CHAPTER XV.

BOB HAS AN IDEA.

From that ordeal Bob sat back with a smile of triumph upon his face. Hot it was, beastly hot, and the very tautness of his nerves during the time when he had sought unavailingly to gain the attention of the American aviation field had brought out the perspiration stinging on his body. But he had succeeded, he had gained the ear of a wireless operator and help had been promised him in as short a time as it would take to journey in high-powered motor cars to his present whereabouts. Therefore, he could afford to forget the wretched discomfort of his body, and did so.

Why he had used the Morse code he could not have told. Something had impelled him to do so, some warning or inner prompting not to call in English lest, perchance, there should be someone tuning in on the Mexican side of the Border who would hear and understand. A certain risk he must run in using Morse, yet a considerably lessened risk.

And at any rate, he had been understood. His message of pleading had been received at the flying field. Of that he was certain. And now help would come, help for the rescuing of his comrade from the sinister house into which he had been dragged.

But how long before the American aviators, rushing to the rescue, would arrive? They had said no time would be wasted in attempts to obtain the aid of the police of Nueva Laredo, but that they would come post haste. Yet still a measure of time must intervene. The flying field was some miles distant from Laredo. There might be delays at the Bridge. Bob’s smile of triumph slowly faded to give way to a look of worry.

Young Juan Salazar watched him with puzzled frown all this while. He was too polite, seeing Bob’s pre-occupation, to interrupt with questions. But they crowded to his lips. There were so many things that he wanted to know. This likable young American was in trouble, his companion in worse case. And Juan had a healthy boy’s curiosity to learn all about it. Yet still Bob sat silent, his eyes bent in a growing frown upon the floor, and still Juan held his peace while the flies buzzed in the unscreened room for all its cleanliness. Until at length the younger lad no longer could restrain himself and cried out:

“Senor, can you not trust me? What has happened?”

At that Bob woke with a start from his moodiness and looked at Juan a long minute while the thoughts upon which he had been pondering dropped into the background. Could the boy be trusted? There was a ring of sincerity in his tone, an honest scorn in his references earlier to the house which harbored Ramirez. Yes, he could be trusted. So then Bob got up from his chair and strode to the door, and back again, and once more sat down in an endeavor to still the nervousness preying upon him.

If there were only something he could do, he thought, to while away the dragging minutes before help could arrive. And at that he leaped from his chair with a sharp exclamation. There was something he could do; of a certainty, there was. And what was more, it was something which ought to be done. Fool that he was not to have thought of it earlier?

“Juan,” he exclaimed sharply, “we are in trouble of the worst sort. You have been a good lad and have helped me much with permission to use your radio. Are you willing now to help more?”

“Trust me,” said Juan, drawing himself up proudly. “You are in trouble. And if I can be of help—”

“You can, indeed,” Bob interrupted. “Listen. This is a mess. It’s too long to explain now. We would waste valuable moments in doing so. Juan, there are evil men in that house. They have captured my companion and dragged him within. Me they did not see. I do not believe they know I am in the vicinity. My friend is an American Army aviator. I have called for others who will be here shortly from the Laredo flying field. I gave them your address, and directed them to approach by the Avenue of the Presidents.

“Attend now,” he said sharply. “Until they come we must keep watch to see whether anyone leaves that house. There are two entrances: the front of the house and this secret tunnel through the deserted house on the Avenue of the Presidents of which you have told me. I shall return to the corner of Calle Libertad and keep watch upon the front of the house, and do you post yourself so as to command a view of the secret exit.

“And now let us go. We have wasted too much time already. They may already have gone. Though, if their automobile is still before the house, I shall feel fairly assured that they are still within.”

And concluding, Bob took young Juan by an arm and firing a piercing gaze upon the other’s flushed face, demanded:

“Will you do it?”

“Oh, yes, Senor.”

“Then, come, let us go.”

“But,” Juan frowned deprecatingly.

“But what?”

“The rescuers. If they come—”

“They will come by the Avenue of the Presidents. You must hail them and bring them here and summon me. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Senor.”

“Then go. And I’ll take up my position.” And hurrying Juan with him, Bob flung out of the house. The lad sprang one way and Bob another, and both ran along the deserted street without anyone to observe them or to marvel at this strange haste on a day so hot that even the scattered pepper and madrona trees, the dust of the roadway, and the drowsing mean little houses seemed cooked into lifelessness.

Back at his corner Bob peered forth with beating heart, eager to see if the car was still there, fearful of finding it gone. Had the latter been the case, he would have been at a loss, indeed, to know what next to do. Poor lad, it had all come upon him so suddenly that he was filled with self-reproaches and revilings. But the car still stood at the curb, and there was no more sign of life along the Calle Libertad than on that street at his back.

So then he crouched there by the corner of the mud-walled house and gave himself up thoroughly and completely to bitter reflections. The role in which he found himself was one altogether new. Many a time had he been in tight places with his comrades, Frank and Jack. In fact, wherever they went and whatever they did, trouble seemed to follow them as inevitably as tides beat on the shore. But never that he could recall had he been placed in a passive position. And big Bob, who was not given overly much to deep thought, but was accustomed when in difficulties to hew his way out by main strength or at least to make the attempt so to do, groaned aloud.

The next moment he looked around fearfully, to see if he had been overheard. His nerves were jumpy. This atmosphere of the dead was getting on him. Especially, when he knew that all was not as quiet and deserted as the appearance of the streets would seem to give warrant. There was at least one house in which lurked sinister men. And if in one, why not in another?

But nothing not seen before met his gaze, and once more he returned to his vigil, while once more his thoughts played with the subject. Should he have let Captain Cornell venture forth alone upon his stroll past the house beyond? When the flyer was struck down without chance to offer a blow in self-defense, should he have gone forward as he had started to do and make attempt at rescue? Had he been coward to halt and turn back? But here good sense came to the fore and assured him that he had done the wisest thing. And good sense argued, moreover, that he had done more—he had, in fact, done the very wisest thing possible under the circumstances in calling the aviation field by radio.

And so, somewhat heartened, he turned his thoughts to speculation upon what mischief Ramirez intended. What was going on in that shuttered house of the Japanese? Where was Don Ferdinand and had evil befallen him? What had betrayed Captain Cornell to his undoing? Had he said something which aroused the suspicion of Ramirez, causing the latter to signal his men to fell the flyer? Had Ramirez seen and recognized them at the bull fight, and, recalling that, on beholding Captain Cornell face to face, struck on the impulse? He could not know, and shrugged. These were questions that would have to await developments for answer.

And so he stood and watched the length of the street, and wiped the sweat from his face from time to time, while his thoughts raced on their futile questionings. Every now and then he would look at his watch, and each time he would marvel anew at the slow and dragging passage of the minutes. It was not yet time for Captain Murray to arrive. Not by any possibility could he have covered the miles so quickly.

Yet Bob was fretting at the delay. What if Ramirez emerged before Murray’s arrival? And started to depart? Bob could not halt him single handed? And if he took with him Captain Cornell, perhaps bound and gagged, what track of them could Bob keep? The flivver, yes, the flivver. He could and would follow in that, provided they did not pass from sight before he could get to where it was parked on the back street. But even then, the damage would be great. If Ramirez should go any considerable distance, if, for instance, he should elect to go into the country—to some hiding place—how track him without discovery?

All he could do was hope that help would arrive before any possible departure of Ramirez. And while he was thinking upon this, there came to him suddenly the suspicion that Ramirez might suspect he was under surveillance and might leave the automobile before the house as a blind and quietly withdraw with his captive by means of the secret exit. True, young Juan kept watch there. But if that happened, if Ramirez should seek thus to escape, would Juan be able to bring him warning in time for him to take the trail?

He turned at the thought, glancing up the street at his back. And his heart gave a bound, then seemed to stop, then raced on. And he groaned once more aloud. For down the street, pelting as hard as he could come, raced Juan Salazar. There was only one conclusion to be drawn and, as that took shape in his thoughts, Bob deserted his post and began running wildly to meet the Mexican lad. Nor for a moment did he note that behind the boy and close upon his heels came another figure, rounding the distant corner.