SOLDIERS OF LIBERTY
Jack, whipping his weapon upwards, pulled the trigger. The barking of
his automatic for the instant drowned all other sounds for him. Then he
became aware of a sharp _r-r-ripping_ noise, heard an angry ejaculation
from beside him, felt the sand at his feet spurting as though suddenly
alive and saw the plane swing its nose up. The engine roared, a great
shadow flitted past, a gust of wind swirled the dust and the enemy was
gone! Bullets followed, but already the plane was out of range. Up,
up it climbed, the high-pitched voice of its engines growing fainter
each moment. Silence fell, a silence broken after an instant by Mr.
Gandell’s deep chuckle.
“We got the guy in front,” he said. “I saw him flop. But he came back
all right.”
“And we peppered the wings pretty well,” said Mr. Jordan. “Did they get
you, Ben?”
“Nothing to matter. Spattered my ankle. They were rotten shots!”
replied Mr. Traine.
“Come on up and let me fix it,” said Lieutenant Gandell. “Any other
casualties?”
There were none, it appeared. The commander, reloading his automatic,
gazed thoughtfully after the lessening form of the plane. “Wonder if
they’ll try it again,” he mused. “Let’s hustle with that rudder, Pete.
They’ve certainly got my thanks for not peppering the _Fate_ instead of
us! I’d like to know whether they were Federalists or not! Any one ever
hear of Roza having any planes?”
“No, but I’ll bet that one was his,” answered Mr. Gandell. “We’re sort
of in his bailiwick, aren’t we? Maybe it would be a clever idea to get
away from here before they bring three or four more back to call on us!”
“My idea, too,” answered the commander. “All hands on that rudder and
let’s get it shipped. It’s a fine piece of business to send us down
here with only automatics! If we had a gun on that mount as we should
have――All right, Ben?”
“Yes, only a scratch, thanks. Wish you’d given the word a second
sooner, Bob. I had that greaser covered. He’d never have started that
gun if I’d had the first word!”
“Sorry he got you, Ben, but I couldn’t afford to disobey orders, you
know. Mr. Clode, take these glasses and go up and keep a sharp watch,
please. Let me know if you see anything.”
“Right, sir!”
“Now, then, lift her up, Mr. Mate! Easy! Watch out for that guy! Better
pass that cable back through the wheel, Ben, and be all ready to
connect up. Mr. Sterling, cast off that bow line from the stake. The
other will hold her, I think. Pull the stake up, too, please. And you
might look around and see that we’ve left nothing. Start your engine
whenever you’re ready, Sam. We’ll be through back here in ten minutes.”
But the commander was wrong. At the end of ten minutes the rudder plane
was still unshipped, for the stern-post proved now, in spite of former
inspection, to have been twisted so far out of true that the rudder,
when hung to it, bound at top and bottom and was out of control. Mr.
Weeks concealed his annoyance if he held any, but that he was anxious
was shown by the frequency with which he scanned the sky to the north.
Meanwhile, since it was not possible under the circumstances to take
down the stern-post and straighten it, they set to work to bend the
rudder-post to conform with it. To do that it was necessary to undo
much of their work by removing the fabric at the back, and that was a
slow job. Half-past three came, and four o’clock as well. Jack, who
had taken Hugh’s place in the boat and was keeping a sharp lookout
from the radio cockpit, dropped his gaze from the sky and closed his
eyes momentarily. Staring like that into the blue void made them ache
after a time. When he opened them again something peculiar in the
northeast caught his attention. The clarity of the atmosphere along
the horizon was disturbed by what seemed at first glance a low-lying
cloud. Then he realized that it was dust, and was puzzled. The breeze
was still blowing from a point approximately east southeast, and
while the dust cloud trailed off toward the northwest the heavy part
of it remained stationary or, it might be, moved toward the observer
on a course nearly at right angles to the wind. At every other point
desert and sky met clearly. Here, then, was a phenomenon that required
some explaining, for, if it was not a dust storm, what was it? At
about that period of his cogitations Jack recalled two things: the
binoculars beside him and his orders to report anything suspicious to
the commander. The latter was aiding in the work aft, but he was soon
springing up the ladder after Jack had hailed him.
“It looks like a cloud of dust, sir,” said Jack, handing him the
glasses, “but there’s nothing to see.”
“Possibly sheep or cattle,” mused Mr. Weeks, studying the yellowish
haze. “Or possibly――――” He stopped, leaned over the turtle-back and
called Mr. Traine. “How soon can we get out of here, Ben, if we have
to?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes if we leave the rudder behind. Anything up?”
“I think so. There’s a cloud of dust two or three miles north, and it
seems to be moving this way.”
“Troops?” asked Mr. Traine, climbing quickly to the cockpit.
“I’m afraid so. Cavalry, probably. Have a look.”
“Cavalry’s right, Bob! I caught a dazzle then. Sun struck on something
bright. How long will it take them to get here?”
“Can’t say. They’re coming fast. Think we’d better get off?”
“We might lash the rudder alongside here and go up, only―――― Hang it,
Bob, those greasers haven’t any call to make trouble! We aren’t at war
with ’em!”
“But if they’re some of Tito Roza’s bunch that fact won’t cut any ice
with ’em. I’m not keen on running away, though. Call the others and
we’ll hear what they say. If we knew how many of those chaps there were
we’d know better what to do. From the dust they’re kicking up there
might be a thousand!”
“Or a dozen, Bob. There’s a lot of ’dobe mixed up with this sand and
it’s as dry as talc. If there aren’t too many for us I guess we can
stand ’em off, what?”
That was the verdict of the others, called into conference. While
Lieutenants Gandell and Jordan and Mate Wason went back to their
hurried labors on the rudder, the rest of the crew examined their
automatics and watched the approach of the column of yellow dust. Ten
minutes later it was possible to see objects moving under the billowing
cloud, and, with the glasses, to make out easily enough a body of
horsemen.
“Can’t tell how many there are yet,” said Mr. Weeks. “They’re coming at
a good, hard lope, though. I’d say there are easily thirty, Ben.”
“Thirty, eh? That’s a cinch. Keep ’em down to that many, Bob, and we’ll
send ’em home howling.”
“It may be that they aren’t looking for trouble,” Hugh suggested.
“Perhaps they just want to see what a dirigible looks like.”
“I hope you’re right, Clode,” said Mr. Weeks, “but from the way those
airmen acted I’m afraid you’re not. I presume the plane flew back to
camp and reported what they’d found. I sort of expected trouble from
those fellows.”
“They couldn’t have been very far away,” mused Lieutenant Traine. “See
any better now, Bob?”
“Yes,” replied the commander, grimly, after a moment. “I can see a heap
more than I want to, Ben. There are about forty-five of them; maybe
fifty. The usual half-breed sort, I guess. Well, we’ll talk soft if
they do. If they don’t――――” He shook his head. “If they mean trouble,
gentlemen, there isn’t much we can do. No use fighting that bunch.”
“Any danger of their damaging the ship, do you think?” asked Mr. Traine
anxiously.
“N-no, I don’t believe so. I sort of wish we’d got away, though, while
we had a chance, Ben.”
“Well, it’s too late now. We’ll put up a bluff, anyway. Gee, they’re a
ragged looking outfit!”
“Good mounts, though, most of them,” commented Mr. Weeks. He laid the
binoculars aside and summoned the workers into the boat. “We’ll talk to
them from here, Pete. Wish I knew a little more Spanish.”
“Let Ben loose on them,” suggested Mr. Jordan, grinning. “He’s a great
little linguist.”
“Sure,” replied Mr. Traine. “I know a lot of Spanish; about two dozen
words. I fancy, though, that the movie villain on the roan horse
riding ahead can talk English better than you can, Sam.”
A few hundred yards distant the horsemen pulled down to a walk and
came on rather circumspectly. The leader, a smallish man whose costume
proclaimed him a person of some consequence, halted his nondescript
following at a little distance and saluted ceremoniously. Then, digging
spurs into his horse, he galloped up spectacularly to within a dozen
paces of the balloon, pulled his mount back on its haunches and doffed
his great felt hat with a wide, graceful sweep.
“_Buenas tardes, Señors!_” he called. “I am Capitan Ramon Fosdes, of
General Roza’s Army of Liberty.”
He spoke English well, and looked a harmless, good-natured little
chap. In age he could have been hardly more than twenty-three or
four. A good-looking, smiling, slightly impertinent countenance was
his, with twinkling dark eyes and a tiny black mustache twisted into
pin-points at the ends and heavily waxed. His monstrous sombrero was
embroidered heavily and wound with blue and yellow bands about crown
and brim. White riding breeches let into highly-polished boots from
which gigantic silver spurs protruded, a white shirt open at the neck,
a gay _faja_, or cloth belt, about his middle and a silver-embroidered
jacket of dark green that stopped well above the _faja_ composed his
picturesque costume. But his command boasted no such magnificence.
Most of them appeared to be peons, many were Indians, and all were
as sorry-looking as they were cheerful. Collarless shirts of all the
faded hues under the sun, tight-fitting cotton trousers, an occasional
coat, sometimes shoes but more often sandals, were their attire.
All, however, were armed with rifles, and in most cases their horses
were excellent. While their leader conversed they slouched in their
saddles and smoked cigarettes or prepared them. Mr. Weeks’ estimate of
fifty was none too liberal. Although, since they made no pretense of
maintaining military formation, it was difficult to count them, their
number appeared nearer sixty than fifty.
“How do you do, sir?” responded the commander. “I am Lieutenant
Commander Weeks, United States Navy.”
The Mexican again swept off his big hat. “Señor, I am much honored,”
he assured. “One of our aëroplanes announced your presence here and
General Roza sent me to see if, indeed, it could be true. The presence
of a dirigible balloon so far beyond the border of our country, señor,
was scarcely believable.”
“We encountered a storm two nights since, Captain, and damaged
our rudder. We descended here to make repairs. While so engaged an
airplane, doubtless the one you refer to, flew past and peppered us
with machine-gun fire. Will you be so good, sir, as to explain that?”
“Señor, it is most lamentable. I am empowered to convey General Roza’s
regrets. He is much disturbed, señor. The _comandante_ acted without
orders. The general will explain all, señor.”
“The general? He is not here, sir?”
“An hour’s ride, señor, but a little hour’s ride. I am instructed to
show the way.” The captain smiled engagingly.
“I am very sorry not to have the pleasure of meeting the general,”
replied Mr. Weeks. “We have been delayed too long and must continue
our voyage at once. Please say to him, however, that my Government
will learn with much displeasure of the unprovoked attack on us. Such
conduct, if repeated, will make reprisals necessary. Fortunately, the
only wound inflicted on us is of slight consequence.” The commander
saluted and turned away.
“I am desolate, señor!” The captain, who, while conversing, had deftly
rolled and lighted a cigarette, now let it hang dejectedly from a
corner of his mouth while his shoulders drooped and his small hands
gestured his regret. “For myself, I have no wish to delay the señors,
but there are my orders! The señor _comandante_ himself knows what it
is to be under orders. What can I do? I beg of you, señor, to make
no increase of my difficulty! General Roza’s headquarters are but a
very little distance and I have horses to ride. I beg the señor to be
amiable!”
“He means mischief,” muttered Lieutenant Traine in his superior’s ear.
“Shall we try a few shots?”
“No. We have orders, Ben, to avoid any engagement.” The commander
addressed the Mexican again. “I can only repeat, sir, that we are
unable to oblige you. Kindly present my compliments and regrets to the
renowned General Roza.”
The Mexican, still smiling, shrugged his shoulders, whirled his horse
and gave a command to his ragged following. Instantly, in a cloud of
dust, the horsemen broke and scattered, wheeling left and right, and
circled well out into the desert.
“What the mischief are they up to?” growled Lieutenant Gandell.
“Movie stuff!” grunted Mr. Jordan.
“They’ve called our bluff,” said the commander with a chuckle. “The
captain’s no bad strategist. They’ve got us surrounded, they’re well
out of range of our bullets and they can snipe us as they please. If
there’s a clean white handkerchief in our midst the proud owner might
as well produce it, for I guess a flag of truce is our one remaining
bet!”