Far off, there was a tiny, broad-spread glow on the clouds. Could that be a desert village? But why lights so late at night? In any case, he was going to find out.
There seemed to be nothing in the world, as he soared, except the stars, brilliant overhead, the rushing aeroplane, and that glow ahead. The glow departed, and he studied what looked like a big camp-fire. It was a camp-fire, he found out, a minute later. He circled it, quietly, with the motor and lights shut off, noting the men passing about it. One stood out clearly in the full red flare of the flames, looking into the fire, unconscious of the tetrahedral ’planing above him. Hike peered at the man carefully, for the sudden fear had come, “Suppose this should be a camp of revolutionists? Suppose we’re already in the region of the revolution?”
But the man was not in uniform. He seemed to be an American, a cowpuncher, in overalls, a sombrero, and a flannel shirt. Again, easily, softly, slowly—much more slowly than any aeroplane except the tetrahedral could have done—he circled the fire, trying to make out what sort of men were those sleeping about the fire. He could not tell. But he saw an open space, beyond the bunch of picketed horses, and dropped the Hustle safely in the space.
The horses set up a frightened neighing. Instantly, the man by the fire shouted something in Mexican, and two hundred men sprang out of their blankets and rushed toward Hike and the tetrahedral. In the dim light there, some distance from the fire, he saw that they all carried guns—carbines, shotguns, modern rifles—even some Krags and Parsley-Chardon repeaters; and about half of them were in some sort of uniforms; here an American army khaki shirt, here a French military cap, here a pair of shabby shoulder-straps.
So he had fallen among the revolutionists!
He started to snap on the motor, but an insurrecto sprang up beside him and caught his arm. Even then, Hike’s first thought was for the safety of Lieutenant Adeler and the machine-gun. With one quick twist of his head, he saw that the Lieutenant, though still wobbly after his quick awakening from sleep, had managed to throw a tarpaulin over the gun and cartridges, and that he was concealed from the revolutionists behind that black covering.
“Leggo my arm!” Hike snapped at the insurrecto.
From the midst of the group rushed the man who had been standing by the fire. Now that he was so close, Hike could see that he had, pinned on a shoulder, one shoulder-strap, with the insignium of a major. It was all there was of his uniform!
The man shouted something in Mexican again, and added in English, “Let him alone, you-all.” He talked like a Virginian, with a soft, mellow, sweet voice, that sounded as though it could get very angry. “We can use him and his flying machine, Ah reckon!”
Then Hike realized that many of these revolutionists were Americans. Some looked like tough horse-thieves, some like adventurous young chaps from ranches. And with that came the sharp thought, “What if Welch were in this bunch?” That suggested what he ought to do.