One by one the others followed until all stood on the gently-sloping roof, the target for a fresh, strong breeze which swept directly toward them from the land of Mexico.
Tom’s description was not exaggerated. Here and there bright spots of a yellowish color traced the course of the Rio Grande, and the low hills on the opposite side were now touched with delicate purple shadows and glowing lights.
In the vast sweep of country which their lofty perch embraced, not a living thing was in sight. The undulating surfaces stretched far off with the grasses billowing like waves of the sea, and finally melted softly into a hazy sky.
“Superb!” murmured Dave.
“Gettin’ an inspiration for a poem?” asked Cranny with a chuckle.
“Almost,” laughed the stout lad, seating himself with a sigh of satisfaction. His example was quickly followed.
Cranny still had a number of questions to ask. He wanted to know all about their experiences since they had been in Wyoming together; and the Ramblers, too, felt a keen interest to hear some further particulars in regard to his own affairs at Tacoma. Naturally all this took some time. The sun rose to the zenith and continued on its slow journey toward the west while lively tongues rattled on. Cranny was in the midst of a graphic description of his “failure” when a sound—a very faint sound coming from the distance—abruptly caused him to break off in the middle of a sentence. He glanced inquiringly toward his companions.
“What in thunder was that?” he demanded, raising his hand. “Listen!”
“Great Scott!” cried Tom, springing to his feet, and gazing intently toward the Mexican hills. “That must mean trouble not so very far away.”
Once more the sound, borne on the sweeping wind, came to their ears. It was unmistakably the rattle of a machine gun, and presently a continuous series of ominous reports convinced every one that somewhere across the Rio Grande an engagement was taking place between Federal and Revolutionary forces.