The Mexican driver came to a sudden stop. He knew el capitan. And whatever faults may be attributed to the governor of Baja California, all admits he is a governor. When he speaks in person or by messenger there is never any hesitancy about obedience.
The captain read his orders to the chauffeur and commanded him to turn round. The four climbed on, and the truck started back.
The driver told them that only two trucks had gone on ahead; sixteen were behind, with Señor Jenkins on the last, and each truck carried twenty bales of cotton.
They stopped the next truck when they met it, and then waited until all seventeen were backed up the road.
Reedy Jenkins leaped from the rear one, nervous and violent of temper, swore, and hurried forward to see what was the trouble. To his unutterable wrath he saw the end truck headed about.
"What the hell! you damned greasers." But then he quit. Something was wrong here. He strode forward angrily.
"Rogeen, get off that truck and do it damn quick."
"I'm getting off," said Bob. With a quick leap he landed in the road and went straight for Reedy. The secretary and the captain followed.
"I have a writ of attachment here," said Bob, bringing out the paper issued by the governor, "for your cotton in favour of Ah Sing. I have further orders from the governor to deliver the cotton to the compress on the American side and sell it in the open market.
"Captain," Bob turned to the officer, "order the drivers to turn back. You ride on the front one with the driver, and I'll ride on the back one with my kind friend Señor Jenkins."