Case took Clay into the cabin of the Rambler and warned him to be on his guard.
“We may be away three or four hours,” he said, “and you must, under no circumstances, leave the boat for a minute. My opinion of these men is not a favorable one. I think they want the motor boat. Don’t shoot unless you have to, but shoot to kill if that should be necessary. A shot fired in defense of property is lawful.”
“All right,” Clay replied. “I hate like the dickens to have you go, but I suppose there is no help for it. Hurry back and we’ll repair the Rambler and get out of this rotten hole so quick that it will set the heads of the natives swimming.”
“Right you are,” responded Case, and with an additional word of warning the leaky boat was pushed into the river.
After the departure of Case and the surgeon the boys sought the cabin of the Rambler. They had no idea how long the boat would be gone, so they decided to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted.
The half-breeds gathered in a group on the bank of the Rio Grande and consulted together for a long time. The conversation was still in Mexican, and of course the boys, being ignorant of the language, could not understand a word of it.
As a matter of fact, the tongue spoken was a mixture of Mexican Indian and Spanish, an especially hard combination.
“I wish I had the use of my arm for about five minutes,” Clay moaned, “I’d make a scattering up there on the river bank.”
“And if I had the use of my leg for the same length of time, there’d be doings,” observed Paul.
“Well, we are poor old cripples,” Clay went on, “and can’t help ourselves. One thing we can do, though, we can shoot the tar out of anyone who attacks us. That’s one consolation.”