BOB HAS AN IDEA.
From that ordeal Bob sat back with a smile of triumph upon his face. Hot
it was, beastly hot, and the very tautness of his nerves during the time
when he had sought unavailingly to gain the attention of the American
aviation field had brought out the perspiration stinging on his body.
But he had succeeded, he had gained the ear of a wireless operator and
help had been promised him in as short a time as it would take to
journey in high-powered motor cars to his present whereabouts.
Therefore, he could afford to forget the wretched discomfort of his
body, and did so.
Why he had used the Morse code he could not have told. Something had
impelled him to do so, some warning or inner prompting not to call in
English lest, perchance, there should be someone tuning in on the
Mexican side of the Border who would hear and understand. A certain risk
he must run in using Morse, yet a considerably lessened risk.
And at any rate, he had been understood. His message of pleading had
been received at the flying field. Of that he was certain. And now help
would come, help for the rescuing of his comrade from the sinister house
into which he had been dragged.
But how long before the American aviators, rushing to the rescue, would
arrive? They had said no time would be wasted in attempts to obtain the
aid of the police of Nueva Laredo, but that they would come post haste.
Yet still a measure of time must intervene. The flying field was some
miles distant from Laredo. There might be delays at the Bridge. Bob’s
smile of triumph slowly faded to give way to a look of worry.
Young Juan Salazar watched him with puzzled frown all this while. He was
too polite, seeing Bob’s pre-occupation, to interrupt with questions.
But they crowded to his lips. There were so many things that he wanted
to know. This likable young American was in trouble, his companion in
worse case. And Juan had a healthy boy’s curiosity to learn all about
it. Yet still Bob sat silent, his eyes bent in a growing frown upon the
floor, and still Juan held his peace while the flies buzzed in the
unscreened room for all its cleanliness. Until at length the younger lad
no longer could restrain himself and cried out:
“Senor, can you not trust me? What has happened?”
At that Bob woke with a start from his moodiness and looked at Juan a
long minute while the thoughts upon which he had been pondering dropped
into the background. Could the boy be trusted? There was a ring of
sincerity in his tone, an honest scorn in his references earlier to the
house which harbored Ramirez. Yes, he could be trusted. So then Bob got
up from his chair and strode to the door, and back again, and once more
sat down in an endeavor to still the nervousness preying upon him.
If there were only something he could do, he thought, to while away the
dragging minutes before help could arrive. And at that he leaped from
his chair with a sharp exclamation. There was something he could do; of
a certainty, there was. And what was more, it was something which ought
to be done. Fool that he was not to have thought of it earlier?
“Juan,” he exclaimed sharply, “we are in trouble of the worst sort. You
have been a good lad and have helped me much with permission to use your
radio. Are you willing now to help more?”
“Trust me,” said Juan, drawing himself up proudly. “You are in trouble.
And if I can be of help—”
“You can, indeed,” Bob interrupted. “Listen. This is a mess. It’s too
long to explain now. We would waste valuable moments in doing so. Juan,
there are evil men in that house. They have captured my companion and
dragged him within. Me they did not see. I do not believe they know I am
in the vicinity. My friend is an American Army aviator. I have called
for others who will be here shortly from the Laredo flying field. I gave
them your address, and directed them to approach by the Avenue of the
Presidents.
“Attend now,” he said sharply. “Until they come we must keep watch to
see whether anyone leaves that house. There are two entrances: the front
of the house and this secret tunnel through the deserted house on the
Avenue of the Presidents of which you have told me. I shall return to
the corner of Calle Libertad and keep watch upon the front of the house,
and do you post yourself so as to command a view of the secret exit.
“And now let us go. We have wasted too much time already. They may
already have gone. Though, if their automobile is still before the
house, I shall feel fairly assured that they are still within.”
And concluding, Bob took young Juan by an arm and firing a piercing gaze
upon the other’s flushed face, demanded:
“Will you do it?”
“Oh, yes, Senor.”
“Then, come, let us go.”
“But,” Juan frowned deprecatingly.
“But what?”
“The rescuers. If they come—”
“They will come by the Avenue of the Presidents. You must hail them and
bring them here and summon me. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Senor.”
“Then go. And I’ll take up my position.” And hurrying Juan with him, Bob
flung out of the house. The lad sprang one way and Bob another, and both
ran along the deserted street without anyone to observe them or to
marvel at this strange haste on a day so hot that even the scattered
pepper and madrona trees, the dust of the roadway, and the drowsing mean
little houses seemed cooked into lifelessness.
Back at his corner Bob peered forth with beating heart, eager to see if
the car was still there, fearful of finding it gone. Had the latter been
the case, he would have been at a loss, indeed, to know what next to do.
Poor lad, it had all come upon him so suddenly that he was filled with
self-reproaches and revilings. But the car still stood at the curb, and
there was no more sign of life along the Calle Libertad than on that
street at his back.
So then he crouched there by the corner of the mud-walled house and gave
himself up thoroughly and completely to bitter reflections. The role in
which he found himself was one altogether new. Many a time had he been
in tight places with his comrades, Frank and Jack. In fact, wherever
they went and whatever they did, trouble seemed to follow them as
inevitably as tides beat on the shore. But never that he could recall
had he been placed in a passive position. And big Bob, who was not given
overly much to deep thought, but was accustomed when in difficulties to
hew his way out by main strength or at least to make the attempt so to
do, groaned aloud.
The next moment he looked around fearfully, to see if he had been
overheard. His nerves were jumpy. This atmosphere of the dead was
getting on him. Especially, when he knew that all was not as quiet and
deserted as the appearance of the streets would seem to give warrant.
There was at least one house in which lurked sinister men. And if in
one, why not in another?
But nothing not seen before met his gaze, and once more he returned to
his vigil, while once more his thoughts played with the subject. Should
he have let Captain Cornell venture forth alone upon his stroll past the
house beyond? When the flyer was struck down without chance to offer a
blow in self-defense, should he have gone forward as he had started to
do and make attempt at rescue? Had he been coward to halt and turn back?
But here good sense came to the fore and assured him that he had done
the wisest thing. And good sense argued, moreover, that he had done
more—he had, in fact, done the very wisest thing possible under the
circumstances in calling the aviation field by radio.
And so, somewhat heartened, he turned his thoughts to speculation upon
what mischief Ramirez intended. What was going on in that shuttered
house of the Japanese? Where was Don Ferdinand and had evil befallen
him? What had betrayed Captain Cornell to his undoing? Had he said
something which aroused the suspicion of Ramirez, causing the latter to
signal his men to fell the flyer? Had Ramirez seen and recognized them
at the bull fight, and, recalling that, on beholding Captain Cornell
face to face, struck on the impulse? He could not know, and shrugged.
These were questions that would have to await developments for answer.
And so he stood and watched the length of the street, and wiped the
sweat from his face from time to time, while his thoughts raced on their
futile questionings. Every now and then he would look at his watch, and
each time he would marvel anew at the slow and dragging passage of the
minutes. It was not yet time for Captain Murray to arrive. Not by any
possibility could he have covered the miles so quickly.
Yet Bob was fretting at the delay. What if Ramirez emerged before
Murray’s arrival? And started to depart? Bob could not halt him single
handed? And if he took with him Captain Cornell, perhaps bound and
gagged, what track of them could Bob keep? The flivver, yes, the
flivver. He could and would follow in that, provided they did not pass
from sight before he could get to where it was parked on the back
street. But even then, the damage would be great. If Ramirez should go
any considerable distance, if, for instance, he should elect to go into
the country—to some hiding place—how track him without discovery?
All he could do was hope that help would arrive before any possible
departure of Ramirez. And while he was thinking upon this, there came to
him suddenly the suspicion that Ramirez might suspect he was under
surveillance and might leave the automobile before the house as a blind
and quietly withdraw with his captive by means of the secret exit. True,
young Juan kept watch there. But if that happened, if Ramirez should
seek thus to escape, would Juan be able to bring him warning in time for
him to take the trail?
He turned at the thought, glancing up the street at his back. And his
heart gave a bound, then seemed to stop, then raced on. And he groaned
once more aloud. For down the street, pelting as hard as he could come,
raced Juan Salazar. There was only one conclusion to be drawn and, as
that took shape in his thoughts, Bob deserted his post and began running
wildly to meet the Mexican lad. Nor for a moment did he note that behind
the boy and close upon his heels came another figure, rounding the
distant corner.