CHAPTER XIII

Gun Play

“Good!” exclaimed Phil, as he recognized Doctor Denby’s sending. For some time he and the Doctor exchanged news, and while Dick and Tom and Steve waited with what patience they could muster to learn what it was all about. At last Phil swung away from the key, took the head set from his ears, and mopped at a perspiring brow.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, as he switched off the generator, “that’s pretty hot work for a night like this. I wish I could jump into a nice cold bathtub right now.”

“If you’d talked there much longer, we’d have hunted one up an’ thrown you in,” said Dick. “What’s all the news from home, anyway?”

“Why, they don’t seem to be any nearer to getting the $40,000 back than they were when we left,” said Phil, ignoring Dick’s threat. “Mr. Denby says that ‘Rocks’ Gurney left town day before yesterday, and nobody seems to know where he’s disappeared to.”

“Left town, eh?” said Tom, thoughtfully. “I wonder where he’s bound for.”

“Probably thought it would be safer to light out before somebody arrested him on suspicion,” suggested Dick.

“He’ll get his some day, though,” remarked Steve. “There are plenty of bad men in this part of the country that get away with murder for a while, but they generally get theirs in the end.”

“It doesn’t always work that way, though,” said Dick, with mock seriousness. “Look at the fierce jokes that Tom has gotten away with, and he seems to be as far from punishment as ever.”

“Oh, it’s punishment enough to have to tell good jokes to an unappreciative gink like you,” retorted Tom. “You wouldn’t know a good joke if it came up and shook hands with you.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Dick, “I hear so few good ones, that I can’t say I’m an expert at recognizing them.”

“How about that one I told you the other day, about the Irishman that fell off the scaffold?” asked Tom, in an injured tone. “Didn’t you even like that one?”

“Well, it wasn’t so bad,” conceded Dick. “It was a little better than most of them, anyway.”

“Tell it again, and I’ll be umpire,” laughed Steve. “I’m willing to take a chance on anything once.”

“Well, it seems this Irishman was standing on a scaffolding, laying bricks,” commenced Tom, “and while thinking of something else he stepped back a little too far, and fell off. He landed with an awful thud, and a friend who happened to be near ran to his assistance.

“‘Mike, me poor bye, are yez dead?’ he asked.

“Mike’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Oi am,’ he said.

“‘Shure, and Oi think you’re lyin,’ said Pat.

“‘That proves Oi’m dead,’ says Mike, ‘fer if Oi wuz alive, you’d be scared to call me a liar.’”

The boys could not help laughing, and Steve expressed his belief that the story was O. K.

“I don’t think your jokes are half as bad as these two Indians say they are,” declared Steve.

“They couldn’t be half as bad as that,” said Tom, laughing ruefully. “They’d be terrible jokes if they were.”

“Well, you can try it on the rest of the gang, if you want to take a chance,” said Steve. “You’ve got to be mighty sure a joke’s good, though, before you spring it on them. They’re all pretty handy with a six-shooter, you know.”

“I’ll risk it,” said Tom, “let’s go over to the bunkhouse, and I’ll give them all a treat.”

While they were strolling over, Phil gave them all the other news that he had received from Doctor Denby. All the home folks were well, and Dick’s father had so far recovered from the bullet wound as to have resumed his duties in the bank. The detectives who had been employed to catch the hold-up gang had been foiled at every turn, and now it seemed unlikely that the robbers would be captured and the money recovered. The Radio Boys, however, still believed that the man with the scar, whom Steve had noticed during the brush with the desperados, would prove to be the notorious Murray. If that were the case, and he were still in the Rangers’ territory, the boys still had hopes of coming across him.

When the boys entered the bunkhouse, they were greeted heartily by all the Rangers who happened to be in the building.

“Here’s somebody that’s going to tell us some swell jokes, fellows,” said Steve. “Light up your pipes and listen. He’s got a large variety, and they’re all good.”

Shouts of approbation greeted this announcement, and for once in his life Tom found what he had longed for so often—an appreciative audience. Without having to be coaxed too much, he told about all the jokes he could think of, and they were all rewarded with laughter and applause.

When he had at last reached the end of his stock of humorous anecdotes he was voted the best story teller in camp.

“I’d ruther listen to them funny stories of yourn than any of those vaudeville sharps I’ve heard in town,” remarked Dan. “Most o’ them are about as funny as a funeral bell.”

“Well, I’m glad you liked my jokes,” said Tom, with a meaning glance at Dick and Phil. “Some people are so pig-headed that they won’t admit a story is funny just on principle.”

“I guess you haven’t been to many shows, have you, Dan?” asked Phil.

“Huh!” snorted the old plainsman. “They’re all fakes, anyhow. I rec’lect one I went to, where the feller was supposed to shoot at the keys of a piano and play a tune on it. Waal, it seems this feller had a partner, and he’d stay behind the scenes and play each note hisself, while the feller out in front with the gun was only firin’ off blanks. This yere plan worked perfect for a while, but then these short horns had some kind of a fallin’ out, and the feller that hit the notes on the piano decides to double-cross his pal. Which this happens the same night I sees this show in Tucson.

“Waal, at first everything goes off accordin’ to Hoyle, and the sharp with the gun plays the tune on the piano as usual. But when he stops shootin’, the piano kep’ on playin’ jest the same. It was real funny at first, but after a while some of the boys gets kind of peevish at the way they’ve been took in right along.”

“What happened then?” asked Phil, as Dan stopped to light his pipe.

“Waal, a whole lot happened pretty pronto,” replied the other. “Fust thing you know, some impulsive maverick near the front of the theatre pulls his six-gun, an’ ’lows he’ll try his hand at playin’ a tune on the piano. This seems to be a good idea to lots o’ the others, and they tries long and earnest to get a tune out o’ that unfortunate instrooment, but by the time they gets through they ain’t much left of it but splinters. Howsumever, we all figgered that the show had been wuth the price o’ admission, and we filed out contented an’ happy.”

“It must have been a nice pleasant evening,” said Steve, laughing with the others. “How many people were killed, Dan?”

“Nary one,” replied that individual, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “When the first gun went off, most of the audience that ain’t carryin’ armament ducks under the seats, and stays there snug an’ quiet until the gun play is over. But it’s gettin’ kind o’ late, an’ I’m goin’ to pound my ear. You mavericks kin stay up all night if you wants to, but not for me.”

“I guess we’d better all turn in,” said Phil, as there was a general move toward retirement. “We’ve got to go on a long flight tomorrow, you know, so it won’t hurt us to get a good night’s sleep.”

The Radio Boys were up at dawn the next morning, giving the _Arrow_ a last inspection before starting. Captain Bradley had directed them to fly some hundred miles into the interior in order to discover, if possible, the hiding place of Espato’s band. It was a mission fraught with peril, and the boys realized the seriousness of their commission.