UNDER FIRE
At four o’clock on the following morning the little frontier town in
Mexico began to be the theater of some exciting events.
A Constitutionalist cavalry force, numbering several thousand, under
cover of darkness had formed a ring of steel to the west and south. And
while the inhabitants, lulled to a sense of security and indifference
by the long delay, slept on in peace, the artillery got into action.
The siege was on.
The rattle and boom of machine and field guns in the dreamy silence of
the morning made a din which probably aroused every one in town.
At the very first detonations four Americans in the hotel facing the
plaza sprang from their beds.
Dick Travers and Cranny Beaumont occupied a room together. As a faint,
rosy light from the eastern sky dimly illumined the interior, they
stared at one another, their eyes brightening with excitement.
“Great Scott!” cried Dick, breaking a strained silence, “so it’s come
at last, eh! We’d better tumble into our togs, and get out of this!”
“Listen!” exclaimed Cranny breathlessly.
The report of a shell, bursting not far away, had drowned, for an
instant, the steady rattling and booming of guns which came from the
distance.
“There’s going to be a hot time, all right!” almost shouted Dick, with
a leap reaching the window.
The big plaza, quiet but a few moments before, began echoing to the
tread of hurried feet. The sound of loud and excited voices, and the
sharp clatter of horses’ hoofs as a mounted rurale galloped across
jarred noisily on the air.
Cranny sprang to his companion’s side. A soft glow from the early
morning sun suffused the scene, lighting up the bell tower of the
ancient adobe church with poetic effect.
Somewhere a bugle was blown; from another point came an answer, in the
same musical notes.
As another loud explosion was heard and a cloud of white smoke rose
above the roofs of a group of buildings to the north the boys concluded
to lose no more time.
“Those shells aren’t a bit particular where they drop!” gasped Dick,
“and if one should happen to----”
“Quite right!” said Cranny with a faint grin.
As fast as they had ever done in their lives the two slipped into their
clothes, and were just in the act of adding the last finishing touches,
when a peremptory bang on the door panel sounded simultaneously with
the voice of George Parry: “Hurry up! We’re waiting for you, boys!” he
yelled loudly. “Don’t waste an instant!”
Dick flung the door wide open. Outside in the corridor stood the three
Americans.
“Boys,” exclaimed Professor Kent, in calm, even tones, “you’d better
saddle your horses without a moment’s delay and make straight for the
International bridge--ah!”
Heavy rifle firing from the intrenched Federal troops, defending the
town, had just started up, and the roar of their cannon, replying to
the Constitutionalists’ fire, gave an indication that the battle would
be desperately waged.
“And stay in Texas until this scrap is over,” exclaimed Ralph Edmunds.
“I’m mighty glad those other two chaps are safely out of it. We’ll see
you as far as the bridge and----”
Cranny Beaumont, his face fairly shining with excitement, shook his
head emphatically.
“I’ll not budge an inch from this town until we find Jimmy Raymond!” he
cried.
“Of course we won’t!” chimed in Dick.
“By George, I’d clean forgotten about him!” declared the newspaper man,
hurriedly. “He struck me as being a helpless sort of chap, too. Yes;
that’s our first duty--come on, fellows!”
As the party dashed down-stairs and out on the veranda, they saw the
big square filled with a panic-stricken mob of men, women and children,
hurrying in all directions, some burdened down with bundles and bags.
It was almost impossible to associate the place with the calm of those
moonlit evenings when the strains of soft music floated over the air,
and laughing, black-eyed señoritas promenaded to and fro beneath the
shadows of the mulberry trees. The boys gathered the sense of the scene
without seeing many of its details. They could think only of the young
pianist, who, as he listened to the firing and the commotion in the
streets, must be experiencing feelings of dreadful fear.
“Poor Jimmy!” muttered Dick. “We must get him out of this mighty soon!”
To their great relief they found the stableman and the hotel proprietor
in the building at the rear.
A rapid volley of Spanish came from both men when they dashed pell-mell
inside. But only Edmunds understood the meaning of their words.
“What do they say?” panted Cranny.
“That the other side of the Rio Grande is the safest place for us all,”
responded the newspaper man, rapidly. “Of course,” he shrugged his
shoulders, “I’m too accustomed to the smell of powder and smoke and the
rattle of guns to let a thing like this make me want to cut and run.
But,” he paused to let the import of his words sink deeply into their
minds, “remember; any one who stays in this town is taking his life in
his hands.”
“I should rather say so!” said Parry, cheerfully.
It was still dark in the stable, but by the pale, weak rays of a couple
of ill-smelling oil lanterns they managed to saddle the horses. The
little burro was not disturbed.
The mustangs, scenting danger, reared, plunged or snorted, and when
free of restraining halters made every effort to dash away.
By this time the danger had greatly increased. A shell, dropping on
one of the market stands in the plaza, and exploding with a terrific
report, sent a shower of lumber, boxes, and baskets in all directions,
besides shattering every pane of glass in the buildings near by.
“Now it’s your turn to get a whiff of smoke and powder!” cried the
special correspondent. “Everybody ready? Come on then, to the rescue of
Jimmy, and keep your eyes open!”
Leading the mustangs outside, men and boys sprang into the saddles.
There was no need to use either quirt or spurs on the frightened
animals. They started off, even before their riders were comfortably
seated, and at a speed which endangered the safety of the ever-moving
throngs of Mexicans, clattered across the broad plaza.
The slowly strengthening rays of the sun and the reflections of the
golden orb itself, flashing like jets of flame from some of the
upper windows, gave a singular air of peace and tranquillity to the
scene strangely out of harmony with the noise, the confusion and the
excitement in the narrow, twisting streets.
What with the roar of the artillery, the incessant crackling of rifles,
the occasional bursting of a shell, and the realization that they were
just as likely to be running into danger as out of it, Cranny Beaumont
found his longing for thrills fully gratified.
As the horsemen swung into the street on which Jimmy Raymond’s hotel
was located, they observed behind barricades of beams and sand-bags
piled on the roofs of some of the higher buildings the tops of tall
conical hats and gleams on rifle barrels.
In the crowded street they were often obliged to slow up, much to
the annoyance of Edmunds, who perhaps understood more fully than his
companions the grave peril of their situation. His one object was to
get the lads on the United States side of the International bridge, and
every instant he was experiencing a dull, deadly fear that something
might happen to prevent him from carrying out this plan.
Now and again rurales came galloping along, by their reckless riding
and loud yells adding to the turmoil. There were no cries of “Gringo”
heard just now; the Mexicans, intent upon their own troubles, scarcely
seemed to notice the presence of the Americans in their midst.
“By Jove! I was never gladder to see anything in my life!” shouted Dick
to Cranny. The hotel with the big cottonwoods in front had just loomed
into view. “I reckon the poor chap is having the scare of his life.”
“Maybe he won’t be glad to see us!” responded Cranny.
As the four clattered up to the entrance, the Tacoma lad slipped off
the back of his plunging horse and thrust the bridle into Dick Travers’
hands.
“I’ll get him out, fellows,” he gasped. Then an expression of dismay
came over his features. For the first time he had taken a careful look
at the building. It wore a silent and deserted appearance.
“I was afraid of it!” groaned Edmunds. “But for goodness’ sake,
Cranny----”
The lad had already dashed toward the open door, so the newspaper man’s
sentence remained unfinished.
Cranny Beaumont felt that his mission was doomed to failure; a loud
ringing yell uttered when he reached the foot of the stairs only
brought back a series of hollow, weird echoes. He rushed up, calling
as he went, “Jimmy, hello, Jimmy, are you here? Jimmy!” And still no
answer from the young pianist came to his ears.
The door of the room stood wide open and one glance inside told him
that his fears were well founded--Jimmy was gone. The Texas boy’s
belongings lay scattered about in the greatest confusion. Everything
pointed to the fact that he had made a hurried exit.
“Nothin’ doin’!” groaned Cranny. “Maybe he’s safe on the other side o’
the Rio an’ maybe he isn’t! Now I wonder what we’d better---- Great
Scott!”
A frightful explosion, which seemed fairly to jar the boards beneath
his feet, accompanied by the sounds of breaking glass, sent him,
pale-faced and trembling, against the wall. With a dreadful fear
tugging at his heart, he heard a wild clamor in the street just below
and saw a column of white smoke rising against the low adobe building
on the opposite side of the street.
Cranny Beaumont’s terror lasted only an instant. Rushing down-stairs
at topmost speed, he made for the street, uttering a cry of dismay
when he discovered that the horsemen were no longer grouped before the
entrance. Nor did he see any one else. Men, women, and children had all
vanished.
In the wall of the building across the way he saw a large gaping hole,
shattered glass and a partly demolished balcony. From the windows came
puffs of smoke.
The Tacoma lad grasped the situation on the instant. The horses,
rendered unmanageable, had taken fright and bolted. He experienced
a distinct feeling of relief. At any rate, it seemed to prove that
neither his companions nor any of the Mexicans had been injured. And
now he was forced to think of his own plight. Without a horse, and
separated from the others, what was to be done?
“First of all see if I can put out that fire,” he decided.
One look inside the building, however, showed him the futility of any
attempt to fight the rapidly increasing flames. On the lower floor
every piece of woodwork seemed to be ablaze. Red tongues of flames
crackled and sputtered--the smoke constantly rolled forth in greater
volumes.
“It’s a goner!” gasped Cranny. “Hello!” His ears had just caught the
sound of steadily marching feet, mixed in with a musical jingle. He
looked down the street, to see a long line of Federal soldiers and
several pack-trains of mules, drawing machine guns and ammunition,
passing an intersection.
Cries of “Viva Mexico!” shouted in rough, bawling voices, distracted
Cranny’s attention for the moment from the peril of his situation. Here
and there in the distance people were again daring to venture forth
into the streets, though a hail of bullets occasionally smashed against
the buildings, and the reports of bursting shells still sounded at
intervals.
“Whew! It’s certainly a big risk, stayin’ here!” muttered Cranny.
“What an awful shame I’ve lost my horse!” He looked anxiously about,
hoping to see some signs of his companions. “An’ certainly some risk
goin’ away. If I did, they’d sure get back the very next minute--Julius
Cæsar! I don’t understand what can be keepin’ ’em!”
But for the distant roar of the Federal and Constitutionalists’
artillery, and the steady popping of rifles, an unnatural quietness
seemed to hover about. Pacing in front of the big cottonwoods, he often
gazed at the burning building across the way. The street was filled
with a thick yellowish smoke and showers of sparks fell about him. An
adjoining shed caught fire.
It seemed very strange to be witnessing a fire with no effort made to
fight it.
“What a great country,” he mused. “I wonder how the scrap’s goin’?
The rebs certainly won’t have any picnic capturin’ this old town. By
George! I’d like to steal out to the firin’ lines--yes, sir--an’, but
for us, I guess Ralph Edmunds would have been there long ago.”
The sound of the firing became more desultory now. It began to look as
though the revolutionary forces might be beaten back, and the ring of
steel encircling the town broken and scattered to the surrounding hills.
Cranny found it increasingly difficult to control his impatience. To
remain inactive any longer was torture to him. He scorned the thought
of crossing the International bridge without first learning what had
become of his companions and Jimmy Raymond.
“I’ll be as game as Ralph Edmunds ever was,” he muttered, with the
old flashing light returning to his eyes. “Besides from now on I’ll
need every bit of that kind of stuff I’ve got.” He grinned. “Maybe the
fellows won’t be----”
Two sounds reaching his ears almost simultaneously broke the rest of
the sentence off with a jerk. One was the report of an exploding
shell, dangerously near, the other the faint clatter of horses,
evidently tearing along at a furious speed.
“By Jove! I really believe they’re comin’ back at last!” shouted
the Tacoma lad joyously. “Whoop! Oh! if it’s only so--anyway--it’s
certainly somebody, who wants to get somewhere else in a few ticks of
the clock.”
The street close at hand was now beginning to show some signs of
life again. The burning building proved an attraction which brought
a number of men running toward the scene, and Cranny once more heard
a loud jargon of Spanish. He saw some of the people as they pattered
up dividing their attention between him and the fire; though he was
perfectly indifferent to their stares, for the clatter of the galloping
horses was momentarily rising higher.
“There they come!” The lad excitedly spoke his thoughts aloud.
Far ahead around a bend two riders, enveloped in the soft haze of the
early morning, had suddenly appeared into view. At first glance it
looked as if their horses were beyond control, for neck to neck the
animals raced, while the riders sat astride their backs with all the
ease of Mexican vaqueros.
But the anxious Cranny Beaumont, his nerves tingling with expectancy
and hope, quickly perceived that the horsemen were neither Mexican
vaqueros, nor any of the riders who had so recently disappeared.
“Great Julius Cæsar!” he burst out explosively. With eyes fairly
bulging, he watched the Mexicans scattering to let the horsemen
pass. He heard a few shouts of “Gringo! Gringo!” Then a wave of wild
exultation swept through him. In the exuberance of his joy he tossed
his wide-brimmed sombrero high in the air and caught it as it fell.
“Whoop! whoop!” he yelled. “Go it, Tom! Go it! Show ‘Whirly-gig’ your
heels! This is a bit of luck, sure enough! Great Scott! I’m more glad’n
ever to be alive!”
Amidst a whirling cloud of yellow dust Bob Somers and Tom Clifton
pulled up their panting, steaming mustangs, to gaze, with expressions
of the utmost surprise, at the highly delighted Tacoma lad.