“They’ll soon be making faster time back,” predicted Sam, grimly.
Reaching a broad level stretch, the boys made for the river, a proceeding not at all to the liking of Don Stratton, who began to fear that the hot-headed Mexicans might mistake them for Rangers and fire.
He mentioned his thoughts to Sam. The Rambler, however, shook his head.
“I don’t believe we’re in a bit of danger, Don,” he responded in reassuring tones. “You may be sure they won’t be anxious to start any scrap on United States soil. Hello—hear anything?”
“By George! The Texas Rangers at last!” cried Don.
A faint steady pounding of horses’ hoofs to the south had reached his ears.
Eagerly the three wheeled about to scan the border of the river.
“Hooray, hooray,” cried Don. “Here they come, full tilt, too. See ’em, fellows?”
A number of faint dark specks were rapidly growing larger. But Dave Brandon expressed the thoughts of all when he exclaimed: “They’ll never get here in time to prevent the Mexicans from landing.”
The singular drama of the night unrolled before their eyes held a peculiar fascination for the lads. Hastening along intent upon seeing the last act they looked alternately from one body of horsemen to the other.