A WARNING
“Hi there, Jack, is that you?” called Mr. Ryder as the lad entered the
cottage.
“Yes, but what on earth are you doing here with all the rumpus down at
the plant?”
“Oh, I’ve been here for the last hour or more. To tell you the truth, my
boy, I did not have the heart to remain and see the outcome. I knew the
trap would work; in fact, I was afraid it would work too well. How many
men did they kill, Jack?” There was a note of anxiety in the engineer’s
voice as he asked the question.
“Three,” replied the boy.
“Well, thank heavens it wasn’t more,” said Mr. Ryder somewhat relieved.
“The riflemen would have had no compunction if the number had been
thirty-three, but I have. It seems wicked and inhuman to sacrifice three
lives in order to teach the beggars a lesson. It makes me very unhappy.”
Jack was glad to find that Mr. Ryder took this attitude in the matter.
If the truth were known he had secretly felt a little bitter toward the
engineer for concocting such a diabolical trap. But when he saw how
unhappy it had made the man his bitterness turned to sympathy.
“It does seem mighty hard to kill three men in order to teach the rest
of them a lesson, but I suppose it was absolutely necessary for our own
safety,” said the youth in an effort to relieve the engineer’s feelings.
“You are quite right, my lad. It is hard, but it had to be done.
Sometimes, you know, the lesson is almost as disagreeable to the teacher
as it is to the pupil. I hope to goodness we’ll have no more of this
slaughter, but the way the rebels are acting I am very much afraid
that we will be in for a real battle before the trouble is settled. I
sincerely hope I’m wrong.”
The engineer was sitting at the table in the center of the room, a mass
of blueprints, drawings and typewritten data spread out in front of him.
His shirt was open at the throat, for the evening was very warm and his
revolver and cartridge belt had been removed and tossed carelessly on the
table before him.
“What are all the plans?” queried Jack as he sat down opposite the
engineer.
“These are the original sketches and preliminary drawings from which I
worked out my lightning arrester,” replied Mr. Ryder. “It begins to look
as if the stolen papers weren’t going to turn up. Our rurale with the
scarred foot denies all knowledge of their whereabouts, which means that
he will never tell where they are, even if he does happen to know, for a
Mexican can be mighty stubborn when he feels disposed that way. Under the
circumstances, I fancy I’ll have to dig a new set of blueprints out of
these old plans.
“And that isn’t going to be the easiest work in the world, let me tell
you. I have paid very little attention to the preliminary papers since
I worked out the final plans and the consequence is many of the more
important sketches and formulas have disappeared. I am mighty sorry that
I did not make duplicate drawings before I sent the plans to Drueryville.
The worst feature of the whole thing is the fact that I have not yet
applied for patent rights either in this country or the United States.
I could not take this step until I had secured Dr. Moorland’s formula,
you know, because that was one of the fundamental features of the new
appliance. In that case whoever has the plans can very easily apply for
patents in his own name and then all my work will have been for nothing.
Indeed, if I wanted to use my own invention after that I would probably
be forced to pay a royalty to some one else. That would be a fine
how-de-do, wouldn’t it?”
Though the boy could be of very little assistance to the engineer, just
then, he remained at the table. Somehow, plans and blueprints had a
certain fascination for Jack, who hoped to become an engineer some day.
He spread one of the more simple charts before him and tried to work out
the details for himself. How long he had been absorbed in this task he
did not know, but suddenly, just outside the cottage, sounded a patter
of naked feet, then some one sprang upon the porch in front of the door,
shouting as he did so:
“_Los Zapatistas! Los Zapatistas! Viene Ellos!_”
“The rebels, they are coming! What can he mean!” shouted Mr. Ryder as he
leaped from his chair and reached for his revolver. The next instant the
door was pushed violently open and an Indian exhausted and with blood
dripping from an ugly wound in his shoulder, plunged into the room.
“It is Miguel the Indian runner, and he’s wounded,” exclaimed Jack,
immediately recognizing the red man as the one whose dog he had saved
from the alligator several weeks before.
Clutching the end of the table for support, the native began to talk very
rapidly, and as the engineer listened, his face took on a startled and
somewhat puzzled look.
“He says that he has run ten miles to warn us that José Cerro and his
band are planning to attack us to-night!” explained Mr. Ryder when the
native finally ceased talking. “He says that they are on the way now
and that we must hurry and prepare to meet their attack or we will be
overwhelmed!”
“How does he know this?” demanded Jack, thoroughly excited.
“He carried mail to Los Angeles to-night,” said Mr. Ryder, “and while he
was lingering in the village a native told him that the famous bandit
José Cerro was there. The native pointed out the very house where José
Cerro was drinking _pulque_ with some of his lieutenants. He became
curious to see a man of such a villainous reputation and crept close to
the shack and peered into the window. He not only saw the villain but
he heard most of their conversation. He was startled, for he realized
that he was overhearing the plans for an attack on the power plant. He
heard José Cerro say, ‘The fence wires are all cut by now and the big
searchlight crippled. Everything is ready for the attack. Our men need
only to rush in, seize Señor Ryder and carry him off. Then I will collect
three thousand pesos from our benefactor before we start to join Zapata
and capture the railroad. Then if we play our part right we can hold
this great electrical engineer for a ransom from his friends in America
perhaps. If we can’t do that we can kill him at least, though I’d much
prefer to hold him and collect gringo gold for his release. How say you,
men?’ At this there were many cheers.
“Miguel became less cautious for he wanted to hear more. The result was
that José Cerro saw him through the window and fired his revolver at him.
The bullet hit him in the shoulder. The town was in an uproar immediately
but the runner did not wait. As fast as he could he ran toward the power
plant, glad, he says, of an opportunity to be of service to the gringo
who saved his dog from the alligators.”
The Indian had stood by the table during Mr. Ryder’s recital, his
face distorted with the pain of the wound in his shoulder, and as the
lad looked at him he realized just how much hardship the red man had
withstood to repay a debt of kindness.
“We must prepare to meet the attack immediately,” said Jack calmly, “but
before I move a step I am going to bind up this poor fellow’s wound and
see that he is comfortable.”
“Fine! Take care of him and I’ll go and spread the alarm. Hurry down to
the trenches when you’re through,” said Mr. Ryder as he seized a rifle
and rushed out the door.
Although Jack could not talk to the Indian, he soon made the red man
understand by motions that he wanted to take care of the bullet wound.
The native smiled gratefully at this and sat down in Mr. Ryder’s chair
while the young American hastened out to Tom Why’s cook house. The lad
routed the worthy Chinaman out of bed and bade him heat some water
immediately. In the meantime, he found some clean linen with which to
make bandages.
Tom Why was a willing assistant and in short order all blood stains
had been wiped from the runner’s chest and arm and the wound bathed.
Then Jack bound a bandage tightly about the injured shoulder and after
preparing a cup of steaming hot coffee, showed the native to one of
the bedrooms and insisted that he lay down and rest for a while. During
all this, the tawny yellow hound which had followed the Indian into the
cottage, kept close to his master’s side. The animal seemed to appreciate
everything that Jack and Tom did for the redman, for his tail wagged
furiously all the time. And when the runner lay down upon Jack’s bed the
hound curled himself up in the doorway as if to keep guard while Miguel
was sleeping.
When the Indian was comfortable, the Vermonter buckled on his own
revolver, and slinging a heavy cartridge belt over his shoulder seized
one of the rifles in the corner and hurried out to the trenches.
At the plant every one was in a state of excitement. The ugly-looking,
three-inch fieldpiece had been unjacketed and made ready for action. The
battery of French machine guns, those death-dealing instruments that
fired more than four hundred shots a minute, had all been mounted and
manned, and soldiers and workmen alike all fully armed, waited crouching
in the trenches. The two improvised searchlights were still burning and
by their light the whole scene looked weird and uncanny.
Mr. Ryder was as active as the rest, directing the position of the
defenders and arranging other details. But in the midst of it all he
found time to call Jack aside and hold a brief conversation with him.
“That Indian’s story has me thoroughly puzzled. If all he says is true,
and I have no reason to believe otherwise, some one is certainly plotting
for my downfall. Whom do you suppose José Cerro’s ‘benefactor’ is anyway?
This is the most mysterious situation I have ever been mixed up with
in my life. It certainly has me guessing. I wonder if—Look! Look! See
that flash over there! On the mountain! Listen! Hear the roar! It’s the
rebels! They’ve lugged their old fieldpiece up there again. They are
trying to drop shells down here! Ho, boys! Bill! Joe! Did you see that
flash! Throw a shell or two up there the next time they fire!” The last
was addressed to the men in charge of the three-inch gun.
Again came the flash, then the far-off roar and Jack heard the shell go
humming high in the air above the plant and burst against the mountain
across the river. But this time the gun on the mountain was answered
by the one at the plant. The battery belched forth a cloud of fire and
smoke and a moment later Jack saw a flash of fire in the woods across the
valley where the shell exploded. The fieldpiece at the plant was of the
quick-firing variety and four shots were hurled up on to the mountain
before another one was sent toward the station.
Twice shells burst within the inclosure about the plant, one carrying
away a section of the rurales’ barracks hall and setting fire to the
rest of it. The flames added to the excitement of the occasion but were
quickly extinguished by two men with a hose, held in readiness for that
very kind of emergency. Until just before daylight, the firing kept up,
then the gun on the mountain became strangely silent and the men at
Necaxa concluded that their shells had put it into disuse forever. But
when the first golden streak of morning showed above the mountain tops,
and the valley became light enough for the men to see any distance,
a new terror took the place of the gun on the mountain. From here and
there in the underbrush across the valley bottom came tiny jets of
smoke, and Jack for the first time in his life heard the ominous hum of
bullets fired with deadly earnestness. José Cerro’s sharpshooters seemed
everywhere and the flying pellets of lead and steel kicked up the dust in
all directions. For a long time the rifles in the trenches were silent,
for the men could locate no one to fire at. The fieldpiece, however, kept
shelling the forest but with little effect, for the gunners could not see
the enemy.
Then suddenly two natives showed themselves on the edge of the wood.
Instantly, a volley rang out from the defenders and the French machine
guns began to rattle viciously. The battle was on!