The horses plunged forward and clattered down the hillside.
Geisler watched them till a bend in the road below hid them from view. Then he turned slowly to reenter the stockade.
"Py chiminy," he muttered, emitting huge clouds of blue smoke, "I dink me dere vos a vood-pile in dot nigger, py cracious."
CHAPTER XXII.
AT ROSARIO STATION.
The dull gray of the dawn was illuminating the east, and the breath of the morning astir in the tree-tops, when Bill Whiting, station agent at Rosario, began to bestir himself. The station agent was not about so early on account of passengers that might be expected by an early train—for the excellent reason that there was no morning train. Since fighting had begun in Chihuahua, schedules had, to quote Bill, "gone to pot." On a sidetrack lay a locomotive, smokeless and inert, just as her crew had abandoned her. Some loaded freight cars, their contents untouched, likewise stood on the spur. That Bill Whiting, however, meant to guard the railroad's property, was evidenced by the fact that strapped to his waist was a portly revolver, while a rifle lay handy in the ticket office, in which, since the outbreak of trouble, he had watched and slept and cooked.
Bill's first task, after tumbling out of his blankets and washing his face in a tin basin standing in one corner of the office, was to tap the telegraph key. The instrument gave out a lifeless "tick-tick."
"No juice—blazes!" grunted Bill, and, being a philosophical young man, he bothered himself no more about the matter, and went about getting his breakfast.
In the midst of his preparations, however, he suddenly straightened up and listened intently. To hear better, he even shoved aside the sizzling frying-pan from its position over one burner of his kerosene stove. What had attracted his attention was a distant sound—faint at first, but momentarily growing nearer.
"Blazes!" muttered Bill, scratching his head, and making for a rear window, which commanded a view of the long, white road. "What's that, I wonder? Sounds like a sick cow."
He gazed out of the window earnestly, and then suddenly recoiled with a startled exclamation.
"Blazes! It ain't no cow. It's an automobubble. Yes, sir, as sure as you live, it's a bubble. Whose can it be? Maybe it's old man Stetson's himself."
Chugging in a spasmodic sort of way, the car drew nearer, and the station agent now saw that there were several people in it.
"Looks like that car is spavined, or something," commented Bill. "Why, it's regularly limping; yes, sir—blazes!—it's limping, fer a fact."
Buck Bradley's auto was, in fact, at almost its "last gasp." Ralph's temporary repair had not lasted any longer than he had expected. Fortunately, at the time it gave out, the insurrectos had apparently given up the chase, and the party was not far from the hacienda of a friend of the genial Buck. At his suggestion, therefore, they diverted from their road to the mine, and swung off to this house. Here a hasty meal and a warm welcome were enjoyed, and Ralph set the car in order as best he could. Buck's friend, however, had news for them. He had heard that there was an encampment of regulars at Rosario, from which it was only a short run by rail to the branch on which the Esmeralda was located.
This information caused the party to change their plans. With the car in the condition in which it was, they doubted whether it would be possible to travel over the rough roads intervening between themselves and the mine. On the other hand, Rosario was not far off, and on a smooth, hard highway. If the information of Buck Bradley's friend was correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the regulars were camped at Rosario guarding the line. What more easy than to explain their case to the leader of the Mexican regulars, and steal a march on the insurrectos by reaching the Esmeralda first by rail, and wiping out the band of Madero?
But, alas for human plans! The party in the auto was doomed to bitter disappointment. As they approached, and no camp was to be seen, they began to realize that their information had been inaccurate. Bill Whiting speedily clinched all doubt in the matter.
"Say, my friend," hailed Buck Bradley, as the agent emerged from his shack, "where are the soldiers?"
"You mean the greaser regulars?" was the rejoinder. "Blazes, they went off yesterday. Had a tip where Madero was, and they are after him, hot-foot, I reckon."
The boys exchanged despondent glances. Here was a fine end to their high hopes. The Esmeralda was now farther off than ever, and the auto was hopelessly crippled. One tire was worn almost to ribbons, a rim had been sprung, and two spark plugs had cracked. Every one of the party realized, as the car stopped with a sigh, that it couldn't move again until a tall lot of overhauling had been done.
"Anything I can do to help yer?" volunteered Bill, noting the woebegone faces of his countrymen.
"Nothing, son, unless you've got a wire working," sputtered Buck, who, as he did with everything, had gone into this matter, heart and soul.
"Wire!" echoed the station agent, "why, blazes, I couldn't put through a tap fer Diaz himself. The wire went dead two days ago, and I've been on my own hook since."
"What was the last word you had?" asked Jack, thinking, perhaps, that they might have some information in regard to affairs at the mine.
The agent dived into his pocket and fished out a yellow paper.
"Here it is," he exclaimed, "and it's signed by 'King Pin' Stetson himself: 'Keep freight moving at all hazards.'"
"It's signed by Mr. Stetson, you say?" exclaimed Ralph eagerly.
"Sure. He's the main boss on this road, you know, and——"
"I know, I know!" cried Ralph eagerly, "but is he here across the border?"
"Huh? Not he. He's in the best hotel in El Paso, consulting and smoking two-bit seegars. But my job's here, and here I stick."
But Ralph and Jack had not heard this speech. A light shone in the Eastern boy's eyes, the light of a great idea.
"There's a locomotive yonder, Jack," he whispered. "I can run one. I learned one summer when pop took me over the Squantock and Port Gloster line. You said there was a branch connecting with the Esmeralda. Why can't we go by rail?"
"By ginger, Ralph! Have you got the nerve?"
"Look at me."
Jack regarded his comrade an instant. There wasn't a flicker of an eyelash to show that Ralph was the least bit nervous. The experiences of the last few days had taught him much.
While Bill Whiting regarded them curiously, Jack hastily told the others of what Ralph had proposed.
"That appeals ter me as a ring-tailed roarer of a good idee," announced Buck Bradley, when he had finished.
"Waal, I'm more used ter doin' my fightin' ahorseback than from a loco, but I guess it goes here," chimed in Pete.
"An eminently sensible suggestion," was the professor's contribution. The maimed ankle of the man of science was now almost well, and, as he put it, he was "restored to his customary salubriosity."
"Then, all we've got to do, is to get permission to take the locomotive," declared Jack. He turned to Bill Whiting, who had been eyeing them curiously.
"We've got to get through to the Esmeralda mine," he said. "Our auto is broken down, and yet the fate of the mine, and perhaps the lives of its defenders, hang upon our arrival there as soon as possible. Have we your authority to run the locomotive through?"
"Say, son," drawled Bill Whiting, "put on your brakes. That's a compound, and even supposing I could let you take her, how would you run her?"
"There's a boy here who can run her all right," cried Jack impatiently. "All we need to have is your authority."
Bill Whiting shook his head.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't know you, and that loco's railroad property. I'm responsible fer it. Suppose you'd ditch her? No—blazes!—it wouldn't do at all."
"I'll give yer a hundred dollars gold fer two hours use uv that ingine," cried Buck Bradley.
"No good," declared Bill, shaking his head; "it's railroad property. I've got my job to look after, even if Chihuahua is turned inside out."
"But this is a matter of
the utmost urgency," argued Jack. "Listen."
He rapidly detailed the outlines of their situation to the agent. The man was obdurate, however.
"Couldn't nobody touch that ingine but old man Stetson himself."
"How about his son?" Ralph's voice rang out clearly above the excited tones of the others.
"Waal, I reckon he could, but he ain't here."
"He isn't, eh?" demanded Ralph, hopping out of the tonneau, "well, my name happens to be Ralph Stetson."
"Oh, quit joking. You're Americans, like myself, and I'd like ter help you out, but I can't do it."
"Will you give me a chance to prove to you I'm Ralph Stetson?" asked Ralph eagerly.
"Sure; a dozen, if yer want 'em," grinned the agent, gazing at the ragged, tattered figure before him.
Ralph dived into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of letters and papers. Motioning the agent to sit beside him at the edge of the platform, he skimmed through them for the other's benefit. The group in the auto watched anxiously. A whole lot depended on Ralph's proving his identity.
"Say, blazes!" burst out the agent suddenly, "you are Ralph Stetson, ain't you?"
"I think those letters and papers prove it," answered the boy. "Now, do we get that loco?"
"I reckon so, if you say so. But, will you sign a paper, releasing me of responsibility?"
With what speed that paper was signed, may be imagined. In the meantime, Buck Bradley, who knew a thing or two about railroading himself, had his coat off, and was hard at work waking up the banked fires. Presently the forced draught began to roar, and black smoke to roll from the smoke-stack. By the time the auto had been wheeled in under a shed, and Bill Whiting asked to communicate with the government troops as soon as possible, all was ready for the start.
The engine was trembling under a good head of steam, white jets gushing from her safety valves.
"All ab-o-a-r-d!" yelled Pete, in the manner of a conductor, and Buck Bradley, who had stepped off after his labors to cool up a bit, began to climb back again.
"Why, are you going with us, Mr. Bradley?" demanded Jack amazedly. "What about your show?"
"Oh, Sam Stow kin look after that," was the easy rejoinder. "It won't be the first time. I've worked long enough; now I'm off for a little play."
"Won't be much play about it, I'm thinking," grunted Pete.
The engine bell clanged, a hoarse shriek came from her whistle, and the wheels began to revolve. Ralph was at the throttle, while Bill Whiting was up ahead to throw the switch.
"Good luck!" he cried, waving his hand as the locomotive swept by and rolled out upon the main line.
"Good-by!" cried the crowd of adventurers in the cab, waving their hands back at him.
Buck threw the furnace door open, and sent a big shovelful of coal skittering into the glaring interior. The cumbrous machine gave a leap forward, like a scared greyhound, as Ralph jerked the throttle open.
The Border Boys were off on what was to prove one of the most adventurous incidents of their lives.
CHAPTER XXIII.
JACK MERRILL'S "SPECIAL."
The landscape swam by, the telegraph poles flashed past, as the flying locomotive gained headway. The ponderous compound jolted and swung along over the rough tracks like a ship in a stormy sea. But the thrill of adventure, the buoyant sense of facing a big enterprise, rendered the lads oblivious to everything but the track ahead.
From time to time, Buck Bradley stopped his shoveling, and, holding by a hand-rail, leaned far out from the footplate, scanning the metals that stretched out in two parallel lines ahead.
"Be like them varmints to hev blown up a bridge, or spiked a track," he muttered.
All eyes were now on the alert for the first sight of the red-brick station—the only one on the line—which Bill Whiting had told them marked the Esmeralda switch. As yet it had not come into view, but they judged it must be around a curve which lay ahead, the far side of which was hidden from them by a clump of woods. Suddenly, from this clump emerged a figure, waving a red flag. He stopped in the middle of the track, waving his flag frantically.
"Shut down!" yelled Buck. "There's danger ahead!"
"Looks more like a trick, to me," growled the wary Coyote Pete.
"Can't afford to take chances," rejoined Buck. "How do we know what's the tother side of that curve?"
"That's so," agreed Pete; "them critters might hev planted a ton of dynamite there, fer all we know."
The brakes ground down, and the panting locomotive came to a stop within a few feet of the man with the red flag. It could now be seen that he was a small, dark Mexican, wearing a high-crowned hat.
"Why, I know that fellow, he——" began Ralph. But his recognition of the fellow, whom he had seen in Madero's camp, came too late.
From the woods ahead of them, a perfect hailstorm of bullets began to spit about the engine. Fortunately, none of the occupants of her cab were struck, although the windows were splintered and the woodwork honeycombed.
"Go ahead!" roared Buck.
"What if they've torn up the track?" gasped Ralph.
"Not likely. If they had, they wouldn't be bothering to shoot at us. Let her out. Ouch!"
A bullet whizzed past the burly showman's ear, and just nicked the tip of it.
With a roar of rage, like the bellowings of an angry bull, he leaned his huge form out of the window and began pumping lead from his revolver into the woods. It is doubtful if his fire had any effect, but at that minute Ralph started the engine up again. A yell came from the Mexicans within the wood, as he did so. A hundred or more poured out, firing as they came.
"Duck, everybody!" yelled Coyote Pete, as the storm broke.
A tempest of lead rattled about the engine, but, thanks to the protection of the steel cab, not one of the crouching occupants was hurt. Almost before they realized it, they had swung around the curve, and were safe. As Buck Bradley had surmised, no attempt had been made to wreck the track beyond, the insurrectos having counted, seemingly, on stopping the dash for the Esmeralda by their ambush in the wood.
[Illustration: A tempest of lead rattled about the engine.
Almost before they realised it, they had swung around the curve.]
"Consarn their yellow hides," grunted Pete, "that shows they kep' closer tabs on us then we knew. I reckon they was scared to follow us to Rosario, thinking, like we did, that the regulars was there. Waal, that was a neat little surprise party, but it didn't work."
Round the curve they tore, at a hair-raising gait, but the engine stuck to the metals. Ten minutes later a cheer went up, as the red-brick station, which they knew must mark the Esmeralda switch, came in sight.
"I got the switch key from Whiting," cried Buck, as they reached the switch, "I'll throw it."
He swung himself down from the cab, and ran rapidly ahead, down the track, to the switch lever. As he bent over it, from a clump of bushes near by, there leaped a score or more of men.
"Buck! Buck!" yelled Coyote Pete.
The big fellow looked up just in time. The foremost of his attackers was upon him as he threw the switch over. Buck picked him up, and fairly pitched the little Mexican over his head. The man fell in a heap at one side of the track.
"Come ahead!" bawled Buck, while the others hesitated and held back.
Ralph started the engine up, and it rolled toward the switch points. This seemed to wake the hesitating Mexicans to life. With a yell, they made a concerted rush for Buck, but, as they did so, Ralph pulled the whistlecord, and the locomotive emitted an ear-splitting screech. The Mexicans hastily jumped aside, to avoid being run down, while Buck made a leap to exactly the opposite side of the track. As the engine puffed by, he swung on. As he did so, however, one of the yellow men made a spring for the switch. It was his evident intention to throw it, while the engine was passing over it, and ditch them.
But, before he could carry out his intention, Jack, who had seen what was about to happen, had snatched up a hunk of coal. With
all his force, he aimed it at the fellow, and struck him fair and square on the head. The would-be train-wrecker toppled backward with a groan, just escaping the wheels of the engine. Before he gathered himself up and realized what had hit him, the engine was roaring and puffing its way up the grade to the Esmeralda.
"That shows us what we may expect at the mine," commented Jack. "I hope they are still all right."
"Don't worry about that, boy," comforted Buck, noting his troubled face. "The fact that Madero had his men along the line shows that he anticipated our game—like the shrewd ruffian he is. It stands to reason he couldn't have his precious squadron, or column, or whatever he calls it, in two places at once, so I guess we'll be in time yet."
"I hope so, I'm sure," breathed Jack. "If we failed now, it would be the bitterest moment of my life."
But, as they came in sight of the tall stockade and the smokeless chimneys of the Esmeralda, they saw that their apprehensions were groundless. No sign of life appeared about the mine buildings. But presently, in answer to a long blast on the whistle, a strange figure came toddling out of the gate. It was that of Geisler. As he saw the engine, with its load of friendly faces, he broke into a cheer, and ran toward the track side.
"Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!" he yelled, waving his china-bowled pipe about his head. "Diss iss der bestest thing I've seen since I had idt der Cherman measles, alretty yet."
As the brakes ground down, and with a mighty exhalation of steam and a sigh from the air-brakes, the locomotive came to a stop, Jack leaped from the cab and ran toward the German. To his astonishment, Geisler almost recoiled as he drew near, and uttered a shout.
"Donner blitzen! I voss righdt den, idt vos a trap dot dose rascals laid."
"What do you mean, Mr. Geisler? Where is my father?" gasped Jack, all in one breath.
"Himmel!" sputtered the German. "Oh, diss is an onloocky day, py chiminy. A young feller rode it to der mine, early to-day, undt told your fader dot you vos wounded, and——"
The Border Boys Across the Frontier Page 13
