KIDNAPPING JIMMY
“Good gracious!” cried Dick, wildly. “Bob Somers and Tom Clifton!
Well--well--it can’t be true--how in thunder----”
“Isn’t this just about the finest thing that ever happened!” broke in
Jimmy, his face radiant with joy. “Why! I thought two of you chaps were
miles and miles away!”
The boys were so highly delighted at this happy reunion, under strange
and dramatic circumstances, that the dangers which surrounded them were
for the moment forgotten.
“Well! Jimmy Raymond, you certainly are responsible for making us face
the music!” cried Tom.
“Well, Dick Travers, you certainly helped to make me see some sights!”
gurgled Cranny, with his old-time reckless air.
“I want to know an awful lot of things,” exclaimed Dick. “How in the
world you chaps got back here so soon and---- Say, Bob--how’s the
scrap going? I’ve just been simply wild to know--for goodness’ sake
talk fast.”
It was Bob Somers, as usual, who brought order into the proceedings. He
knew that there would be no safety for them so long as they remained on
this side of the border.
“The Constitutionalists have captured the town!” he responded
hurriedly. “But really, Dick, there isn’t a bit of time for any other
explanations just now!”
“I should say not!” chimed in Tom. Eager as the lad felt to learn about
the experiences of Dick and Jimmy, he could not forget that the mission
entrusted to him by Colonel Brookes Sylvester should be carried out
before anything else was thought of.
Excitement was in the air. Every sound from the outside seemed to
possess an ominous note that thrilled. In their fidgety movements, and
their voices, which in spite of the most earnest efforts persisted in
vibrating, the lads showed the effects of it all.
“I’ve got the finest bit of news for you, Jimmy!” exclaimed Tom. “I’ve
met your uncle, Colonel Brookes Sylvester, and----” He stopped short,
struck by a peculiar expression which sprang into the young pianist’s
eyes. “Why--what’s the matter?”
“You met my uncle!” exclaimed Jimmy. “How--when?”
In a very few words the Rambler explained, and when he had finished
both he and three others were astounded.
Jimmy, his face set and stern, was pacing up and down.
“I’m not going back to Texas--at least not just now!” he blurted out
with savage earnestness.
“Not going back to Texas!” echoed Tom, in amazement. “I--I don’t
understand.”
“I’ll make you! Oh, it’s all very well to try and smooth things
over with soft palaver.” Jimmy the pianist was working himself into
a passion. He spoke rapidly, snapping out his sentences in a jerky
fashion. “The colonel notified the police, the Texas Rangers, and every
one else in authority to arrest me. To arrest me--did you hear?” The
last words came out like a shout.
“You--you don’t understand, Jimmy!” cried Tom.
Jimmy paid no attention.
“And then he said,” the remembrance increased the scowling lines on his
forehead, “that he didn’t think I was of the rough and ready sort who
could fight his own battles in the world!”
“But, Jimmy, suppose he did. That’s nothing!”
“Not to you, maybe, Tom! My uncle ordered me to return to Brownsville
as though I were but a little kid. He said enough in five minutes to
make me mad for five years!”
“It’s all a whopping big mistake!” protested Tom energetically. “Let me
tell you----”
“Dick,” the pianist’s hand came down on the Rambler’s shoulder,
“couldn’t understand why I refused to skip over to Texas with him; now
he knows!”
Jimmy’s sensitive nature had been far more deeply touched than even his
uncle had dreamed. He vehemently protested that he did not intend to
be arrested by the Texas Rangers or any one else; that he would prove
to Colonel Brookes Sylvester’s entire satisfaction his ability to get
along in the world.
[Illustration: SILENTLY THE LADS OBSERVED THEM]
“I’ll admit in the past I’ve been too much a hothouse kid, but,” he
banged his fist down hard on a table by his side, “never again! No,
Tom! I won’t cross over the International bridge with you! Besides, I
believe the danger’s all over!”
“‘A hothouse kid,’” cried Dick. “Why--say, fellows, this chap is simply
chuck full of grit. He didn’t even want to skip down into the cyclone
cellar when shells were bursting all around the plaza. And----”
Heavy footsteps on the veranda, and resounding deep, bass voices,
brought the explanations and arguments to an abrupt conclusion. They
grew momentarily louder and on looking toward the door leading into the
building the boys saw half a dozen burly Mexicans soon emerge from the
soft, mellow depths of the interior into the bluish gray tones of the
shade outside.
“Christopher Columbus!” murmured Dick.
They, themselves, were partly concealed from view behind several
towering shrubs, and the newcomers failed to discover their presence.
Silently the lads observed them. Their hearts beat faster. Crouching
far back into the friendly shelter they watched and waited, while the
swarthy-looking men strode here and there, their spurs clinking faintly
as they walked.
They were all in a high good humor, rough and boisterous; and in a
playful spirit overturned tables, upset plants, and flipped with their
quirts any stray glasses or crockery-ware which came in their way,
chuckling loudly when the patio echoed to the sounds of smashing glass.
After five minutes of silence and suspense on the boys’ part, the
revolutionists strode back into the building and disappeared.
During all this time Tom Clifton had been doing a tremendous amount of
thinking. Jimmy, he realized, after long pondering over his imaginary
wrongs, had worked himself into such a state of mind that at the
present time he was no longer amenable to reason. It seemed to have the
effect, too, of dulling his senses to the perils which still surrounded
them.
Anarchy, lawlessness, disregard for either the lives or property of
people, characterized that period of the troublous times in Mexico. If
the pianist could not be induced to return to Texas by arguments, he
must be made to do so by other means.
“Of course,” murmured Tom, “he’ll be furiously angry for a short time.
Then say it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
The moment the Constitutionalists’ footsteps had ceased to sound he was
whispering a plan to Bob. The Rambler chief nodded.
“Bully for you, Tom,” he replied in equally low tones. “We’ll do it!”
“Dick,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “do you think the other chaps are all
right?”
“Yes!” responded Dick. “I’ll tell you now----”
“It’s a jolly fine thing to feel that way,” interjected Bob, earnestly.
He lowered his voice. “But we don’t want to do any more talking just
now!”
Wonderingly, Jimmy Raymond followed them as they cautiously started
for the doorway. A little reconnoitering showed that the interior was
deserted.
The broad, sunny plaza presented an entirely different scene from any
which had before greeted their eyes. It wore all the appearance of an
armed camp. Stacked rifles were gleaming in the light. Cavalry horses
hitched singly and in groups occupied almost every available place.
Booted and spurred revolutionists, with cartridge belts worn about
their waists or slung across their shoulders, filled the square. It was
an ever-moving throng, which sent up a ceaseless jabbering of talk, of
shouts and yells, while the pigeons fluttered about the belfry of the
ancient church and dared not to venture down in their familiar haunts
below.
“Poor chaps!” exclaimed Dick, in low tones. His eyes were following a
squad of Federal soldiers--prisoners, being escorted by armed guards
across the square. “This is no place for us!” he added.
“Let’s steer straight for the American Consul,” suggested Jimmy. “I
know the house--that’s one of the jobs he gets paid for--protecting
United States subjects.”
“On to the stable!” said Cranny, softly.
With many a fear tugging at their hearts, the five stole down the
veranda steps expecting to hear challenging cries hurled toward
them at any moment. Good luck, however, attended their efforts, and
each slipped inside the stable door with a muttered expression of
satisfaction.
“Can you ride, Jimmy?” asked Tom.
“I certainly can!” answered the pianist.
“That’s bully! You jump up behind me. Cranny’ll go with Dick. For
goodness’ sakes, fellows, don’t let’s get separated again--whew, some
hot day this all around, eh?”
“Oh! if young ‘Starlight’ were only here!” growled the Tacoma lad.
Bob Somers held a brief consultation in a guarded tone with Dick and
Cranny. Their eyes opened wider. “Sure thing, Bob! We understand,”
whispered the Rambler.
“Now!” exclaimed Tom, in a stern, authoritative voice. “I’m going in
the lead. Keep close behind me, and,” he shook his finger emphatically,
“don’t question any direction I may take!”
“All right!” said Jimmy.
“I guess we won’t go many blocks!” murmured Cranny.
Tom poked his head outside the door, after a quick glance around,
exclaiming: “Come on, fellows; lead ’em right to the rear. Ready? No
noise now!”
It was a job that made their nerves tingle anew, for a number of men
were sprawling in the shade not so very far away.
The crowd managed it, however. Tom was the first to spring into the
saddle.
“Come along, Jimmy!” he exclaimed, with a long, deep breath. The young
pianist without an instant’s hesitation jumped up behind him.
“Let ’er go, Tom,” he said. “Yes, don’t bother. I’ll hold on tight!”
At the head of the little procession Tom started off, turning into the
first street at the rear of the hotel. Very few of the inhabitants of
the town were to be seen, but their eyes could not roam far in any
direction without taking in some of the victorious cavalrymen.
Riding at a cautious pace and carefully choosing the side streets,
many of which were practically deserted, they were soon a considerable
distance from the hotel.
Had there been less excitement and confusion it is almost certain that
the victorious Constitutionalists would have quickly stopped them and
demanded explanations. But the soldiers, flushed with victory, were too
busy searching for the richest spoils to concern themselves very much
with a handful of passing horsemen.
True it was that many a pair of fierce, questioning eyes was turned
upon them, and the five felt their hearts beat fast when a galloping
horse was pulled up with a jerk, and its rider addressed them in a
rough, loud voice.
“Buenas dias, señor,” said Bob, politely. “Buenas dias, señor,” said
the others with equal gravity. The man, for a moment, looked at them
with a puzzled expression, then muttering to himself continued on his
way.
Becoming bolder by degrees, they clattered along at a good rate,
past the still smoking ruins of the Municipal Palace, by the side
of a row of buildings on Commerco Street, of which only the jagged,
smoke-begrimed walls remained. Débris filled the streets, telegraph
poles lay across their path, wires were strewn about, and broken and
scarred walls gave evidence of the terrific violence of the artillery
fire.
“See here, Tom, I don’t believe you’re going in the right direction!”
exclaimed Jimmy at last.
The Rambler made no reply, for the threatening actions of four armed
Mexicans standing in front of the iron railings which surrounded the
handsome library had attracted his attention. The building, a wreck
from the effects of shot, shell and fire, was now but a gaunt reminder
of its former stateliness.
Jimmy was thinking of this when Tom suddenly looked over his shoulder
and addressing the riders close behind, exclaimed:
“Now, fellows! Look out!”
The four Mexicans were running fast toward them; just as each began to
utter a voluble string of words, Tom gave his mustang a touch of the
quirt and swung into another street, soon leaving the men far to the
rear.
Then, casting aside the last vestige of caution, the Rambler gradually
increased his pace until the hoofs of the horses were sending abroad a
loud warning of their presence.
Jimmy was amazed.
“Stop! Hold on, Tom!” he yelled. “Now I know you’re going in the wrong
direction. Hold on, I say!”
He turned his head. With a swift glance the lad saw Bob Somers and Dick
Travers thundering along on either hand, their faces tense and stern.
“Bob, he’s taking us half the town’s length out of our way!” he
shouted. “Stop him!”
“Get up, old boy, git up!” in Tom’s loud, gruff voice were the only
words he heard in response. Whereupon a sudden suspicion entered the
young pianist’s mind. Just ahead he caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande,
and a pile of grim old buildings which lined its bank. But a short
distance from them, the International bridge crossed the river.
When his next loud commands received no answer, Jimmy realized with
a feeling of the deepest anger that his surmises had proven to be
correct. He began to storm, to coax and even to threaten.
“It’s all right, Jimmy!” yelled Bob. “It was the only thing we could
do!”
A hot breeze blew in the lads’ faces. Dogs barked, or dashed out to
snap at the ponies’ heels; people stared in wonderment. On and on they
thundered, at an ever-increasing pace, until the white adobe houses,
the stuccoed walls, the fields and trees seemed to blend together into
a continuous streak of varied color.
Jimmy, a captive in the hands of the boys he had liked so well, still
stormed and growled. He was helpless, however, to interfere in the
slightest degree with the course of events.
Now sweeping into the wide road which followed the bank of the Rio, the
lads saw but a short distance ahead the International bridge. It was a
wooden structure, heavy and crude in appearance, little suggesting its
impressive title.
At any other time the horsemen would not have been allowed to cross in
so unceremonious a fashion; but apparently all the officials whose duty
it was to look after outgoing and incoming travelers had fled from the
scene.
Only a few cavalrymen were about, and they were too far from the
entrance to give the boys any concern.
As his horse clattered out on the planks, Tom Clifton could not
restrain a loud cry of exultation. Jimmy now would soon realize the
wisdom of their actions and the folly of his own.
The clouds of choking dust still kept pace with them; a thunderous din
of dashing horses was carried off on the still, hot atmosphere.
It was heard by United States soldiers guarding the American side; it
also reached the ears of two members of the Texas Rangers on duty for
the time being at the same important post.
These men eagerly watched the approaching riders, who with the hot sun
beating relentlessly down upon them tore at unslackened speed over the
last stretch of the journey.
Presently the lads, enveloped in the center of a cloud of whirling
dust, pulled up and sprang to the ground--safe on United States soil.
They were immediately surrounded by soldiers, Rangers, and inhabitants,
and from every side a torrent of questions rang in their ears.
One of the Texas Rangers, with a sharp, quick glance toward Jimmy
Raymond, took no part in the talking, nor did he seem to pay any heed
to the replies which the fugitives were rattling off as fast as their
weary condition would permit.
The officer stood scanning a headquarters order; then, nodding his head
affirmatively, he stepped forward and laid a hand on the Texas boy’s
shoulder.
“Son!” he exclaimed quietly. “You’re wanted!”
At last Jimmy Raymond, the young pianist, was in the hands of the Texas
Rangers, the men whom he had so ardently wished to avoid.