scream of terror that in spite of the heat Ginger’s blood ran cold. What had caused it he couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Where are you?’ came Biggles’ voice again, from a few yards away.

  ‘I’m here. On the ground,’ answered Ginger. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle.’ Swaying unsteadily he managed to get to his feet.

  ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ said Biggles, fervently, as he joined him. ‘What was that shooting about?’

  ‘The first shots were at me,’ said Ginger. ‘I don’t know about that last single shot. The bullet didn’t come near me.’

  ‘Where’s Schultz?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he must be somewhere about. They were all here a moment ago so watch out.’

  ‘Let’s get on the road and see what’s happening.’

  With an arm round Ginger’s shoulders Biggles was helping him through the chaparral when from the direction of the road came two shots in quick succession — unmistakeably the crack of an automatic and the heavier report of a revolver.

  ‘That must be José,’ remarked Biggles. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘That last single shot came from about here,’ said Ginger. ‘What are you looking at?’

  Biggles had stopped, staring, peering forward at something on the ground. ‘Just a minute,’ he muttered ‘There’s somebody here.’ Still peering, he moved forward a little. ‘What the— My gosh! It’s Schultz,’ he ejaculated. ‘He looks like a goner. Did you shoot him?’

  ‘I couldn’t shoot anybody. I haven’t a gun,’ reminded Ginger.

  ‘Of course. I forgot. Then Schultz must have been shot by one of his pals, by accident. Or was it an accident? Stand fast.’ Biggles knelt by the body. After a short pause he went on: ‘He hasn’t got the diamonds on him.’

  ‘He’s never had them. He couldn’t find them.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘One of the others was carrying the portfolio. The money was in it.’

  Biggles stood up. ‘Let’s get to the road,’ he said shortly.

  When they reached it there were two figures on it. One, standing, was José. The other lay on the ground, the portfolio beside it.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ asked Biggles.
r />   José pointed to the prone figure. ‘This one ran out of the brush. When he saw me he pulled a gun. We both fired. I shot him.’

  ‘There’s another. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No. But I heard a scream. He must still be in the chaparral.’

  ‘He’ll make for the Cadillac,’ said Biggles. ‘We’d better get to it in case — listen!’

  From somewhere in the bushes, near at hand, came the sound of a man moaning.

  ‘It sounds as if he’s been shot too,’ said Biggles.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ returned José. ‘A man who’s been shot doesn’t moan like that. I’ve heard that noise before.’

  Biggles started forward. ‘I’d better go and see —’

  José caught him by the arm. ‘Don’t go in there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It may be a trick, but I think that man’s been struck by a snake. It may still be about.’

  ‘You mean — he might have stepped on one?’

  ‘It can easily happen. There are plenty of them.’

  As they listened again, Ginger sank down, exhausted. The moaning had stopped. Instead, there were sounds as if someone was dragging himself through the brush. A man appeared, swaying. He staggered a few yards and fell flat. In a weak voice he gasped, ‘Help me. I’ve been bitten by a snake.’

  José went forward. ‘Where did it bite you?’

  ‘In the leg.’

  Jose whipped out a knife. He had to slit the trousers, so badly was the leg already swollen. He did what he could, lacerating the punctures; but blood refused to flow freely. He looked at Biggles and grimaced, shaking his head.

  ‘Is there any serum in Eltora?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No. There’s no doctor. He’d be dead before we could get him there, anyway.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do?’