AT ROSARIO STATION.
The dull gray of the dawn was illuminating the east, and the breath of
the morning astir in the tree-tops, when Bill Whiting, station agent at
Rosario, began to bestir himself. The station agent was not about so
early on account of passengers that might be expected by an early
train--for the excellent reason that there was no morning train. Since
fighting had begun in Chihuahua, schedules had, to quote Bill, "gone to
pot." On a sidetrack lay a locomotive, smokeless and inert, just as
her crew had abandoned her. Some loaded freight cars, their contents
untouched, likewise stood on the spur. That Bill Whiting, however,
meant to guard the railroad's property, was evidenced by the fact that
strapped to his waist was a portly revolver, while a rifle lay handy in
the ticket office, in which, since the outbreak of trouble, he had
watched and slept and cooked.
Bill's first task, after tumbling out of his blankets and washing his
face in a tin basin standing in one corner of the office, was to tap
the telegraph key. The instrument gave out a lifeless "tick-tick."
"No juice--blazes!" grunted Bill, and, being a philosophical young man,
he bothered himself no more about the matter, and went about getting
his breakfast.
In the midst of his preparations, however, he suddenly straightened up
and listened intently. To hear better, he even shoved aside the
sizzling frying-pan from its position over one burner of his kerosene
stove. What had attracted his attention was a distant sound--faint at
first, but momentarily growing nearer.
"Blazes!" muttered Bill, scratching his head, and making for a rear
window, which commanded a view of the long, white road. "What's that,
I wonder? Sounds like a sick cow."
He gazed out of the window earnestly, and then suddenly recoiled with a
startled exclamation.
"Blazes! It ain't no cow. It's an automobubble. Yes, sir, as sure as
you live, it's a bubble. Whose can it be? Maybe it's old man
Stetson's himself."
Chugging in a spasmodic sort of way, the car drew nearer, and the
station agent now saw that there were several people in it.
"Looks like that car is spavined, or something," commented Bill. "Why,
it's regularly limping; yes, sir--blazes!--it's limping, fer a fact."
Buck Bradley's auto was, in fact, at almost its "last gasp." Ralph's
temporary repair had not lasted any longer than he had expected.
Fortunately, at the time it gave out, the insurrectos had apparently
given up the chase, and the party was not far from the hacienda of a
friend of the genial Buck. At his suggestion, therefore, they diverted
from their road to the mine, and swung off to this house. Here a hasty
meal and a warm welcome were enjoyed, and Ralph set the car in order as
best he could. Buck's friend, however, had news for them. He had
heard that there was an encampment of regulars at Rosario, from which
it was only a short run by rail to the branch on which the Esmeralda
was located.
This information caused the party to change their plans. With the car
in the condition in which it was, they doubted whether it would be
possible to travel over the rough roads intervening between themselves
and the mine. On the other hand, Rosario was not far off, and on a
smooth, hard highway. If the information of Buck Bradley's friend was
correct, and there was no reason to doubt it, the regulars were camped
at Rosario guarding the line. What more easy than to explain their
case to the leader of the Mexican regulars, and steal a march on the
insurrectos by reaching the Esmeralda first by rail, and wiping out the
band of Madero?
But, alas for human plans! The party in the auto was doomed to bitter
disappointment. As they approached, and no camp was to be seen, they
began to realize that their information had been inaccurate. Bill
Whiting speedily clinched all doubt in the matter.
"Say, my friend," hailed Buck Bradley, as the agent emerged from his
shack, "where are the soldiers?"
"You mean the greaser regulars?" was the rejoinder. "Blazes, they went
off yesterday. Had a tip where Madero was, and they are after him,
hot-foot, I reckon."
The boys exchanged despondent glances. Here was a fine end to their
high hopes. The Esmeralda was now farther off than ever, and the auto
was hopelessly crippled. One tire was worn almost to ribbons, a rim
had been sprung, and two spark plugs had cracked. Every one of the
party realized, as the car stopped with a sigh, that it couldn't move
again until a tall lot of overhauling had been done.
"Anything I can do to help yer?" volunteered Bill, noting the woebegone
faces of his countrymen.
"Nothing, son, unless you've got a wire working," sputtered Buck, who,
as he did with everything, had gone into this matter, heart and soul.
"Wire!" echoed the station agent, "why, blazes, I couldn't put through
a tap fer Diaz himself. The wire went dead two days ago, and I've been
on my own hook since."
"What was the last word you had?" asked Jack, thinking, perhaps, that
they might have some information in regard to affairs at the mine.
The agent dived into his pocket and fished out a yellow paper.
"Here it is," he exclaimed, "and it's signed by 'King Pin' Stetson
himself: 'Keep freight moving at all hazards.'"
"It's signed by Mr. Stetson, you say?" exclaimed Ralph eagerly.
"Sure. He's the main boss on this road, you know, and----"
"I know, I know!" cried Ralph eagerly, "but is he here across the
border?"
"Huh? Not he. He's in the best hotel in El Paso, consulting and
smoking two-bit seegars. But my job's here, and here I stick."
But Ralph and Jack had not heard this speech. A light shone in the
Eastern boy's eyes, the light of a great idea.
"There's a locomotive yonder, Jack," he whispered. "I can run one. I
learned one summer when pop took me over the Squantock and Port Gloster
line. You said there was a branch connecting with the Esmeralda. Why
can't we go by rail?"
"By ginger, Ralph! Have you got the nerve?"
"Look at me."
Jack regarded his comrade an instant. There wasn't a flicker of an
eyelash to show that Ralph was the least bit nervous. The experiences
of the last few days had taught him much.
While Bill Whiting regarded them curiously, Jack hastily told the
others of what Ralph had proposed.
"That appeals ter me as a ring-tailed roarer of a good idee," announced
Buck Bradley, when he had finished.
"Waal, I'm more used ter doin' my fightin' ahorseback than from a loco,
but I guess it goes here," chimed in Pete.
"An eminently sensible suggestion," was the professor's contribution.
The maimed ankle of the man of science was now almost well, and, as he
put it, he was "restored to his customary salubriosity."
"Then, all we've got to do, is to get permission to take the
locomotive," declared Jack. He turned to Bill Whiting, who had been
eyeing them curiously.
"We've got to get through to the Esmeralda mine," he said. "Our auto
is broken down, and yet the fate of the mine, and perhaps the lives of
its defenders, hang upon our arrival there as soon as possible. Have
we your authority to run the locomotive through?"
"Say, son," drawled Bill Whiting, "put on your brakes. That's a
compound, and even supposing I could let you take her, how would you
run her?"
"There's a boy here who can run her all right," cried Jack impatiently.
"All we need to have is your authority."
Bill Whiting shook his head.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't know you, and that loco's railroad
property. I'm responsible fer it. Suppose you'd ditch her?
No--blazes!--it wouldn't do at all."
"I'll give yer a hundred dollars gold fer two hours use uv that
ingine," cried Buck Bradley.
"No good," declared Bill, shaking his head; "it's railroad property.
I've got my job to look after, even if Chihuahua is turned inside out."
"But this is a matter of the utmost urgency," argued Jack. "Listen."
He rapidly detailed the outlines of their situation to the agent. The
man was obdurate, however.
"Couldn't nobody touch that ingine but old man Stetson himself."
"How about his son?" Ralph's voice rang out clearly above the excited
tones of the others.
"Waal, I reckon he could, but he ain't here."
"He isn't, eh?" demanded Ralph, hopping out of the tonneau, "well, my
name happens to be Ralph Stetson."
"Oh, quit joking. You're Americans, like myself, and I'd like ter help
you out, but I can't do it."
"Will you give me a chance to prove to you I'm Ralph Stetson?" asked
Ralph eagerly.
"Sure; a dozen, if yer want 'em," grinned the agent, gazing at the
ragged, tattered figure before him.
Ralph dived into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of letters and
papers. Motioning the agent to sit beside him at the edge of the
platform, he skimmed through them for the other's benefit. The group
in the auto watched anxiously. A whole lot depended on Ralph's proving
his identity.
"Say, blazes!" burst out the agent suddenly, "_you are_ Ralph Stetson,
ain't you?"
"I think those letters and papers prove it," answered the boy. "Now,
do we get that loco?"
"I reckon so, if you say so. But, will you sign a paper, releasing me
of responsibility?"
With what speed that paper was signed, may be imagined. In the
meantime, Buck Bradley, who knew a thing or two about railroading
himself, had his coat off, and was hard at work waking up the banked
fires. Presently the forced draught began to roar, and black smoke to
roll from the smoke-stack. By the time the auto had been wheeled in
under a shed, and Bill Whiting asked to communicate with the government
troops as soon as possible, all was ready for the start.
The engine was trembling under a good head of steam, white jets gushing
from her safety valves.
"All ab-o-a-r-d!" yelled Pete, in the manner of a conductor, and Buck
Bradley, who had stepped off after his labors to cool up a bit, began
to climb back again.
"Why, are you going with us, Mr. Bradley?" demanded Jack amazedly.
"What about your show?"
"Oh, Sam Stow kin look after that," was the easy rejoinder. "It won't
be the first time. I've worked long enough; now I'm off for a little
play."
"Won't be much play about it, I'm thinking," grunted Pete.
The engine bell clanged, a hoarse shriek came from her whistle, and the
wheels began to revolve. Ralph was at the throttle, while Bill Whiting
was up ahead to throw the switch.
"Good luck!" he cried, waving his hand as the locomotive swept by and
rolled out upon the main line.
"Good-by!" cried the crowd of adventurers in the cab, waving their
hands back at him.
Buck threw the furnace door open, and sent a big shovelful of coal
skittering into the glaring interior. The cumbrous machine gave a leap
forward, like a scared greyhound, as Ralph jerked the throttle open.
The Border Boys were off on what was to prove one of the most
adventurous incidents of their lives.