“Pull!” he cried. “Pull for your life! There’s some one at the prow of the boat, pushing her toward shore, and there’s men behind the sand dunes on the west bank, waiting for her to land! We’re up against a nest of pirates, I take it! Pull! We must get to the Rambler before it touches the bank, for the fellows there will swarm over her then.”
And the lads did pull, with all their might. The current of the Colorado is not strong there, and so they made good headway. When they came within fifty yards of the Rambler, she was within that distance of the shore. The men who had been hiding behind the hills a moment before now came out and called sharply to some one on or about the Rambler to make haste and bring her in. There was no verbal answer, but the boat moved faster toward the shore.
Dripping with perspiration, panting in the hot air, the boys put their strength to the oars and finally sprang over the railing just as two of the men entered the water to swim out. They did not draw back when they saw the boys aboard, but swam rapidly on.
“The motors!” shouted Clay. “Get them in motion!”
Case hastened to comply, and Clay dashed into the cabin and returned with a couple of automatic revolvers. Without speaking he fired a shot over the head of the nearest swimmer.
“Missed him!” cried Case. “Let me try one!”
“Get under motion!” insisted Clay. “When you get under way, drop down stream! We’ve got to find Alex, dead or alive!”
A rowboat now shot out from the shore, manned by two men. First the swimmers were picked up, and then the boat was headed for the Rambler.
“Keep off!” Clay called out. “I’ll shoot if you come nearer.”
“In the name of the law!” called one of the men in the boat.