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Radio Boys on the Mexican Border

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<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> <h3>A BRUSH WITH THE ENEMY  </h3> "Crack." The explosion of a revolver shot. "Wow." A yell of pain. Remedios seized his shooting wrist in his left hand and danced up and down in the road, while his weapon fell to the ground. Frank, who a moment before had been gazing into the leveled weapon of the traitorous Mexican chauffeur, whirled about to face his friends in the car. Smoking revolver in hand, Jack Hampton stood upright in the front seat. It was he who had fired the shot. "I didn't touch him," cried Jack, "merely shot his revolver from his hand. Jump in Frank, for here come the bandits." With a rattle and roar the car of the bandits approached, not the length of two city blocks away on the desert trail. Frank took in the situation at a glance. "Crank for your life," he ordered Remedios. "Jack, keep him covered." As the Mexican sprang to the crank, and started turning, Frank leaped to the driver's seat of the flivver and manipulated throttle and spark. With a clatter the engine turned over and began to race. Closer came the bandits, their car slowing down as it approached. Jack leaned far over the windshield, his weapon leveled at Remedios. "Up on the hood," he shrieked. "Up with you, or I'll shoot you full of holes." Remedios threw himself sprawlingly over the hood. The bandits' car had slowed almost to a stop, four or five lengths away. Frank released the hand brake, pressed the clutch into low with his foot, and shot ahead. Shifting the clutch into high, Frank opened the throttle wide and the old rattletrap seemed fairly to leap ahead, its wheels spurning the ground. The lights of the other car which had theretofore seemed dimmed were switched to full brightness. Before the blinding glare in his eyes, Frank involuntarily ducked his head. As his eyes left the road, the car swerved. A shot rang out from the car of the bandits, ripping high and doing no damage. "Look out, Frank. Swing her over," cried Jack in alarm. Shouts of panic rose from the car of the bandits, too. Too late. There was a crash, the flivver lurched, then sped on. As rapidly as possible Frank brought it to a stop and then stood up to look back and view the damage. Mr. Temple and Bob, in the rear seat, already were on their feet. Jack stood beside Frank, peering into the shadows behind. The moon was in its first quarter, low down and shed only a faint radiance. But even by the wan light, it could be seen that something dire had happened to the car of the bandits. It stood sideways across the road, leaning drunkenly to one side. And to the ears of the boys came groans from a number of dark figures in the road. Gabby Pete, temporarily forgotten by the boys in the excitement, galloped up, cheerful voiced. "As neat a trick as ever I see," he cried approvingly to Frank. "You tuk off their hind wheel jest like a knife cuttin' butter. They're tumblin' around in the road, a half dozen of 'em. Hey, look out." And Gabby Pete bent low on his horse as a bullet whistled overhead. Another and another followed, and there were shouts of vengeance, and imprecations. "They're a-comin' to," cried Gabby Pete, slapping Angel Face on the flank, so that the horse leaped forward with a snort. "I'm on my way." And he disappeared into the darkness. "We're on our way, too," cried Frank, opening the throttle and pressing down the clutch, as more bullets whistled overhead. "Give 'em a shot, Jack, and everybody stoop down." Jack fired off his revolver, shooting high purposely. He wanted merely to frighten their pursuers into desisting. Then the car gathered momentum, and was soon out of range. Presently Frank, who had been driving the flivver as fast as it would go, with the result that they were all tossed about while the car lurched precariously over the rutted road, slowed down to a more moderate pace. "Anybody hurt?" he called. "They never touched me." "Not a scratch," answered Mr. Temple. "Same here," cried Bob and Jack together. "Say, though," cried Frank, suddenly realizing Remedios no longer sprawled on the hood, "we've lost our passenger." "Good riddance," said Bob. "Must've thrown him off when we struck the other car," decided Jack. "Or else he jumped off when his chance came," surmised Mr. Temple. To a query from Frank as to the route to be followed and the distance to camp, Jack made answer that the road lay straight ahead with no laterals cutting into it, and that camp was only a couple of miles beyond. "Say, Jack," declared Bob with a laugh, "that was some reception committee you got out to meet us." "Yes," kidded Frank, "what were you aiming to do, anyway? Put on a Wild West thriller for a bunch of tenderfeet fresh from New York?" Jack laughed. "Tenderfeet, your grandmother," he said. "It looked to me as if the effete Easterners put on the thriller for the bandits." Relieved at the safe outcome of their adventure, everybody joined in the laugh, and for several minutes the high good humor manifested itself in jokes bandied back and forth. Then a 'dobe ranch house loomed ahead, low-lying, of four or five rooms, a wide, dirt-floored porch along its length, upon which the rooms gave through separate doors. At the rear were a clump of shadowy outbuildings and a corral. To one side and some distance away stood a low frame building and a high, latticed tower with antennae, which the chums recognized with a shout of delight. "There's the radiophone station, hey, Jack?" Frank drew the car to the porch, and Gabby Pete, at the sound of its approach, opened the door of the kitchen and emerged, big spoon in hand, the lamplight streaming from the room behind him, and savory odors floating out to the hungry boys. "Come an' git it," he called sonorously. "What does he mean Jack?" asked Bob. "I hope he means dinner," said Frank, sniffing hungrily. "He does," laughed Jack. "That's the way camp cooks announce food is ready in the cow camps, as I understand it. And Gabby Pete is an old cowman." "Well, lead me to it," said Frank, and all followed Jack into the house.     <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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