A SKIRMISH AT AGUAS GRANDES
“I don’t trust that greaser that’s guarding the south gate of the
stockade,” objected Hike.
“He? Why he’s one of the safest men I’ve got,” laughed Lieutenant
Adeler.
They were making a tour of inspection, about the high fence of
close-set barb-wire that had been built around the buildings of
Adeler’s ranch. They were dressed like cowpunchers, in furry chaps
and sombreros.
“What about his having a brother who’s with Welch?”
“Oh, I know about that, of course. Why, he’s spoken to me of that
brother a dozen times—sometimes with tears in his eyes.”
“I wouldn’t depend much on his tears,” insisted Hike. “And last night
I saw him talking to a fellow that was sneaking around outside the
rancho, and that fellow looked so much like him that I’d bet anything
that he was his brother.”
“Oh, I can’t believe he’d be treacherous,” said Adeler. “He’s been
with me for nearly ten years, now. Besides, he knows which side his
bread is buttered on. If he got kicked out of here, what could he do?”
“But I thought you said that most all of these greasers thought
they’d be generals or presidents if the revolution succeeded,
Lieutenant.”
“Yes, but not Pedro. He’s too wise, I’m certain.”
For once, Hike disagreed with the Lieutenant, and determined to watch
Pedro. That evening, when most of the men had gone to bed, Hike crept
out and squatted in a corner by the lean-to grub-shanty, wrapped in
a cloak. The moonlight made the desolate adobe building look like
mounds of silver, and bunches of sage-brush like a fairy city. He
could see Pedro, at the south gate, yawning and stretching; for he
had been asleep all day, preparing for his night-watch. Hike watched
quietly, but grew drowsier and drowsier.
Once, he thought he heard a noise near the machine-gun, which, with
its cartridge-boxes, was mounted on a platform in the center of the
ranch-yard. He even crept out of his nook, a little, keeping out of
Pedro’s sight. But there was no sign of any one near the gun, and,
after this false alarm, he let himself drowse off more than ever.
He found himself springing bolt upright, staring at—what? He was
still half asleep. Had he been having a nightmare? He patted his
eyes with his finger-tips; then left his hand in the air, as though
he had forgotten it there; staring at the south gate. It was quietly
swinging open, and through it slipped men in uniforms.
Instantly Hike yelled “Insurrectos! Insurrectos! Attack!”
There was a sound of shouting and alarm in the ranch houses, as
Adeler’s men woke up.
But the men creeping in at the gate were alarmed, too. Instantly
they rushed into the ranch-yard, fully fifty of them, and toward the
machine-gun. They climbed the platform, and loaded the gun into a
cart.
In their midst Hike saw a man in uniform, with two revolvers. It was
Willoughby Welch, once a real captain.
The insurrectos dashed toward the gate, with the gun, Hike ran after
them, firing at Welch. He saw Welch rub his leg, as if winged, then
swing about, still running, and fire.
A bullet clipped a lock of Hike’s hair. He stopped, for a dozen
insurrectos were facing about. Then, behind him, sounded Jack
Adeler’s voice, “Come _on_!” and the patter of a dozen men running.
At their head, Hike raced on, with Adeler. But by the time they
reached the gate the insurrectos were off, on horseback, with the gun
driven among them, in a fast light cart. Their shadows were already
flashing along the moon-lit surface of the desert, among the thick
gray patches of sage-brush and sparse grass.
With the Lieutenant, Hike rushed to the stables, and the men saddled
at fever-heat. Not a word was heard, except “Where’s my bridle?”
“Tony, gimme some shells.” The bunch all swung to saddle, and went
galloping out of the ranch gate, slanting through it like a train on
a curve, firing at the retreating insurrectos.
The Mexicans had stopped and formed about the cart, as a barricade.
With rifles resting on the cart, they returned the fire. Tony Peries,
at Hike’s side, silently dropped off his horse. A party of twenty
insurrectos darted out from their main bunch and circled.
“Back!” shrieked the Lieutenant. “Back, I tell you. We’ll get
surrounded. They’re cutting us off.”
“Aw—” came a yowl of protest from his men; but they turned and rode
back to the ranch, as Adeler savagely shrieked “Back, I tell you,”
again.
Once inside the gate, they surrounded him, begging “Aw, let us at
’em.”
“_No!_” snorted Jack. “I’m not leading any moving-picture-show
charge. It’d be nice for all of us to get killed, ’cept that
after that the insurrectos could do anything they wanted to. And
they’d kill us, all right. They’re fifty to fifteen. And they
ain’t fakers—they’re Welch’s Terrors—all of them horse-thieves or
murderers, and all of them can ride. Ready now; they’ll be shelling
us with our own machine-gun. Or no—they didn’t get the shells!
Hurray, we surprised them before they could take anything but the
gun! Who gave that quick alarm? Whoever did—”
“It was Mr. Griffin,” said the man who had been on guard at the east
gate.
“Great! Hike,” declared the Lieutenant. “You saved us from losing
shells, and all—if it hadn’t been for that alarm we’d be getting our
own shells, right now.”
“Please,” said a greaser, “I shoot Pedro—he let in the insurrectos.”
“All right—bury him to-morrow,” said Adeler.
That was the end of the traitor.... Hike had seen him, cold and
stiff, lying by the south gate, as they charged back into the
ranch-yard. He felt that Pedro’s death had been necessary, but it
gave him a feeling of cold horror, just the same.... Pedro had been
such a cheerful handsome Mexican, so much alive, waving his hands,
laughing with dark, beautiful eyes, twisting his neat mustache, just
a few hours earlier. He laid up that death not to Pedro but to Welch,
and Welch’s men, who had tempted Pedro; and he wanted to see this
band of robbers ended, now and here.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “let me fly over to Torreas in the _Hustle_
and get another machine-gun. We can surprise the greasers with it,
and end this.”
“I wish you could, old Hike,” mourned the Lieutenant, “but there’s
less than a quart of gasoline on the place. Barry is bringing
some more, on a pack mule, and if he gets through the line of the
insurrectos— Anyway, let’s wait till to-morrow, and see what we can
do.”
Hike feared that Jack Adeler meant Barry was not very likely to get
through; but he said nothing.
All that night, the ranch-yard was in a state of real siege. No one
slept. They waited and watched, sheltered by the ranch-buildings. The
moon was nearly down, and the light growing dimmer. At last it went
down, and they had to patrol the fence.
Several times, little parties of the insurrectos rode up, fired
through the barb-wire of the stockade, and tried to set buildings on
fire. Jack Adeler’s men, loving him and hating the robbers out there
beyond the fence, were only too brave, rushing out to return the
fire exposing themselves. One was killed, two were wounded. One of
the worst of the bunch was Hike, till the Lieutenant threatened to
imprison him if he didn’t stay behind cover, firing from there.
“I didn’t bring you down here to play melodrama hero,” he snorted.
“Anybody could _tell_ that you’re only a kid from the fool way you
expose yourself. I brought you down here to help me run the _Hustle_,
not to make grandstand-plays, and if you don’t stay behind that
wall—well, you see what you get. I won’t even let you _see_ the fun!”
Hike had to grin at Jack Adeler’s pretending to be severe; but also
he was afraid that the Lieutenant might keep his word, and imprison
him in the house. After that, he stayed more under cover.
For two hours, there was a terrible time of waiting—waiting—every
moment; peering out into the dark, wondering what the insurrectos
were planning; holding themselves ready to drive back an attack. It
was the hardest two hours of Hike’s life, so far; to keep himself
from sneaking out to the fence and joining the sentries patroling it.
Then came a yell at the fence, and he, with the others, dashed out
a little and fired at the riders they could just make out in the
before-dawn grayness. Then the ranch-yard was silent as the desert
beyond.
With dawn, the insurrectos could be seen making off. This was Hike’s
chance to go for gasoline.
He said not a word to the Lieutenant. He was afraid that Adeler would
not let him go. So he confided in his special friend and admirer,
the man who had seen him give the alarm. Just at sunrise, he sneaked
out of the east gate, on a fast pinto, bound for Anarcon and some
gasoline for the _Hustle_.
Before the attack of the insurrectos, he had ridden about the place
a good deal, with Jack Adeler, scouting for their enemies; and he
knew both the country and his pinto well enough to be able to reach
Anarcon. Also, he told himself, he was less needed for the actual
defense of the ranch than the others. He could shoot well enough,
but he hadn’t the deadly aim of these men who had lived in a country
where a quick pull of the gun means life.
He rode northward—straight away from the direction in which the
insurrectos had gone; then curved over to eastward, heading for
Anarcon.
Here he could find gasoline, for it was a station on the new
automobile-road. To-day, in the desert, the automobile is becoming
commoner and commoner. It permits the rancher to reach civilization,
and the sheriff to reach savages! It may be found in desolate lands,
in “the country that God forgot to finish,” where one would expect
nothing beyond cactus and the coyote.
As he rode, Hike tacked a little, watching for the enemies. He
noticed a cloud of dust, finally, and cautiously rode toward it.
From a tiny butte, he saw a band of apparently about fifty, which he
believed to be the men who had attacked them. They were just joining
a larger band—not less than two hundred—who were riding southward.
So Welch’s Terrors were all together, then? There would not be much
chance for the ranch to last long.
And Barry, who was expected with gasoline and other supplies, had
gone clear off to Torreas, a good fifty miles away. Encumbered with
the pack-mule, he could not possibly get back till night, Hike felt
sure, even if he did escape the insurrectos.
It was up to him, Hike, then, to get back with gasoline, and be off
with the tetrahedral, if he was to save the ranch from these two
hundred and fifty robbers.
He rode as fast as he could kick his pinto into going, toward
Anarcon, calmly taking a chance of the insurrectos catching sight of
him. And, though they were a mile off, they _did_ see him.
A couple followed him, firing at him as they got near, but he wasted
no time in returning their fire, though his hand strayed longingly
toward the revolver-belt draped across his chaps. He just pulled down
the great brim of his sombrero, humped forward in the saddle, and
rode as though they were already upon him.
The fast little pinto, too, heard the shots. That only made her go
the faster. Also, she loved Hike, for Hike had ridden her these last
four days, and he knew the combination of mastery and kindness which
wins a horse.
At last the pursuers were left behind; and an hour later he rode into
Anarcon.
Not till then did he remember that he hadn’t a cent with him to pay
for gasoline.
But he rode up to the absurd little shack labeled “GaRRagGe.” At his
shout, a lanky Texan came to the door, and looked at him suspiciously.
“Gasoline—quick—all you can load on this horse,” he cried.
“Well, my boy, let’s think about it,” drawled the Texan. He looked
as though he saw in Hike only a tall boy, the son of some rich
Northerner ranching it in Mexico.
“Think about nothing,” snorted Hike. “Insurrectos after our ranch.
Got to have gasoline for aeroplane.”
“Airyplane—boy, you’re crazy,” drawled the Texan again, maddeningly
slow in speech. “Well, even if you _are_, you can have the gasoline
if you pay for it.”
“Adeler—he’s got a ranch at Aguas Grandes—he’ll pay for it.”
“He’ll pay for it right now, or he won’t get it; not at this
gara-jee,” began the Texan, and stopped short, for Hike was looking
at him across the sight of a leveled revolver.
The Texan threw up his hands and whined, “_All_ right—just as you
say, Mister. I guess Adeler is good for it.”
He called his Mexican helper, and between them they loaded on the
pinto as much gasoline, in cans, as she could carry. It was not much,
but enough to take the _Hustle_ to Torreas from Aguas Grandes. Twice,
Hike saw the Texan’s hand carelessly wandering toward a revolver, and
each time he said “Look out,” in a low and quiet voice, that meant
business.
When the loading was finished, the Texan suddenly smiled. “I thought
you was a boy,” he stated, “but I take it back. You’re crazy, all
right—airyplanes! But they grow nerve, where you come from. Where is
that?”
“Hell,” snapped Hike, “if I don’t get back to it in time; but heaven
if I do,” and galloped off, leaving the Texan too astounded to take
the pot-shot at Hike’s back which he had planned.
With all this gasoline aboard, he had to ride back more slowly;
keeping a look-out for the insurrectos. Twice he circled to avoid
what looked like distant riders. He reached the ranch safely.
Jack Adeler himself rushed to open the east gate, shouting, “Where
you been?”
“Gasolining,” said Hike cheerfully, trying to look as grown-up as he
could. “But that’s nothing to where I’m going on the _Hustle_, right
now.”
“Oh, well,” said Jack Adeler, resignedly, “I suppose there’s no
keeping you from getting killed.... Old man, I won’t put it that way.
If you’ve got the nerve to ride out and get gasoline, I’ll just cut
out the older brother air, and say ‘Great work, old Hike.’”
He made Hike rest for an hour, and eat, incidentally, but an hour and
seven minutes later, Hike rose from the ranch-yard in the _Hustle_,
soared up to three thousand feet, and drove her toward Torreas at
full speed.