OUTNUMBERED
“Do you mean to surrender to that bunch of――of bandits?” sputtered Mr.
Traine. “Hang it, Bob, we’d be a lot of pikers if we did that! Let’s
give ’em a good time first, anyway! What?”
Mr. Weeks shook his head. “Once they begin popping at the balloon,
Ben――――”
“That’s right,” agreed Mr. Jordan. “If they’ll confine their attention
to you, Ben, no one’ll object, but we can’t have the old _Fate_ knocked
full of holes. What do you suppose this Roza guy intends to do with us
once he’s got us, Bob?”
“Keep us prisoners, I guess. That doesn’t suit me much, but it’s a heap
better to be a prisoner than dead. And I think our first duty is to
protect the ship. Who’s got a white handkerchief?”
“I have, but you can’t use it for that purpose!” Mr. Traine scowled
belligerently.
Mr. Weeks laughed. “Well, maybe we won’t need it. Let’s see what their
next move is.”
The cavalry formed a loose ring about the dirigible and its defenders
several hundred yards away, well out of danger from the fire of the
automatics. There was a discouragingly business-like look to the
maneuver, and, although horses curveted and fretted, their riders sat
steady in the saddles with rifles across the horns. Captain Fosdes
alone remained inside the circle. Although he had retired with the
soldiers, he had scorned to seek the immunity of distance, and now,
digging spurs, he sent his roan prancing back toward the balloon. Fifty
yards away he halted, removed his cigarette and blew a cloud of blue
smoke into the sunlight.
“I think I might get him,” said Mr. Traine hopefully. “What do you say,
Bob?”
“No! No firing first for us, Ben.”
“Señor,” called the Mexican, “I have the orders of my Generalissimo
to take you before him. I am all regrets, but what is ordered must
be. I beg of you to reconsider your decision.” He waved a brown hand
gracefully. “Further refusal would be most unwise, señor!”
“I presume, Captain, that you realize that what you are attempting is
an act of war,” replied the commander sternly. “An act of war against a
nation with which your country is at peace.”
“Señor, such matters are not for my consideration. I am only a soldier
whose duty it is to obey.”
“What does this General Roza want of us?” asked Mr. Weeks. “What is his
reason for making this outrageous demand?”
“Señor, how can I know?” The captain shrugged again. “It may be that
he wishes to have explained what your purpose is so far beyond the
boundary between our countries. The señor says truly that our countries
are not at war, and for such reason, it may well be, my general is
concerned at the presence here of a military balloon.”
“General Roza can surely conceive of a balloon being driven from its
course in such a storm as that of two days since,” said the commander
stiffly.
“Possibly, señor, but since the storm traveled west to east?”
“I have already explained that we damaged our rudder. We were forced to
descend where we might. Even now we are not certain of our whereabouts.”
“Doubtless General Roza will be as well satisfied with the señor’s
amiable explanation as I am,” returned the captain, bowing. “But, with
regrets, señor, I must insist that you and your command return with me
to the general’s headquarters. It is but a little distance and I have
horses that you may ride.”
Commander Weeks considered a moment, his eyes traveling over the
encircling line of waiting soldiers. Finally:
“It seems that we have little choice in the matter, sir,” he said
dryly. “We are ready to go with you, Captain, but under protest.”
“_Gracias, señor!_”
“And with one proviso,” continued Mr. Weeks.
“If the señor will graciously make it known,” answered the other
courteously.
“That no harm comes to our balloon. We must be allowed to deflate it
and make all secure before we go.”
“But, señor! General Roza has no wish to take you away from your
balloon. My orders are to bring that to him also. I have here men
sufficient, have I not? Most carefully, señor, shall your wonderful
airship be conveyed. Pray have no uneasiness!”
“It would be simpler to take the balloon under its power, Captain,”
responded the commander innocently.
The captain smiled gently. “Pardon, señor, but I dare not take such
risk. It might be that the balloon would become unmanageable, lacking
a rudder, and that the comandante would not be able to reach the
general’s headquarters. _Quien sabe?_ It would be better, I consider,
that we _sigar_――how do you say? Tow, is it not?――that we tow the
balloon, señor. _Si?_”
“Very well,” consented the commander. He turned to Lieutenant Traine.
“Shan’t need your handkerchief, Ben,” he said, smiling.
The lieutenant sniffed. “Wouldn’t have gotten it if you had,” he
jeered. “Nice pickle we’re in now!”
“Better be a pickle than a corpse,” said Mr. Jordan cheerfully. “Hope
to goodness, though, I get a quiet horse. I’m just about as happy in
a saddle as a fly in a glue-pot! Only,” he added, as he prepared to
follow Mr. Gandell over the side, “not nearly so secure!”
Twenty minutes later a strange procession began to wend its way
northward over the flat llano. Ahead rode a handful of General Roza’s
men, behind them the crew of the _F 8_. Then, laughing and joking, some
twenty ragged soldiers traveled afoot holding fast to two ropes which
depended from the forward underbody of the dirigible. Further back as
many more handled the guys from the tail. Behind them, again, rode the
remainder of the force with the led horses. And overhead, monstrous,
serene, the sunlight aglint on its long silvery cylinder, floated the
_F 8_. Straight toward the north, save when a clump of cactus or
mesquite sent them aside, the riders ahead led the way. Surely the
lizards, peering out from the dried tangles of the mesquite, had never
seen a more remarkable sight!
Captain Fosdes rode at the commander’s side and was amiability itself.
He offered cigarettes generously and conversation even more generously.
It was hard not to feel a liking for the laughing, care-free little
chap, and even Jack, to whom the capture seemed the most horrible
misfortune that fate could have devised, grudgingly acknowledged a
sympathy for him. Jack and Hugh rode side by side, and conversed in
low tones. Hugh was very dejected. For that matter, so were they all,
although they tried hard not to show it. Even Lieutenant Jordan seemed
oppressed, but that may have been due to the fact that he was squeezed
into a saddle rather too short for him on a horse which, while selected
for its docility, failed to win the lieutenant’s trust.
“He may be all right,” he confided lugubriously to Mr. Gandell beside
him, “but what’s he keep turning his head and looking at me for? I
don’t like his expression, Pete. He――he’s got something up his sleeve.
You can’t tell me!”
The _F 8_, alone of the American force, appeared not to be troubled
by the turn of events. The big dirigible followed as quietly and
contentedly as a lamb. Jack and Hugh discussed its fate sadly. “You
can bet this Roza guy won’t let go of it, once he has it,” declared
Hugh. “They’re all robbers, the lot of them. I don’t mean the decent
Mexicans, but these renegades that fight under any one who’ll pay them
a few pesos a month and feed them.”
“But they say that Tito Roza is an educated man,” said Jack, “one of
the decent sort you speak of. If he refused to give up the _Fate_ it
will be an act of simple theft, wouldn’t it? And the United States
would be down on him hard!”
“How would the United States know he had it?” asked the other, gloomily.
“I guess they’re already putting it down for lost; us, too.”
“Why, we’d tell what had happened as soon as we got back,” exclaimed
Jack. Hugh turned a pitying look on him.
“Get back? Where do you get that stuff, old son? We aren’t going to get
back!”
“Not going――Do you mean――――” Jack’s voice dropped to an awed
whisper――“that they’ll _shoot_ us?”
“Search me, but it’s a safe bet that we won’t be reporting at Camp
Stanton just yet awhile. Maybe he’ll just keep us prisoners for a
stretch. If that’s all we’ll be lucky! He’s a murderous little thug,
this Roza.”
“But they haven’t taken our automatics away,” objected Jack. “And
they’ve treated us pretty decently so far. It doesn’t look to me as if
we were prisoners exactly.”
Hugh shrugged. “Wait and see,” he said pessimistically. “Maybe Roza’s
doing this just to amuse himself. Maybe he’s shy a hand at bridge, or
whatever the Mexicans play. And maybe he will give us his blessing and
let us off after breakfast to-morrow. But I don’t believe it!”
“Seems to me,” remarked Jack, after a few moments of silence, “that
if there was danger of being shot Mr. Weeks wouldn’t have given in so
easily.”
“What else could he do? If he hadn’t they’d have killed us back there
and taken the balloon anyway. Guess the Old Man argues that while
there’s life there’s hope.”
“And he’s right,” declared Jack stoutly. “I’m not making my will yet,
Hugh.”
“Nor I, but I’m not fooling myself that this is a week-end house-party
we’re going to! What makes me maddest is to have it happen on my first
voyage. Everything was going so fine and all!”
His companion grinned. “Fine, eh? Wonder what your idea of a rough trip
is!”
“Oh, well, you know what I mean. Of course we had our troubles, but
those are all in the day’s run, Jack. When you get a berth on a
dirigible you naturally look for adventures. But this just sort of ends
the story right in the middle.” He turned and looked back and upward
at the nose of the dirigible, with its great red-white-and-blue rings
glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. “It’s a blamed shame,” he
muttered. “I was getting mighty fond of that old bird, Jack.”
“Me, too,” responded the other. “Don’t you suppose, Hugh, that there is
some way of――of saving her?”
“How?” asked the ensign morosely.
“I don’t know,” was the helpless reply, “but――but there might be.
Suppose we managed to cut her loose!”
“Might as well let Roza have her as that. She’d float around for awhile
and then come down somewhere and smash. Or she might go out to sea. One
thing we might do, though, is to wreck the engines so she wouldn’t be
of any use. I’d do that if I had a chance, even if they shot me for it!”
“And I’d help! But――oh, well, maybe things aren’t as bad as you think,
Hugh. Mr. Weeks doesn’t look very worried.”
“He never does. He’d smile if he faced a firing squad. He’s a wonder.
If this turns out to be the end, Jack, I’ll be glad of one thing,
anyway, and that is, that I served under him!”
“I wish you’d quit talking about firing-squads and――and ends,”
protested the other. “Gee, you’re about as cheerful to talk to as an
undertaker!”
Hugh laughed, though not very heartily. “Guess I’ve got the dumps,”
he said. “What I need, maybe, is a good meal.” He buttoned his jacket
closer, for now that the shadows were growing long across the land
the air was getting chill. An easterly breeze was blowing, too, and
the dirigible had begun to tug harder on the ropes. The sunlight was
no longer gold, but had taken on the queer lemon-yellow tinge, and
above the warmth of color along the western horizon the sky was a
pale, watery green, a chill, clear hue that suggested the depths of an
iceberg. Jack shivered and snuggled into his coat.
Already, however, their destination was in sight across the level
expanse of amber desert. The vegetation had become more evident. The
cactus grew taller and the mesquite denser, and the clumps of the
latter were larger and fresher looking. At intervals a low growth, that
Jack mistook for some kind of grass, carpeted the ground with faded
gray-green. Closer inspection showed that the courageous stranger was
a fleshy-leaved little plant whose whitish runners wove a tangle over
the dry ground, sending forth thick, spear-shaped leaves at intervals.
A half-mile distant lay a dejected looking village of small houses
set haphazardly about on the desert. A few tired trees, stunted and
wind-bent, marked what in courtesy might have been termed a street, a
wide, sandy road bisecting the village. The houses were of adobe brick
or rough boards, some few whitewashed. A tiny church sent an arched
belfry above the other roofs and beside it a great “organ cactus”
reared its long arms. A blue haze of wood smoke lay over the little
town.
Their approach had not gone unheralded, it appeared, for long before
they reached the first huts the populace awaited them. Picturesque
but dirty men in straw sombreros and tattered _serapes_, slatternly
women, half-naked children and flea-infested dogs stared and chattered,
following the procession toward the plaza. Of the men a few were
doubtless soldiers of Roza’s army, although only the possession of a
gun made the fact certain. Indians, with black hair hanging in a fringe
below the wide brims of their hats, predominated. Shoes were seldom
seen, their place being taken by sandals held to the feet by a leather
thong over the toes. A priest, barefooted but wearing a sun-faded
black derby and clothed in a long black cape, stared near-sightedly
through a pair of huge spectacles. Burros wandered dejectedly through
the street, if street it could be called.
Commotion there was, and color as well, since even a peon has a passion
for bright hues, but anything approaching hilarity was oddly lacking.
The inhabitants of Perdero, for such the place later proved to be,
seemed a sad and solemn lot, although the sight of the great silver
cylinder swaying at the end of the ropes evidently aroused curiosity
and a mild excitement. The _F 8_ must have been a strange and even
marvelous sight to them, but they were by no means overwhelmed by awe
or wonderment; indeed, a blacksmith who was shoeing a horse almost in
the middle of the thoroughfare gave but one brief and vacant glance at
it before he resumed his work. No effort was made to take the dirigible
into the center of the village, although there was space enough to do
so, but, obeying the directions of the captain, the soldiers who held
it swung it around nose to the wind and fell into comfortable positions
and lighted their cigarettes. The Americans, conducted by the amiable
captain, rode on along the street, past the crumbling adobe dwellings,
between dogs, children and occasional hens, until the church and the
plaza were behind them. The village proved larger than the first view
had suggested, for, following the wandering street, it continued for
some distance across the desert northward. Military occupation became
more evident as the party proceeded. A corral well filled with horses
and mules appeared, and a sort of barracks built of wooden frames and
corrugated iron sides and roof stood nearby, and about it were many of
the general’s ragged army. Small fires burned here and there and it
was evident that the evening meal was in preparation. Presently the
cavalcade drew rein in front of a more pretentious hovel beside the
door of which two soldiers lolled.
“Headquarters, señors,” announced the captain. “Have the kindness to
alight.”
They did so, Lieutenant Jordan groaning painfully as his cramped
body was wrenched from the saddle. The captain led the way through
the entrance, the sentries saluting quite smartly as he passed, but
at once relapsing into their former somnolence. The pungent odor of
burning wood met them inside the door and, for the instant, afflicted
their eyes. A fire smoldered on a stone hearth. Two plain pine tables
and some chairs were the principal furnishings. Beyond one of them,
flanked by a portable typewriter on one hand and by a pile of books,
papers and maps on the other, sat a man of slight stature. He was
bareheaded, and the light from a casement fell full on his face, with
all the effect, in the dim, shadowed room, of a spotlight. Three other
men were there, indistinct shapes under their huge _sombreros_, but for
Jack and Hugh these others held for the moment no interest. It was at
the small, khaki-clad man beyond the littered table that they stared
in open-mouthed surprise over the shoulders of their companions. Hugh
plucked at Jack’s sleeve. Their eyes met. Jack nodded.
“Señor Gonzales!” he whispered incredulously.