A Perilous Mission
As though nature repented of being too generous in the matter of
sunshiny days, there came a depressing period of rain and fog during
which the plane lay idle and the boys fumed in their restlessness. Had
it not been for radio they might have done something desperate in their
quest for excitement. As it was, there was the never-ending fascination
of snatching messages, some trivial, some amusing or romantic, some
weighted with affairs of international importance, from the overcrowded
ether. One of the chief charms of radio was its unexpectedness. One
never knew when clapping the ear phones to expectant ears what new
surprise might be in store.
And then, of course, there was always the music—good music for pleasant
days, jazz for rainy weather. No matter how much they might become
accustomed to the modern miracle, the thrill was never absent from the
fact that, by merely turning a knob, one might tune in upon any kind of
amusement desired. Talk about the Arabian Nights—!
Steve was always tinkering with his receiving set and although his
apparatus was remarkably efficient he never seemed quite satisfied with
the results.
“I get just fine results from nearby stations,” he was complaining on
one of these rainy afternoons when the boys, bent earnestly over his
set, were examining it minutely to see if they could suggest any
improvements. “But when it comes to distance, in spite of the most
careful tuning, and I’ve spent hours over it, I can’t seem to catch a
really clear message. And if a set isn’t good for distance then, I ask
you, what good is it, at all?” he added, standing off and viewing his
handiwork with a rueful mixture of affection and disgust.
“Say,” remarked Tom, glancing up at him with a grin, “I’d sure like to
be in on the rumpus if any of us started to knock your apparatus.”
“Yes, how do you get that way?” Dick wanted to know. “I’ve seldom seen a
classier bit of mechanism.”
Steve flushed at this whole-souled praise, but he still protested
dissatisfaction with the results.
“It won’t pick up messages at a distance—not clearly, that is,” he
persisted.
“There’s nothing the matter with this set, old fellow,” said Phil,
thoughtfully. “You’re getting the very best results possible with the
receiving circuit you’re using.”
“The circuit I’m using,” repeated Steve, mystified. “Why, I’m using the
only one known.”
“Till recently, yes,” nodded Phil, while the others stopped tinkering
and stared at him in surprised interest. “Didn’t you read about that new
contrivance that was demonstrated in New York, the other day?”
The boys shook their heads. They were still mystified, but their
interest was unfeigned.
“Shoot,” demanded Dick.
“If you know anything, spill it,” added Tom with a grin.
“Oh, keep still and give the boy a chance,” Steve demanded impatiently.
“You mean there has been a new discovery, Phil?”
The latter nodded, his eyes kindling with interest in the subject.
“It’s a new regenerative circuit,” he explained. “From the account of it
in the paper, it must be a pippin. I think they’ve dubbed it the ‘Super
Regenerative Circuit.’”
“Gee, that sounds like the right kind of medicine for me,” cried Steve
joyfully. “Just what does this ‘super’ do?”
“We-el, I’m not overly clear on the subject, myself,” said Phil. “But
from the newspaper description of it, I reckon it just about does
everything on the calendar, in the amplification line, that is.
Armstrong claims that a message from a distant broadcasting station, so
faint, as to be barely heard when the ordinary regenerative circuit is
used, can, by the use of the ‘super’, be amplified so as to be heard
distinctly in every part of a large room. Now, if you were to ask me,
that’s some classy amplification.”
“I’ll say so,” agreed Dick, his keen mind already occupied with the
possibilities of this new discovery. “Armstrong was the fellow who
invented the present regenerative circuit, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Phil, adding approvingly, “There’s nothing slow about that
boy.”
“You said it,” said Tom, with a sigh. “Wonder why we couldn’t all have
been born with brains like that.”
“Speak for yourself, old timer,” grinned Steve, adding, as he turned
eagerly to Phil, “Such a circuit would sure solve my problem, Phil. But
I suppose it would be harder to operate than the one we have.”
“No, it isn’t, that’s just the beauty of it,” said Phil,
enthusiastically. “Armstrong declares it’s easier of operation than the
old regenerative circuit. He claims, too, that the invention will
eventually do away with the outside aerial. In his demonstration, he
used only a small loop.”
“That sure would be a big advantage, too,” said Dick. “The regular
aerial surely has caused a great deal of trouble.”
“I wonder,” said Steve, a contemplative eye upon his set, “when I could
get this wonder-working contrivance. It sure would be one joy to me.”
“They will probably be in general use before long,” suggested Phil, “and
then you could either buy the apparatus or model one of your own on the
same plan.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait,” admitted Steve grudgingly. So
accustomed was he to modern miracles, that it seemed to him as though
the apparatus he so ardently desired must be wafted to him on some magic
Hertzian waves, to be delivered, ready for use, on the table before him!
After a while, since the weather showed no signs of clearing, and
becoming tired of tinkering, the boys clapped on the head phones and
prepared for an interesting hour or two of “listening in.”
They listened to a bit of good music, tuned in on a minstrel show,
listened to some more or less interesting weather reports—they would
have been more interesting, if they had been more hopeful—heard some
distinctly uninteresting stock quotations and then, suddenly—a message
in a familiar tone that made them sit up and stare at each other.
It was Doc. Denby’s voice announcing to all who might be interested and
hoping, of course, that the message would reach the boys, that the trial
of the two thieves who had been caught in the bank robbery, had been set
for an early date. Only a little over a week from that time.
Then the voice ceased to be replaced by others that held no interest. As
though by common consent the boys removed their headphones,
congratulating themselves that they had been lucky enough to catch Doc.
Denby’s message.
“They ought to hang those fellows,” said Dick, scowling as he remembered
how close his father had come to being killed. “They should treat a
thief just as they do a murderer, for every thief is ready to murder if
he finds himself cornered.”
“Well, I’ll be satisfied if they get a jail sentence, provided it’s long
enough,” said Tom. “I wish the cops had managed to wing a couple more of
them, just the same, when they had the chance,” he added bloodthirstily.
“It does make your blood boil to think of the other scoundrels,
especially that fellow Muggs Murray with the scar, getting off scot
free,” agreed Phil, adding confidently, “Never mind, we’ll get ’em,
yet.”
It was a few days later when Captain Bradley summoned Phil and told him
that he wanted him to go on a mission for him to another camp of Rangers
about fifteen miles distant.
Phil fairly leapt at the chance and Captain Bradley smiled at his
enthusiasm.
“Nothing can scare you fellows, that’s one sure thing,” he said
approvingly. “I’ve had plenty of daredevils in my command before, but
none of them ever ate up danger quite the way you boys do. And there is
danger too, plenty of it,” he said, more seriously. “Espato’s gang is on
the rampage. They’re out for blood. These darn Mexicans are regular man
eaters when they get going—”
“And they’re ‘going’ most of the time,” interjected Phil, with a smile.
“Right,” laughed the Captain. “Whatever else we may have against them,
we can’t complain that they’re slow. Well, now you know that there is
plenty of danger mixed up in this canter of yours and I want you to take
every possible precaution.”
“I will,” Phil assured him. “They’ll have to get up early in the morning
to catch me.”
And so, fully forewarned of the perils before him, Phil started off one
sunshiny morning, with the affectionate farewells of his friends ringing
in his ears. If he had any doubts of the successful outcome of his
mission, he was certainly not aware of them. He was conscious, mostly,
of being sorry for the boys because they had to stay at home.
They had asked permission to accompany him but Captain Bradley had
refused, on the ground that one rider could get through where three or
four could not.
“A company would attract attention—and probable disaster—not only to
themselves,” so he explained to them, “but to the message which it is
most important that I get through to Major Gaynor,” the latter
commanding the neighboring camp of Rangers, “without delay. I’m sorry to
disappoint you lads, for I know what joy it would be to you to go
but—you see how it is.”
The fact that they “saw” did not keep them from being considerably
disgruntled. They were apprehensive, too, for Phil’s safety.
“If he gets spotted by a band of those guerrillas,” grumbled Dick, “he
won’t have one chance in a hundred of getting out of it alive. I don’t
care what the Captain says, I believe in the safety of numbers.”
“But the message—” began Steve.
“Oh,” said Dick impolitely, “Hang the message!”
However, as far as any danger was concerned, Phil might have been
cantering along a bridle path in his beloved Castleton. His horse, a
beautiful big bay, was possessed of a steady, apparently easy going
stride which, nevertheless, ate up the miles with surprising rapidity.
He passed some rangers on the way whom he saluted easily, but not a
Mexican of any kind did he see. Mixed with relief over this fact, was a
queer disappointment. The journey was not living up to its reputation,
as far as danger was concerned. If he could have looked ahead for only a
few hours into the future—but then, perhaps, it was just as well that he
couldn’t.
By noon time he had reached the ranger camp. He handed the message to
Major Gaynor,—a weather-beaten old soldier who had seen many long years
of guerrilla warfare,—with a tremendous feeling of relief. He had
accomplished his mission, anyway and now, if anything happened to him it
would be his own affair.
The rangers received him like a long lost brother and insisted that he
should stay and have some “chow” with them. This they had little trouble
in persuading him to do for he was nearly famished and the smell of
cooking things from the mess tent was irresistible.
And after “chow” he lingered, so interested in the merry stories of camp
life bandied about by the fellows that it was with surprise and a bit of
consternation that he realized the afternoon was “getting on.” And not
even Phil was anxious to ride far in the Mexican country after dark.
His new-found friends, flung jolly farewells after him, mingled with
advice as to how to find the shortest way back to camp. Phil shouted his
answers and then urged on his horse, determined to reach his destination
before nightfall.
His horse had been well fed and cared for and the two or three hours
rest bore fruit now in his speed. He put out at a great rate and
probably everything would have been well had not Phil, in some way or
other, mistaken his path. Probably the many suggestions of the rangers
had confused him. At any rate, he did mistake the way and spent an hour
or two of fruitless wandering before he struck the right path again. And
when he once more started for camp, the shadows were lengthening in the
west.
Dusk was almost upon him, when, riding as noiselessly as he could
through the trees, he was startled when a sudden turn in the path
disclosed a fire deep in the woods. It was evidently a camp fire for it
burned with a steady glare.
“A meeting place for some of Espato’s band,” thought Phil, checking his
horse and trying to peer deeper into the gloom. As his eyes became
better accustomed to the glare of the fire he thought he could
distinguish figures grouped about it.
Swinging quietly to the ground, he tethered his horse to a tree. Then,
with as much caution as a native “Mex”, he crept forward toward the
light among the trees.