“See here, Tom, I don’t believe you’re going in the right direction!” exclaimed Jimmy at last.
The Rambler made no reply, for the threatening actions of four armed Mexicans standing in front of the iron railings which surrounded the handsome library had attracted his attention. The building, a wreck from the effects of shot, shell and fire, was now but a gaunt reminder of its former stateliness.
Jimmy was thinking of this when Tom suddenly looked over his shoulder and addressing the riders close behind, exclaimed:
“Now, fellows! Look out!”
The four Mexicans were running fast toward them; just as each began to utter a voluble string of words, Tom gave his mustang a touch of the quirt and swung into another street, soon leaving the men far to the rear.
Then, casting aside the last vestige of caution, the Rambler gradually increased his pace until the hoofs of the horses were sending abroad a loud warning of their presence.
Jimmy was amazed.
“Stop! Hold on, Tom!” he yelled. “Now I know you’re going in the wrong direction. Hold on, I say!”
He turned his head. With a swift glance the lad saw Bob Somers and Dick Travers thundering along on either hand, their faces tense and stern.
“Bob, he’s taking us half the town’s length out of our way!” he shouted. “Stop him!”