“Get up, old boy, git up!” in Tom’s loud, gruff voice were the only words he heard in response. Whereupon a sudden suspicion entered the young pianist’s mind. Just ahead he caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande, and a pile of grim old buildings which lined its bank. But a short distance from them, the International bridge crossed the river.
When his next loud commands received no answer, Jimmy realized with a feeling of the deepest anger that his surmises had proven to be correct. He began to storm, to coax and even to threaten.
“It’s all right, Jimmy!” yelled Bob. “It was the only thing we could do!”
A hot breeze blew in the lads’ faces. Dogs barked, or dashed out to snap at the ponies’ heels; people stared in wonderment. On and on they thundered, at an ever-increasing pace, until the white adobe houses, the stuccoed walls, the fields and trees seemed to blend together into a continuous streak of varied color.
Jimmy, a captive in the hands of the boys he had liked so well, still stormed and growled. He was helpless, however, to interfere in the slightest degree with the course of events.
Now sweeping into the wide road which followed the bank of the Rio, the lads saw but a short distance ahead the International bridge. It was a wooden structure, heavy and crude in appearance, little suggesting its impressive title.
At any other time the horsemen would not have been allowed to cross in so unceremonious a fashion; but apparently all the officials whose duty it was to look after outgoing and incoming travelers had fled from the scene.
Only a few cavalrymen were about, and they were too far from the entrance to give the boys any concern.
As his horse clattered out on the planks, Tom Clifton could not restrain a loud cry of exultation. Jimmy now would soon realize the wisdom of their actions and the folly of his own.
The clouds of choking dust still kept pace with them; a thunderous din of dashing horses was carried off on the still, hot atmosphere.