MADERO'S FLYING COLUMN.
As they stood there, still undecided as to which direction to take,
Jack's keen eyes detected, above a clump of trees some distance down
the road to the west, a cloud of yellow dust rising. Evidently
somebody was coming their way. The question was, who was it?
It might be some one of whom they could inquire the direction to the
Esmeralda mine--for Jack had determined to seek out his father, knowing
the mine could not be very far distant. Again it might be a band of
insurrectos, in which case they would have jumped out of the frying pan
into the fire with a vengeance.
"Shall we ride forward?" asked Walt, as Jack's lips tightened in deep
thought.
The other boy pushed back his sombrero. Jack Merrill was only a lad,
after all, and he found himself suddenly called upon to answer a
question which might have stumped a grown man. The question, however,
was decided for him, and by a means so utterly unexpected that it came
near jolting the Border Boys out of their composure; for Jack, as they
had ridden up from the river, had admonished his companions to keep
cool minds and wits and stiff upper lips whatever happened. They were
going into a country in which, from what they had been able to gather,
the insurrectos were numerically and strategically strong. Their only
safety, the lad argued with a wisdom beyond his years, was in facing
emergencies as they came, without betraying by outward signs whatever
of inward perturbation they might feel.
"I think we had better ride eastward, till we come to some village or
town," Jack was beginning, in response to Walt's question, when a voice
from behind suddenly hailed them in unmistakably American accents.
"Ah, here you are, gentlemen. We've been expecting you."
The boys wheeled to find that a horseman stood beside them. He had
ridden almost noiselessly over the soft grass, which accounted for
their not having heard his approach. Jack took in the new arrival's
figure in a quick, comprehensive glance.
The man who now faced them was a stalwart-looking chap of about thirty.
His face was bronzed and his eyes keen. The face of one who has lived
much out of doors. His manner seemed frank and open--even hearty--but
any one skilled in reading faces would have noted in the rather
receding chin and the eyes set close together that, in spite of his
apparent heartiness, the newcomer was a man of limited reliability.
The sort of chap, in short, who, while fearless up to a certain point
and adventurous to a degree, would yet in an extremity look out for
"Number One."
As for his dress, it was much the same as the boys'. Sombrero, leather
chaps well worn, blue shirt, and red neck handkerchief. Jack's keen
eyes noted, too, that the pommel of his saddle bore some recent bullet
scars, and that in two bearskin holsters reposed the formidable-looking
butts of two heavy-caliber revolvers. The war-like note was further
enhanced by the fact that across his saddle horn the new arrival
carried a Remington rifle.
The boys' position was now an extraordinary one. Advancing toward them
down the road, was, what they could now perceive to be, a considerable
body of horsemen. As if this were not enough to raise a question of
whether it was better to fly or remain where they were, here was this
total stranger, perhaps an American, too, hailing them as if he knew
them, or, at least, had expected to meet them there. Jack's mind was
made up in a flash, but, even in the brief instant he hesitated, the
stranger's keen, close-set eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"I'm not mistaken, am I? You expected to meet me here?"
"Yes, yes, of course," responded Jack quickly, and in as easy a tone as
he could command; "I hope we're not late?"
"No; there comes Madero's flying column now. You couldn't have kept
the appointment better if you had arranged to meet us at some spot in
New York."
"I'm glad we're on time," said Jack, not knowing exactly what else to
say.
The lad was thunderstruck, as well he might be, by the turn events were
taking. He wished fervently, however, that they knew whom they were
expected to be and why their coming had been awaited with such
eagerness.
"I say, you know," rattled on the other, who seemed to be a pleasant
natured enough chap, "that trip of yours through that hole in the
ground has mussed you up a bit."
"It certainly has," agreed Jack, more and more mystified; "it's a
pretty rough voyage."
"That's what, and going through that blamed trap in the Mesa, like a
comedian in an extravaganza, isn't the least unpleasant part of it. It
was a pretty slick trick of Ramon's to find that out, although, I
guess, some old Indian gave him the tip."
"It's a great scheme," put in Walt Phelps, finding his tongue at last.
"You chaps are a good deal younger than I expected to find you,"
rattled on the stranger, "but I suppose you've seen lots of service."
"Yes, lots of it," put in Ralph, throwing some fervor into his tone.
He felt that they had indeed, in the last few hours, seen service
enough for a lifetime. Jack inwardly rejoiced as the others found
their tongues. He had dreaded that the suddenness of the emergency
might have proved too much for them. Both lads were rising to it
gallantly, however. Now, if only he could find out who on earth they
were supposed to be, they might yet escape from the predicament into
which they had fallen.
"Now let's introduce ourselves," went on their new acquaintance,
evidently not the least bit suspicious now. "My name's Bob Harding.
Which of you chaps is Con Divver?"
"Right here," said Jack, motioning to Walt.
"And Jim Hickey and Ted Rafter?"
"I'm Jim and here is Ted," responded Jack, his heart beating like a
trip hammer. It was a daring game they were playing.
"That's good. Now we all know each other. I think that Americans
enlisted in this sort of service should be on good terms, don't you?"
"I certainly do," rejoined Jack warmly.
"Fine! I'll bet we'll make good messmates. And now here comes Madero
himself. If you fellows will come with me, I'll introduce you in form.
Do you 'spiggoty'?"
"Do we what?" asked Jack wonderingly.
"Spiggoty. Talk this greaser lingo?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid. Does the general talk English?"
"Well. He's a good fellow, too. You'll find out."
Thus rattling on, Bob Harding escorted the lads toward the van of the
advancing horsemen. There were about a hundred in the troop, which
Harding had referred to as a "Flying Column," and, although the
horsemen were all apparently well armed, their appearance was ragged
and wild in the extreme. They had evidently seen some hard fighting.
Here and there could be seen men with bandaged heads or limbs, while
their high conical-crowned hats were in some cases drilled, like
beehives, with bullet holes. In color, the insurrecto leader's
followers ranged from a delicate cream to a dark, reddish-brown, almost
the coppery hue of a red Indian. In all, they formed as ferocious and
formidable-looking a troop of horsemen as the Border Boys had ever set
eyes on.
Madero himself, a rather sad-faced man of past middle age, rode in
advance, surrounded by several officers, the latter having red flannel
chevrons attached to their buckskin coats by safety pins. The famous
insurrecto leader raised his hat with Mexican courtesy as the newcomers
approached. Bob Harding drew himself up in his saddle and gave a
military salute which the general stiffly returned. The boys, taking
their cue from their new acquaintance, followed his example.
"I am afraid that your first experience with the insurrectos was a
rough one, señores," said the general, with one of his sad smiles,
using very fair English.
"No rougher than we must expect," rejoined Jack crisply. The lad by
now had begun to have an inkling of the situation. Evidently Bob
Harding was a soldier of fortune fighting with the insurrectos against
the troops of Diaz, while they themselves were supposed to be more of
the same brand. Evidently they had been expected by Ramon's
subterranean river, and in taking the boat they must have forestalled
the real Con Divver, Jim Hickey, and Ted Rafter. Jack caught himself
wondering how long it would take the latter to ride over the mountains
and discover the imposture.
"We are on our way to our bivouac farther on, gentlemen," said the
general, with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss them. "Captain
Harding will introduce you to your brother officers and later on I will
assign you to duty."
The boys saluted once more, as did Bob Harding, and, still following
the young soldier of fortune, they rode toward the rear of the column.
The brown-skinned soldiers cast many glances out of their wild eyes at
them as they loped back, evidently wondering at the youth of Madero's
new recruits from across the border.
The boys found no opportunity to exchange conversation as they rode
along. Bob Harding was far too busy introducing them to brother
officers to permit of this. From remarks addressed to them, which they
answered carefully in a general way, the boys soon learned that the
three soldiers of fortune they were impersonating had been redoubtable
warriors in several revolutionary battles in South America. Thus it
came about that Jack and his chums were speedily far more prominent
personalities than they cared about becoming. The officers of Madero's
command they found to be mostly small planters and ranch owners,
inflamed with bitterness at the freedom with which great grants of land
had been made to Americans by Diaz.
Bob Harding was not backward in telling them his history, as they rode
along. He had been expelled from West Point for a hazing prank, and
since that time had "knocked about the world a bit," as he expressed
it. He was frank in confessing that he was with Madero's command for
the "fun there was in it."
"I don't see much fun in injuring American interests and practically
warring on your own people," burst out Jack, before he knew what he was
saying.
Harding whipped around in his saddle like a flash.
"Say, Jim Hickey," he snapped, "those are funny sentiments coming from
you. You didn't feel that way during your famous campaign in
Venezuela, did you?"
"Well, it wasn't so near home, you see," rather lamely explained Jack,
wishing that he had bitten his tongue out before he had made such a
break.
But Bob Harding fortunately was not of an analytical disposition, and
he was soon rattling on again, relating to the boys, with great glee,
the manner in which the insurrectos were getting all the arms they
wanted by Black Ramon's underground route.