THE RAIN OF DEATH
It was fifty-seven and one half miles from the ranch at Aguas Grandes
to Torreas, where a regiment of Mexican government or “federal”
infantry, with a company of artillery, were encamped; and Hike made
that distance, in the _Hustle_, in twenty-four and three quarters
minutes, of which about seven minutes were spent in looking for the
exact location of Torreas. So, less than half an hour after he had
left the lonely ranch, he was astounding the soldiers by circling
over their camp, and dropping in front of the commanding officer’s
headquarters.
Being a Mexican, the commander was excitable. He rushed out from
his tent, and grasped Hike’s hand, with immense respect and every
show of honor, before Hike could say a word. Looking as dignified
as possible, Hike delivered a note from Jack Adeler, asking for a
machine-gun and a few soldiers.
The commandant scratched his beard a little, looked dubious, then
glanced again at the marvelous complicated aeroplane, with Hike,
straight and silent and dignified beside it. He nodded his head
vigorously, and said, “_Madre de todos, si_—yesss, I do it!”
He sent two orderlies hurrying in different directions, while
he poured on Hike a flood of questions in half English, half
Spanish, about aeroplanes. While Hike was trying to answer, a
squad of soldiers hurried up with a machine-gun and ammunition,
which they loaded on the freight-platform. Directing them was a
handsome, serious young lieutenant of infantry, introduced to Hike
as Lieutenant Duros, who grasped Hike’s hand with such awe and
admiration that Hike had to warn himself not to get conceited.
Suddenly he thought of two lines of the song of the Great Hazing:
“And I have promised not to let my head get big again,
When I go aviating on my airy aeroplane!”
and grinned a real Hike grin, which he hastened to turn into a smile
of greeting to Lieutenant Duros.
“Can you ussss twelf soldiers?” asked the commander.
“Yes”—and twelve men were closely packed about the machine-gun, on
the freight-platform, while Lieutenant Duros climbed into the front
passenger-seat. Hike started the _Hustle_ off easily. Except for a
minute, at the yacht-wreck, he had never driven with anywhere near
so many passengers. But she took the load well. He shifted the
speed-change lever to the third speed and they hummed through the
air, while the soldiers yelled with surprise, and grabbed one another.
Through the motor-roar, Lieutenant Duros shouted a few sentences to
Hike, treating him with such respect as one diplomat shows another.
His English was excellent, though with a quaint little softening of
the words.
“These revolutionists—they are not revolutionists,” he cried.
“We must wipe them out. I, I was with Madero, I was a _real_
revolutionist. Me, I send many pesos the year to Russia, for the
revolutionists there. I love freedom. But these men, they are
robbers. We must wipe them out.”
And so Hike suddenly remembered into what a terrible business of
bloodshed they were plunging; but he shut his mouth grimly, and drove
ahead, while Lieutenant Duros watched with admiration.
An hour and seven minutes after he had left the rancho, they
swooped in sight of it. Surrounding the ranch were over two hundred
insurrectos. They were attacking the gates with axes.
“Take ’em with the gun from the aeroplane,” Hike howled to the
Lieutenant, who saluted, crawled back to the machine-gun, and tried
it. It was loaded.
Hike shut off the motor and volplaned down, directly over the
thickest of the howling revolutionists. They fired a storm of bullets
up at the _Hustle_, but Hike paid no attention to the bullets. He
let her come down, slowly, and soared just over the heads of the
insurrectos, who fled like frightened bronchos, bellowing with fear.
Lieutenant Duros aimed the machine-gun down, from the slowly sailing
aeroplane. He let loose a shot a second, while the twelve soldiers
fired in one continuous roaring stream. The revolutionists fell by
dozens. Over their dead bodies stumbled fleeing wounded men.
Hike snapped on the motor, ascended to get leeway, and soared down
again, over another bunch, on whom Lieutenant Duros let loose the
machine-gun. He grimly kept her going thus, with the most delicate
steering the tetrahedral had ever known; kept her just over the
fleeing robbers.
One group made a stand, and Hike saw Captain Welch in the midst of
it. “There’s Welch—their leader—capture him—soldiers drop off!” he
yelled to Lieutenant Duros, who saluted again, and shouted in rapid
Spanish to his men.
They instantly dropped the fifteen feet to the ground, and as they
did so Duros swept the group about Welch with the machine-gun. His
supporters fell, a dozen men wounded and dying, and Welch himself
clapped his hand to his side. Before he could recover, he was
surrounded by federal soldiers, and hauled back toward the ranch.
Out from the ranch-yard came Jack Adeler’s men, with Jack at the
head, yelling and riding like demons. The Lieutenant swung from his
horse, raised Welch, lifted him up and laid him across the saddle.
Instantly he mounted, and rode back with the bleeding captive.
Three more circles were made with the tetrahedral. Sharpshooters in
it picked out the fleeing insurrecto leaders, letting the privates
escape. Lieutenant Duros, still smiling a fixed, hard, busy smile,
once more turned the machine-gun loose—on a bunch of picketed horses
of the insurrectos. Then he sat down, and held his head in his hands.
Hike brought the _Hustle_ to earth, in front of the east gate.
“It was a glorious fight,” Lieutenant Duros said, still hiding his
head, as they landed. Then he lifted his head, and Hike was astounded
to see that he looked very sick. “A glorious fight,” he went on, “and
it means the end of these robbers—but I am as sorry for every man I
have to kill like he was my brother. _Santo Cuerpo!_ Poor devils—they
were just led by bad men.” Then the Lieutenant straightened his
shoulders, wiped his eyes, and climbed out of the _Hustle_, to greet
Jack Adeler, who came charging down on them, shouting his thanks and
admiration to Hike and the Mexican lieutenant.
“I know you are an American army officer,” said Duros to Jack,
“but do not be afeered, sir, for we shall keep it—uh—dark, is it?
I congratulate you on the brilliant help you get from this other
officer,” motioning to Hike. “He is perhaps a lieutenant of the
Signal Corps? I am still amaze to find him looking so young—I would
think he is a—a—almost not a young man yet, if I have not seen him
run the aeroplane.”
“Me? An officer?” blushed Hike. “Why, I’m a kid—a youngster; that’s
all just a _muchacho_!”
The Mexican officer smiled at what he considered a jest and bowed,
with his hand on his breast, “As you weesh, sir. You shall keep your
disguise! With your permission—of course my commander have put me
under your orders—I and my men, we will each take two of these horses
of the insurrectos, and ride back to Torreas.”
“Oh, let me take you back in the aeroplane,” insisted Hike.
“The government needs the horses, permit me to say, sir?” He seemed
to be begging for permission, still; and suddenly Hike realized with
a shock that the Mexican officer _meant_ it—that he, Hike, really had
been and was commander of this expedition, and that Lieutenant Duros
could do nothing without his permission!
“Very well, Lieutenant,” he said, as gravely as he could. “You take
command of the party, now, and take back all the horses you can
handle. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, sir, and permit me to
congratulate you on the way you handled the machine-gun from the
aeroplane. By the way, can you carry that on horseback?”
“Yes, sir, it is very light.”
“Well, _adios, señor_!”
“Adios!” cried the Lieutenant, and gathered his men for the trek to
Torreas.
When their backs were turned, Hike solemnly rolled over on the
ground, and he was shouting with laughter when he arose. “Say, Jack,
did you get that?” he howled to Adeler. “Me, a Santa Benician, a
kid—and he thought I was an American Signal Corps officer. Say,
wouldn’t that _jar_ you?”
For once Lieutenant Adeler did not see a joke. “Why,” he said, quite
seriously, “of course you do look awfully young, but from the way you
handled the _Hustle_—and the federal troops—you might just as well
be an officer, and a mighty good one. There were eighteen-year-old
_colonels_, in the Civil War. And I know several men older than I who
don’t _look much_ older than—”
“All _right_,” said Hike. “Then just wait a minute till my
wireless-man gets into communication with Washington, and I’ll have
General Thorne come down and black my shoes!”
“And now comes the worst part,” sighed the Lieutenant, suddenly
looking out over the desert. “We must bury the poor devils out
there—must have been forty of them wiped out by that infernal
machine-gun. Let’s pray that we never fight except to bring peace, as
we did here.”
“Amen,” said Hike, reverently.