But he rode up to the absurd little shack labeled “GaRRagGe.” At his shout, a lanky Texan came to the door, and looked at him suspiciously.
“Gasoline—quick—all you can load on this horse,” he cried.
“Well, my boy, let’s think about it,” drawled the Texan. He looked as though he saw in Hike only a tall boy, the son of some rich Northerner ranching it in Mexico.
“Think about nothing,” snorted Hike. “Insurrectos after our ranch. Got to have gasoline for aeroplane.”
“Airyplane—boy, you’re crazy,” drawled the Texan again, maddeningly slow in speech. “Well, even if you are, you can have the gasoline if you pay for it.”
“Adeler—he’s got a ranch at Aguas Grandes—he’ll pay for it.”
“He’ll pay for it right now, or he won’t get it; not at this gara-jee,” began the Texan, and stopped short, for Hike was looking at him across the sight of a leveled revolver.
The Texan threw up his hands and whined, “All right—just as you say, Mister. I guess Adeler is good for it.”
He called his Mexican helper, and between them they loaded on the pinto as much gasoline, in cans, as she could carry. It was not much, but enough to take the Hustle to Torreas from Aguas Grandes. Twice, Hike saw the Texan’s hand carelessly wandering toward a revolver, and each time he said “Look out,” in a low and quiet voice, that meant business.
When the loading was finished, the Texan suddenly smiled. “I thought you was a boy,” he stated, “but I take it back. You’re crazy, all right—airyplanes! But they grow nerve, where you come from. Where is that?”