The Radio Boys with the Border Patrol

by Gerald Breckenridge

“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.