But the Mexican was no quitter

# BORDER BRED

By W. C. Tuttle
Illustrated by Douglas Duer

“You git on your horse and vamoose pronto. We don’t want yuh hangin’ around here; sabe?”

The speaker was a tall, thin, dark-featured man, slightly round-shouldered. He was coarsely dressed and unkempt, as though he had but recently got out of bed, and he struck the pickets of the sagging gate, as though to emphasize his declaration.

He placed his other hand on the shoulder of a little, calico-clad girl, of about seven, who looked up wonderingly at him.

“Aw-w-w right,” drawled Dobie Dixon slowly; “I reckon I can do that, too, Mister Langdon.”

Dobie was a lanky youngster of fifteen

Dobie Dixon was a tall, lanky youngster of fifteen, awkward of hand and foot, colorless of hair, colorless of garb, but with a pair of keen gray eyes in his thin face.

He had not been nicknamed Dobie. His mother had died shortly after his birth, and old Dan Dixon, a revenue officer, in lieu of a better name, had considered the color of the baby’s hair and named him Adobe Dixon. This had been shortened to Dobie, and the name fitted him well.

A month before the beginning of this tale, old Dan Dixon had been killed in attempting to stop an automobile load of contraband goods from crossing the border.

It had been a case of deliberate murder. The driver of the huge machine, traveling at a great rate of speed, ignored the partly blocked road in his mad rush to escape detection, deliberately ran down old Dan and killed him instantly.

And in a hail of lead from the other officers the murderer, with his load of contraband, had roared away into the night—to safety.

Old Dan had been one of the best of the border officers, and his one ambition had been to have Dobie follow in his footsteps. But the wise ones shook their heads. Dobie was a dreamer. Old Dan had taught him how to trail, to shoot straight with a rifle and revolver, and Dobie knew every inch of those boulder-strewn, mesquite-covered hills; but Dobie did not seem to have the slightest ambition to be a border guard.

He still lived in the little half-adobe shack about two miles from the border; doing his own cooking, mending and washing. Dobie had little need of money. Odd jobs gave him enough for his immediate needs. He seemed to care for no one, except little Jane Langdon.

And now her father had ordered him to keep away from her. He swung listlessly into his saddle and picked up his reins. The buckskin pony, evil of eye, snapped back viciously at Dobie’s spurred boot, but the boy gave it no heed.

“And yuh can keep away, too,” added Langdon.

Dobie’s impassive face did not change, as he ignored the man and spoke down to the little, curly-haired girl.

“Good-by, Jane.”

“Goo’-by, Dobie. Come thee me again.”

“Yeah—mebbe.”

“Thasso?” The man angered quickly. “Didn’t yuh hear what I said, Dixon?”

“Huh!” Dobie grunted softly and grinned at Langdon. Then he waved at Jane as he rode slowly away down the dusty road, heading toward the Cottonwood grades, where the shack headquarters of the border officers were sprawled in a group of sun-dried trees.

Dobie was in no hurry. Every few days he rode to headquarters to see Bill Steen, old Jim Cleveland and “Baldy” Hale. They had been with his father for years and treated Dobie as a man and an equal.

These were all man-hunters. They were hard-bitted, calloused, merciless in their calling, but at heart they were still kids. Dobie was one of them. He was no younger nor older than they. The hard life of the border makes men out of boys.

As Dobie rode along through the dust he scanned the hills closely. To the north, as far as eye could see, there were nothing but hills, boulders and mesquite. Southward stretched the same hills into Old Mexico, the land of great unrest. Suddenly Dobie drew up his horse and peered closely at the hills north of the road.

A mile or more away, high on the point of a hill, a tiny streamer of smoke. It was so tiny that the unpracticed eye would have failed to see it, or, at a glance, it might have been mistaken for a yucca stalk and blossom.

Then it disappeared. Dobie rubbed his nose, but did not take his eyes off that spot. It came again—faded quickly. And it did not come the third time. Dobie marked the spot and rode on.

He knew it was a smoke signal, but he had no idea whom it was for nor what it meant.

“Smugglers,” he reflected, and his gray eyes hardened as he thought of his father. They had been pals. He glanced back at the hills, but there were no more signals.

“Get him some day,” Dobie told his buckskin pony. “They never gave him a chance, and some day they’ll pay.”

He rode up to headquarters. Bill Steen was working over their rusty, rattling old flivver, while the other two sat in the shade and gave him valuable advice.

“’Lo, Dobie,” greeted Baldy Hale, “git down and rest yore hoofs. How’s everythin’?”

Dobie dismounted, tied his pony to the rickety porch and sat down with them.

“Bill took the innards out of the rattler and he’s got two pieces left over,” stated Jim Cleveland. “Betcha them two was put in t’ rattle. Leave ’em out, Bill.”

“I reckon I gotta,” said Bill seriously. “I never did like a danged piece of machinery.”

He came over and sat down in the shade, wiping his hands on a piece of burlap.

“Whatcha know, Dobe?”

“Not much, Bill. Seen a smoke signal on that high point on the east side of Calamity Cañon a while ago.”

“Thasso? Smoke signal, Dobie?”

Dobie nodded quickly. “Saw two puffs of it. Dunno how many there was before I seen it.”

Baldy snorted audibly.

“When they start Injun signalin’, what chance have we got, I’d like t’ know?”

“Kinda helpless,” admitted Bill slowly. “They’ve got all the best of it. Thirty miles of border and three men to watch it. Why, it would take one man for every twenty feet of that line to stop all smugglin’.”

“You ain’t tryin’ to tell us any news, are yuh, Willyum?” queried Baldy. “If yuh are, it ain’t somethin’ that’s goin’ to surprise me a heap.”

“I got run off Langdon’s place,” volunteered Dobie.

“Run off?” Bill straightened up quickly. “How’s that?”

“I just stopped to give the little girl an orange,” said Dobie, “and Langdon comes out and tells me to herd myself away pronto. I dunno what’s the matter with him.”

“Huh!” Baldy fairly exploded. “Never did like that Langdon. I’ll betcha he’s mixed up with smugglers. Never does any work. I allus feels sorry for his wife.”

“She ain’t very strong lookin’,” admitted Dobie. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but givin’ little Jane an orange, when out he comes and hops all over me. Tells me to sift out of there. I sifted.”

Bill Steen laughed. “Well, it’s his baby and his house, and if he wants to be ornery——”

“He can go ahead and be ornery, eh?” grinned Dobie.

“Baldy cooked a pot of beans, Dobie,” informed Jim Cleveland. “He’s goin’ to make a flock of biscuits, too.”

“M’ insides clamor for food,” grinned Dobie, “and Baldy sure can mingle a wicked old bean. How soon do we put on the nosebag, Baldy?”

“Soon as I make the biscuits,” grinned Baldy, getting to his feet. “You fellers fix the flivver while I make ’em. Let Dobie fix it, Bill. He’s a mechanic.”

“You only got two pieces over?” queried Dobie.

“Yeah,” nodded Bill. “Two pieces too many.”

“Better let her go as she lies,” grinned Dobie. “I took a wheelbarrow to pieces once and had six parts left over.”

High up on the point of the hill, where Dobie had seen the signal fire, sat a man. The fire was now only a pile of cold ashes, which had been scuffed out with a heavy shoe sole.

The man was evil of face. He was fairly well dressed in a dark suit of clothes, silk shirt, black sombrero and laced boots. Around his waist, under his coat, was a belt of cartridges and a holstered revolver.

He had seen Dobie Dixon stop and look toward the signal. To this man it was a tiny figure of a man and horse, far down there on the yellow ribbon of dusty road. He had unslung a pair of binoculars, which hung in a case across his shoulder, but they had only shown a man on a buckskin pony, jogging along through the dust.

A half-hour later Sam Langdon broke through the screen of mesquite and faced this man. It had been a hard climb and Langdon was out of breath. He sat down on a boulder and rested a few moments before the other man said:

“I was wonderin’ if you saw the smoke, Langdon.”

“Yeah, I seen it, Carver. Whew! That’s some climb!”

“Didn’t want to come any closer. I suppose these hills are full of officers now, eh?”

Langdon shook his head. “No. They never increased the force. Same old three.”

“That’s good.” Carver laughed softly.

“This is a big deal, Langdon, big deal.”

“Yeah?” Langdon looked up intently.

“Biggest cargo of the year, Langdon. To-morrow night we’re runnin’ enough drugs to supply all the drug stores in the Southwest. Gonzales has it all packed in Verdugo, and you’re the little person who is goin’ to slide it across for us.”

Langdon frowned. “Drugs, eh? Morphine, coke and all that kinda stuff, Carver?”

“Y’ betcha. And a lot of it, too.”

Langdon shook his head slowly. “Carver, I don’t mind runnin’ booze and Chinamen, but I balk at drugs. It’s a dirty game, don’t cha know it?”

Carver laughed mockingly. “Scared, Langdon? Gittin’ yaller, eh? What do you care—as long as you get your cut out of it? It’s a cinch to put it over—a cinch for you, I mean. You know every trail, every kink in the line. You’re the only man in this country that can make a new trail and cover it up behind you.”

Langdon stared gloomily across the hills. It was true that he was an adept at covering a trail, and no man could follow him. While the officers watched the regular trails, Langdon made a new one and covered it up.

“There’s a couple of thousand in cold cash for yuh,” said Carver. “Two thousand dollars, Langdon. That’s a lot of money.”

Langdon got to his feet and hooked his thumbs over the waist-band of his pants.

“Carver, I don’t like this stuff. Booze is bad enough, but—I’d as soon see anyone play with a rattlesnake as to fool with drugs.”

“You don’t have to take ’em,” reminded Carver. “Why should you worry about who uses ’em?”

“I would, though. I’d dream at night about the—” Langdon shook his head slowly. “No, I can’t do it, Carver.”

“You won’t be asked to make some easy money again. We don’t have much use for quitters, Langdon.”

Langdon shrugged his shoulders. He knew that it meant an open break with Doc Carver and Gonzales, but he was firm in his intentions not to smuggle drugs.

“It’ll put you in bad,” said Carver slowly. “We can cause you a lot of trouble. A tip to the right parties, eh?” Carver laughed meaningly.

“You’d frame me?” Langdon’s voice grew hoarse. “After all I’ve done for you, you’d frame me?”

“You’ve still got a little sense—just a little, Langdon. You better stick with us—and be safe.”

“Suppose I beat you to your little game, Carver? What would my tip do to you right now?”

“Yeah?” Carver’s lip curled slightly away from his clenched teeth. “You’d never try a thing like that.”

“I didn’t think that you and Gonzales would think of doing it to me either, Carver.”

“No. Is that so?” Carver’s lips tightened, but he could see that his attitude was only making Langdon more firm; so he laughed softly and shook his head.

“Now, Langdon, let’s be friends. We’re flyin’ at each other like a pair of Mexican game cocks, and all over nothing. You’ll bring that cargo across to-morrow night, collect your two thousand dollars and be glad that you showed good sense.”

Langdon shook his head. “No, I won’t do it. I hate the stuff, Carver. I’ve seen what it will do, and God knows I don’t want it on my conscience. No, I won’t do it, and what is more,” he leaned forward and his lips shut into a thin line after each word,

“I’ll ... do ... my ... best ... to ... stop ... anybody ... that ... tries ... to ... bring ... it ... across!”

Carver took a half-step backward and his hand flirted away his coat, as he reached for his gun, but he found his eyes looking into the muzzle of Langdon’s gun, which had seemed to appear out of thin air.

“Drop it on the ground!” snapped Langdon, and Carver reluctantly dropped his gun into the dirt.

Langdon picked up the gun and threw it far away into the mesquite thicket.

“I hate to do this, Carver, but it had to be. What I said just now, I mean to do. I’ve played square with you in things that didn’t mean much, but this cargo means too much to the whole world, and I’ll stop it if I can. And you know what I can do.”

And Carver did know that Langdon could cause them a lot of trouble, but he would not admit it.

Carver shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, you’ve got the drop on me, Langdon, and I suppose we’ve got to agree that you are not going to run that cargo. As far as you hindering us—we’ll see.”

“You know I’ve always done my best,” replied Langdon evenly. “I’ve used my own home as a cache for stuff because you asked me to do it. I sent old Dan Dixon’s boy away to-day, because I was afraid he’d get too friendly and find out something.”

“You don’t need to alibi yourself to me,” said Carver quickly. “That don’t interest me a bit. What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going home. I’m sorry we had to bust up like this, Carver, but it had to come sooner or later. It’s a losing game and I want to be out of it.”

“Well, get out of it,” retorted Carver, “but let us alone. We can get along without yuh, Langdon.”

“You try to bring that cargo of drugs across—” said Langdon meaningly, and backed into the mesquite.

For several minutes, Carver listened closely. There was no sound from the thicket. He climbed up on a boulder and scanned the country below him, but there was not even the rustle of a bush to show the passing of Langdon.

But he knew that Langdon had gone as silently as a brush rabbit. Then he swore bitterly and began to search for his revolver.

It was long past supper-time and Dobie was ready to start home. They had managed to find a place to put the two extra pieces into the mechanism of the flivver and the three officers were dressing to start on patrol.

The world seemed flooded with a blue light from the moon; a light that changed the rough hills into a fairyland of mystic shape and shadow. Dobie untied his horse and was preparing to mount, when a woman came in through the trees, panting as though from a long run.

Dobie turned from his horse and met her in the light from the open doorway. It was Mrs. Langdon, a frail little woman in a cheap calico dress, bareheaded. Her face was white and she seemed on the verge of collapse.

“What’s the matter?” asked Dobie.

She panted for a moment, peering at Dobie, and then she turned and went in through the open doorway. Bill Steen met her at the door and Dobie came in behind her. Baldy was just putting on his coat, but he dropped it on a cot, and Jim Cleveland stopped pulling on his boots.

“What’s gone wrong, ma’am?” asked Bill Steen.

Mrs. Langdon seemed unable to speak for a moment. She fumbled nervously in the bosom of her dress and drew out a folded paper, which she clenched in her hand.

“My baby!” Her voice was almost a scream. “They’ve taken my baby!”

“Taken your baby?” grunted Bill Steen. “What do yuh mean, Mrs. Langdon?”

Baldy carried a chair over to her, but she shoved it aside.

“They stole my baby—my little Jane. Oh, don’t you understand?”

“No, ma’am.” Bill shook his head. “We don’t sabe it. Who stole yore baby and why did they steal her?”

“The smugglers stole her.”

“Now wait a minute,” advised Bill. “Yo’re all upset and out of breath, ma’am. Jist kinda calm down and see if it ain’t easier to tell us about it. There’s gotta be a reason for stealin’ yore baby.”

“Yes, yes, there is a reason, but—” Mrs. Langdon shook her head, “I—I didn’t want to tell you——”

Dobie stepped in closer and put his hand on her arm.

“Who stole Jane, Mrs. Langdon?”

“Oh, I can’t give names. I’m afraid to tell it all, but I suppose it is all I can do. My husband does not know I came here.”

“Now you go right ahead and talk about it,” advised Dobie. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt yuh, ma’am.”

“It was the smugglers,” she said slowly, trying to be calm. “They told my husband that he was to help them bring a big cargo of drugs across the line, but he refused to help run drugs.

“They quarreled and it almost ended in a shooting scrape, but my husband still refused to help them, and he said he would do everything he could to stop them from bringing the stuff across.

“That was about four o’clock to-day. At six o’clock little Jane was missing. We searched everywhere. Then that little hunchback Mexican who lives down on Camp Creek came to us and brought us this message, which he said was given to him to deliver.”

That little hunchback Mexican brought us this message

She handed the paper to Bill Steen and the rest of the men crowded around to read:

“The little girl is safe enough now, but you will be sorry if anything interferes with that stuff to-morrow night. You know us well enough to know that we do not bluff.”

It was written in a poor scrawl with a soft lead pencil and was unsigned. Bill Steen handed it back to her.

“Yore husband helped these men before?” he asked.

Mrs. Langdon nodded. “Yes, he was a smuggler.”

“But he wouldn’t run drugs, eh?” queried Baldy. “By golly, that’s one big thing in his favor.”

“To-morrow night, eh?” muttered Bill Steen. “And the Lord only knows where it might come through.”

“But it must come through,” said Mrs. Langdon hoarsely. “Don’t you see that it must get safely across?”

“Ma’am,” said Bill Steen seriously, “are you tryin’ to bribe us?”

“Bribe you? Don’t you realize that my little baby is in their hands? If that cargo——”

“Yeah, that’s true. But why didn’t yuh keep still about it, ma’am?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Langdon clasped her hands wearily. “I guess I just had to tell somebody.”

“Do yuh reckon they took her across the line?” asked Dobie. “They prob’ly would, don’t cha think?”

“Yes, I’m sure they did.”

“Verdugo, likely,” nodded old Jim. “That gang down there are mostly all smugglers.”

“Well, I dunno what we can do.” Bill Steen realized that they were helpless in the matter. “Sam Langdon was one of the gang and it kinda looks to me like he was goin’ to suffer for his sins.”

“But I was not one of them!” Mrs. Langdon drew herself up and faced the grizzled old officer. “What about me?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But what can we do? We can’t go into Mexico after the little girl, ma’am. The Lord knows there’s plenty of places for them to run the stuff across, but we can’t set here to-morrow night and leave the whole line unguarded.”

“No, I suppose you can’t, but—” Mrs. Langdon turned wearily toward the door. “I just wanted you to know what happened to me. I suppose there is nothing to do but to just wait. I—I want my baby—Jane.”

She went softly out of the door and they watched her disappear in the moonlight, a pathetic little figure, going down the dusty road.

Old Jim Cleveland swore softly and pulled on his boots. Dobie shuffled his feet and hitched at his cartridge-belt.

“I wonder how much Sam Langdon had to do with it that night they got my dad?”

Bill Steen sighed deeply and shook his head.

“I dunno, Dobie. Sam Langdon may know who done it, but I don’t reckon he done it himself. He balked on runnin’ drugs, yuh remember. The fellers that stole the baby are ornery enough to do murder. But what in thunder can we do?”

“Not a blasted thing!” exploded Baldy. “I wish I had a little army behind me. I’d go into Mexico and clean out the whole country. If Verdugo was wiped off the map, this wouldn’t be a bad little world to live in.”

“Yuh gotta remember that it’s white men’s brains behind this, Baldy,” said Bill. “The Mexicans are bad enough, but it takes white men to pull off real smart deviltry.”

“Well, I reckon I’ll go home,” said Dobie. “Much obliged for the beans and biscuits, Baldy.”

“Boy, yo’re sure welcome,” grinned Baldy. “Come ag’in to-morrow and help us whip the rest of that pot, will yuh?”

“I reckon I will,” nodded Dobie. “Buenas noches.”

He swung onto his buckskin and went slowly down the road. He did not want to overtake Mrs. Langdon. Half-a-mile from the headquarters the road forked. The one to the right led straight into Mexico and was little used. It was on this road that Dan Dixon had been killed.

Dobie drew up at the forks and considered the two roads. He knew it would be foolhardy for him to ride into Mexico. There were no laws in Verdugo, except the word of Gonzales, an outlaw. It was a hotbed of revolutionists, smugglers, outlaws of every description.

There was an army in Verdugo; originally part of the Federal forces of Mexico, but now in the pay of Gonzales. Dobie knew that it would be suicide for any white man not connected with Gonzales to enter Verdugo.

The buckskin moved restlessly, jingling the bit-chains, kicking up a film of the yellow dust.

“Plumb anxious to be goin’, eh?” muttered Dobie. “All right, let’s move along.”

He turned and headed toward Mexico, riding slowly down through the clumps of mesquite. A flare of light cut across the hills and he heard the spluttering of the flivver, as the officers turned at the forks and headed westward.

A barbed-wire fence and gate marked the boundary between the United States and Mexico. Dobie stopped at the gate and listened. Far away he could hear the popping of the flivver, climbing one of the winding grades.

Out in the Mexican hills a coyote barked snappily. Dobie opened the gate, led his horse through and closed it behind him. Then he mounted and rode swiftly toward Verdugo, three miles away.

Dobie had no idea of what he was going to do at Verdugo, but was trusting to luck. The buckskin wanted to run, and Dobie gave it plenty of slack rein. There were no houses along the road, no sign of habitation, until he topped a rise and saw the lights of Verdugo below him.

Practically every house in Verdugo was built of adobe brick. The main street was narrow and crooked, ankle deep in yellow dust. There was one cross street, which extended up a slight rise, at the top of which was the barracks, a long, one-story adobe.

The main street ran east and west, and at the southeast corner of the street intersections was the cantina, or saloon. Dobie rode in at the north end of the cross street, which only extended a short block from the main street.

There were no street lights in Verdugo. Yellow lights from oil lamps and candles glowed in the windows and helped to illuminate the streets, which were already bright from the moonlight. A number of saddled horses were tied to the many hitch-racks and wide-hatted Mexicans strolled the street. From the cantina came the strumming of a string-instrument orchestra, and somewhere a woman was singing a song of old Spain.

Dobie rode boldly up the street, swinging to the right at the street intersections and dismounting at a hitch-rack. A Mexican walked past and Dobie asked him where Gonzales might be found. Dobie spoke in Spanish and the Mexican gave him the direction.

Gonzales lived in a big adobe house about a block beyond the street intersections. The building was set back from the street and in front of it grew a large live-oak tree.

Dobie sauntered down the opposite side of the street, and could see that a soldier guarded the front of the building. The man’s white cotton shirt was plainly visible and the moonlight glinted on his rifle-barrel. He went to the end of the street, passing several Mexicans, who paid him no heed, circled the buildings and came back to the rear of Gonzales’s house. As far as he could see, the rear was unguarded. A light glowed in one of the windows, which was set in the side of an L in the building.

Dobie sneaked in cautiously and tried to peer into the window. He could hear a murmur of voices, but was unable to more than catch a glimpse of the interior. The single pane of glass was clouded and dirty, probably never having been cleaned since the house had been built.

Came the sound of a soft footfall, and one of the guards walked around the corner, almost colliding with Dobie. He was a small Mexican in ill-fitting clothes and wide hat; looking in the half-light like a huge toadstool.

He started back in affright and tried to throw up his rifle, but Dobie dove into him like a wildcat and they fairly pin-wheeled for a moment. The rifle went spinning away and they came to a stop against the wall of the next building.

But the Mexican was no quitter. They surged to their feet, fighting silently. But Dobie’s volley of short-arm punches soon caused the Mexican to lose heart.

He broke loose and tried to run, but Dobie crashed a fist to his midriff and he went flat on his face, yelping for all the saints to come to his aid.

Dobie was slightly dazed and winded from the encounter, and as he started down the alley he ran into four more guards, who proceeded to pile up on him. By sheer weight of numbers they managed to subdue him, but not until he had succeeded in sending home a few blows that caused the guards to utter bitter imprecations against such doings.

Unceremoniously they dragged him into the front door of Gonzales’s house, shoving him to the center of the room and standing back with raised rifles, covering him.

Dobie’s lips were bleeding and one of his eyes had taken on a purple shade, but he grinned at the guards and turned to look at Gonzales, who was still slouched back in a chair, watching him.

Gonzales was a gross figure of a man, wide of girth, short of legs and with a fat, evil countenance. His black beard was short and wiry and his mustache drooped wearily over a thick-lipped mouth. He regarded Dobie out of little, pig-like eyes.

Another man was sitting at a table, partly in the shadow, but Dobie had seen this man before. It was Doc Carver. The door opened again and in came the guard that had first discovered Dobie. He was a much-mussed personage and was still short of breath.

It was Doc Carver

“So, you caught the pig!” he panted. “Madre de Dios, but he is tricky!”

“What is it about?” demanded Gonzales.

Swiftly the guards explained the capture. Gonzales blinked over the information and shifted himself.

“Habla Español?” he demanded of Dobie.

“Si, señor,” nodded Dobie, and then in English: “You can talk United States as well as I can.”

“You are ve-e-ery smart, yes?” queried Gonzales.

“Not very,” admitted Dobie. “I should have run the other way.”

Gonzales was not without a sense of humor, and he grinned softly.

“What do you want here?” he demanded.

“Sam Langdon’s little girl.” Dobie knew there was no use in lying about his mission.

Carver turned his head slowly and looked at Gonzales. Dobie was watching him and felt that Carver knew considerable about the deal.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Dobie Dixon. My dad was Dan Dixon.”

Carver did not say anything more, so Dobie turned to Gonzales.

“You look for a little girl, eh?” Gonzales seemed to be amused.

“Yeah, I sure am,” said Dobie.

“Why you look here?”

“Why look anywhere else?” demanded Dobie.

“Aw, why argue with him?” asked Carver of Gonzales.

Gonzales grinned widely and shook his head.

“No use. Take him to the barracks and see that he does not get away.”

One of the guards prodded Dobie with the muzzle of his rifle and motioned toward the door.

“Buenas noches, señor,” said Gonzales mockingly.

Dobie’s hand dropped to his holster, but it was empty. Either the guards had taken it or he had lost it in the fight. The rifle-muzzle prodded him again.

“Wait a minute,” said Dobie carelessly, “I want to ask a question.”

Gonzales nodded and the guard stepped back. Dobie moved in close to the table on which rested the oil-lamp and, as he seemed to frame his question, he sprang forward and swept the lamp to the floor, plunging the room into darkness.

And as the lamp crashed down, Dobie dropped flat on the dirt floor and rolled toward the wall. He had located the window with the dirty pane, and was taking a long chance.

Gonzales spat a withering curse, and Dobie heard his chair splinter, as the guards crashed into him in their rush to recapture their man.

“Stop it, you fools!” roared Carver. “Block that door!”

Dobie’s hands had found the window, which was set in a deep embrasure, and as the guards stumbled for the door, he swung himself up to his knees, crossed his elbows in front of his face and plunged headlong out of the window.

They had seen him just as he plunged, and a high-powered bullet screamed off the adobe near his ear, but he landed sitting down outside with hardly a scratch.

Quickly he got to his feet and raced toward the hills to the rear of the house. He could hear the guards shouting, as they circled the house, but he was not afraid of them now.

He swung to the left around an old corral, tripping over some loose boards, but managed to keep his feet.

“Gotta get a gun!” he panted to himself. “Whole town will be on my trail pretty quick.”

He had run to where he could look down the cross street, and saw several men running toward the cantina. To his right, just a short distance away, was the barracks, a white strip in the moonlight.

“That’s where they were goin’ to put me,” he reflected. “I’ll betcha that’s the last place they’ll search.”

He kept off the main thoroughfare and sneaked to the barracks. The door was partly open; so he walked boldly inside. A candle, stuck in the neck of a bottle, was burning beside a huddle of blankets on the floor, and from the huddle came the sounds of some one snoring heavily.

The room was a litter of blankets, straw, cooking utensils. Leaning against the wall was a number of old Mauser rifles and several bandoliers of cartridges were scattered on the floor.

Dobie picked up a rifle and examined it. The clip was filled with cartridges. He picked up a belt of cartridges and buckled it around his waist. The sleeper grunted and changed positions, but did not wake up.

He could hear men calling to each other and they appeared to be coming closer. He whirled back to the open door. Six or eight men were coming up the street toward the barracks, walking fast.

Suddenly he realized that these men were coming after their rifles to join in the hunt for him. They were not over a hundred yards away now. He swung the Mauser to his shoulder and aimed to hit the ground just in front of them.

The report of the rifle seemed to fairly split the world, and he heard the angry whine of the bullet as it spun down the street. For a moment the men stopped. Another bullet threw sand into them and they broke into a mad dash for safety; most of them going straight down the open street.

Dobie whirled. The sleeper had come to life and was on his hands and knees, gawping at Dobie, who swung the muzzle of the rifle around and pulled the trigger. The bullet splatted into the ground just short of the dazed Mexican, who, with a scream for mercy, proceeded to roll himself half-way across the room, wrapping himself in every available blanket.

Dobie turned back to the door. He could see quite a crowd near the cantina, so he lifted his gun and drove them to cover with a single shot. From the blanket-wrapped figure came a muffled voice, begging for mercy.

Dobie jerked the door shut and dropped the bar. Then he softly crossed the room, stepped up on a stool and slid out through a rear window. He walked to the eastern end of the barracks and circled back toward the main street, keeping under cover as much as possible.

“I’ve got ’em watchin’ the barracks,” he reflected with a grin at his own ingenuity. “That feller in the blankets won’t come out until they unroll him.”

Dobie was satisfied that little Jane Langdon was a prisoner somewhere in Verdugo, and he had an idea that she might be in Gonzales’ house. He worked his way down to the rear of the main street. The whole town seemed to be awake to the fact that something had gone wrong. He could hear a woman’s shrill voice telling someone that a new revolution had started, and he chuckled to think that he was the revolution.

It was a very dangerous position for a fifteen-year-old boy, but Dobie was of the desert breed; a breed that matures early. He knew that he could circle the town and get back to the line with a whole skin, but he did not come to Verdugo to go back alone.

He came in at the rear of an adobe dwelling, where he stopped in the heavy shadow to rest a moment. Some men had stopped on the street and were arguing. He heard one of them demand that the others hurry with him to circle around behind the barracks.

Two of them came down the alley and he could almost touch them as they went past. The third one came behind them. He was evidently in no hurry and complained peevishly about a sore foot. As he got close to Dobie, and just past him, he stopped, held his rifle between his knees and tried to light a cigaret.

Dobie stepped out behind him, measured the distance and rapped the Mexican smartly over the head with the barrel of his rifle. The man grunted and dove forward into the dirt, his wide hat rolling aside.

Dobie picked up the hat, flung his old sombrero toward the rear of the building, and walked straight out of the alley into the street. The Mexican grunted a few times, sat up and felt of his head. He was too dazed to even think what had happened to him.

Dobie felt safer now. To outward appearances he was merely one of the Mexican soldiers, and the wide hat shaded his features from too keen eyes.

Soldiers were running about the streets and quite a crowd had collected near the cantina, but keeping out of range of the barracks, Dobie went up the opposite side of the street and crossed the intersection. A Mexican called a warning to him to look out, but he went on across.

On that corner was a frame building, one of the few frame buildings in the town. Dobie noticed that the front door was partly open. He walked a little further up the street. His buckskin was still tied to the hitch-rack, with two other horses.

A man was hurrying down the street and caught sight of Dobie. It was an officer. He called to Dobie:

“What are you doing here?”

Dobie did not reply, but realized that he would have to explain why he was not among those sent to assault the barracks. The officer came up quickly, muttering a threat, and evidently expecting the poor soldier to run away from him, but Dobie did not run.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated angrily.

“Mindin’ my own business, hombre,” said Dobie in English, “and if you open your mouth I’ll lam yuh full of bullets; sabe?”

“Dios! What is this? You——”

“Shut up!” snapped Dobie, shoving the gun in his face. “You’re talkin’ too loud.”

“Si,” admitted the officer unwillingly.

“Turn around,” ordered Dobie; “we’ll go over and visit Gonzales.”

“He is not at home,” replied the officer in Spanish.

“I’m glad to hear that,” grinned Dobie. “Start goin’, hombre.”

He herded the officer across the street and up to Gonzales’ house. The door was open and a single candle was burning on the table. Dobie directed the officer to take the candle and open the door of the rear room.

Dobie had expected to find the little girl in that room, but he was doomed to disappointment. It was the sleeping quarters of Gonzales, and almost as bare of furniture as the main room.

He backed the officer out of the room and stepped into the main room, just as Gonzales and Carver came in the front door. Gonzales recognized the officer with the candle, but did not realize that the Mexican with the rifle was the man that his whole army was searching for.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded of the officer, as he and Carver advanced toward the table. Dobie sidled toward the door, holding his gun ready for an attack.

“Dios!” snorted the officer, almost dropping the candle. “There is the gringo!” He pointed at Dobie, who was nearing the door.

“The gringo!” snapped Gonzales, and one of his fat hands dropped to his ornate belt, fumbling for a gun.

Carver had turned and also reached for a gun. But Dobie was covering them with the rifle, as he backed toward the door, and Carver hesitated. He had no stomach for a Mauser bullet at that range, and he did not know just how accurate the boy might be.

Dobie halted in the doorway and laughed at them.

“Buenas noches, señors,” he called. “It’s my turn to say good-night, and I hope yuh choke on a snore.”

He ducked aside and ran down the street toward his horse. He had decided to make a swift ride out of town and head for the border now. He had expected to find Jane Langdon in Gonzales’ house, and, failing in that, he had no idea of where to search.

Someone shot at him from the doorway of Gonzales’ house and he heard the bullet splat into the wall of a house beside him. Another shot struck the dirt behind him, sending a shower of gravel against a window.

He was almost to his horse when he saw several soldiers running toward him past the cantina, coming to see what the shooting was about. He swerved toward the building, getting the horses between him and the oncoming soldiers.

Gonzales, Carver and the officer were running from the house, shouting orders to the soldiers, who stopped. Dobie slipped past the horses, and darted around the corner of the frame building. He heard one of the soldiers yelling that someone had just run around the corner, and a moment later he heard them clattering toward him.

To run down the street would put him at the mercy of the whole army; so he ducked into the half-open doorway of the frame building and closed the door behind him.

The soldiers raced past and Dobie breathed easier. He knew what would be his fate if he was caught. Gonzales was absolutely without mercy, and Dobie could look for no help from the United States. He had come there at his own risk, and just now he was beginning to realize what a risky thing he had done.

Then he heard Gonzales and Carver talking excitedly, just outside the door. The knob grated and the door began to open slowly, as Carver came in.

Dobie stepped behind the door, gripping his rifle. He felt sure that he would be discovered now. The door swung back almost against him and he heard Carver come in and walk part way across the room.

Then he heard Carver curse witheringly.

“You gave me a good guard, Gonzales!” he rasped.

“What is wrong?” queried Gonzales.

“He’s drunk as a fool, that’s what’s wrong. Wake up, you dog!”

Dobie heard Carver kick the man, who whined drunkenly and tried to get up.

“Full of tequila, eh?” snarled Carver, and then to Gonzales: “Have you no punishment for such as he?”

“Have I not?” laughed Gonzales, and the drunken soldier whined for mercy.

“He shall suffer for this,” declared Gonzales evenly. “Outside, you dog!”

The soldier staggered toward the door, begging drunkenly for mercy and calling upon all the saints to witness that he had not touched a drop of liquor. Either Gonzales or Carver struck him a heavy blow and he fell sprawling into the street.

“Let him lie there,” said Gonzales coldly. “I will have him tried in the morning.”

“He deserves everything he will get,” declared Carver. “It was important that he keep awake.”

“Very important,” agreed Gonzales. “I shall get you a trustworthy guard, my friend.”

“Get two—half-a-dozen,” said Carver. “Get them now. I will stay here until they come, Gonzales.”

“Esta buena, amigo,” said Gonzales. “But it may take time. The army is hunting the gringo. We should assist them. There is much danger for you if this man escapes.”

“Man! He is only a boy.”

“In age,” agreed Gonzales. “But in size and ability he is almost a man, my friend. And he is the son of Dixon, the border officer, who is now dead.”

“You’ve got a fine army, if they can’t take one kid.” Carver was growing sarcastic now.

“And if he escapes, you might regret it,” said Gonzales softly. “He knows who you are, my friend. The whole border will know that you are a dangerous man, and friends of Gonzales are not wanted, or”—Gonzales laughed softly—“are very much wanted on the other side of the border.”

“I don’t appreciate your jokes, Gonzales. What do I care who or what he is? His father thought I was a smuggler, too, and tried to stop me. He was a fool. Now, go and get me half of your army to guard this place.”

“As soon as the chase is ended,” said Gonzales, and went back up the street.

Dobie gripped his rifle and waited. He knew now that Doc Carver was the man who had killed his father, and he lost all fear of everything. But he did not lose his caution. Down in his heart he had sworn that Carver would pay the penalty of that deed.

Carver was crossing the floor now, a dark blot in the room. He fumbled noisily at a lock for several moments and then opened a door. He was humming a Spanish melody, as he scratched a match and peered around. Then he stepped out of line with the door and Dobie heard him fumbling with a lamp.

Dobie gripped the rifle under his arm, while he slipped off his boots. Somewhere outside a rifle cracked, but it was far away, and Dobie grinned. The army had split into separate sections and were probably shooting at each other.

Softly he crossed the room and edged up to the door. Carver was standing with his back to the doorway, looking down at something. Dobie edged in behind him and almost prodded Carver in the back with the rifle muzzle before Carver realized that someone was behind him.

He whirled on his heel and his face went black at sight of Dobie. But his face was no whiter than Dobie’s, and he shrank back at the expression of the youngster’s eyes. For several moments they looked at each other, and then Dobie said, almost in a whisper:

“Carver, you killed my dad. I heard you admit it just a minute ago. Gonzales and his men may get me, but you won’t be a bit interested in it, ’cause I’m goin’ to kill you right now.”

“No!” breathed Carver hoarsely, and the muscles of his face twitched nervously. “No, you can’t do that, kid.”

Carver knew in his own heart that this kid was going to make good his threat, but he wanted to spar for time.

“I can’t do it?” Dobie’s voice was as thin and vibrant as a fiddle-string, and the rifle muzzle did not waver a fraction of an inch. “You think I can’t do it?”

Carver tried to swallow, but his throat contracted and he grimaced foolishly.

“No—no!” he panted. “Think what it——”

“I’ve thought,” said Dobie flatly. “They brought him home all busted up, Carver. He never spoke to me again. You ran him down and dragged him a long ways—but you won’t drag nobody ever again. You——”

“Dobie!” It was the shrill cry of a child.

For a fraction of a second Dobie shot a sideways glance in the direction of the voice, and he saw little Jane Langdon’s tousled head appear above a pile of blankets in the corner.

Little Jane Langdon’s tousled head appear above a pile of blankets in the corner

But in that fraction of a second Doc Carver had flung himself headlong into Dobie and they went backwards into the door, crashing it shut and sending the rifle spinning across the room.

Carver was much bigger and stronger than Dobie. He was well versed in the art of rough-and-tumble fighting and anticipated little trouble in disposing of Dobie. But that was where he made his fatal mistake—he underrated his opponent.

They crashed down against the closing door, shutting it with a bang that shook the whole house. Dobie squirmed loose and hooked one arm over the back of Carver’s neck. Carver surged to his hands and knees, driving Dobie against the wall and trying to tear him loose, but Dobie clung like a leech.

Carver swore viciously and threw himself backwards, breaking Dobie’s hold, and they both got to their feet. Little Jane was watching them, wide-eyed, and now she called again:

“Dobie, I want my mama!”

Carver grinned crookedly and moved in, shoulders hunched and arms swinging loosely. Dobie did not move, except to balance himself on the balls of his feet. He had lost his wide hat and his face looked white and drawn in the yellow light.

Then Carver darted in and swung viciously at him. Carver was not a boxer, and Dobie knew just where the blow was due to strike. Almost without his own volition, he glided aside and swung upward with his clenched fist.

Carver’s blow missed him by inches, but Dobie felt his own fist meet flesh and Carver staggered aside, throwing up his left arm to guard his damaged face. It was the first time that Dobie had ever hit a man, and it seemed absurdly simple. It thrilled him to think that he had been able to tell just where Carver’s blow was to strike, and that he had been able to drive his own fist so neatly.

But Carver was not badly hurt. Dobie’s blow had taught him caution, and this time he was more careful. Instead of trying to land a damaging blow, he attempted to pin the boy against the wall. But Dobie was cat-like in his stocking-feet and he danced away from Carver’s rush.

They came together in the middle of the room and Carver managed to drive a hard smash to Dobie’s shoulder, but got a bunch of hard knuckles in his mouth as a receipt. He dropped back, spitting out the remnant of a tooth.

“No, yuh don’t!” he gritted, as Dobie circled toward the lamp. “None of that lamp smashin’!”

“Huh!” grunted Dobie. “I don’t want it out, Carver. I want plenty of light to see to lick yuh good.”

“Yeah?” Carver rushed swiftly, but this time Dobie did not retreat. In fact, he darted ahead, catching Carver off his balance. They crashed together, both of them striking wildly, and Dobie got a blow between the eyes that dazed him for a moment. Luckily for him, one of his ill-timed blows had caught Carver on the nose, and that worthy was in no condition to follow up his advantage.

For several moments they faced each other, both trying to regain their senses. They were close together, and as Carver jerked his hand away from his damaged nose, Dobie drove his fist square against it again. It was not a hard blow, but it seemed to drive Carver wild.

Mouthing a curse, he sprang for Dobie, reaching for him with both hands, but Dobie sprang backwards, keeping out of his reach. He was more secure on his feet than Carver, but it was impossible for him to keep out of Carver’s reach for long.

The room was cluttered up with several boxes, piles of blankets, table and a chair, which only gave them part of the room with a clear floor.

Carver was breathing heavily now. His nose was so badly damaged that he was forced to breathe through his mouth, and his curses were fewer now. Around and around the cleared space they circled. Carver struck wildly several times, and the effort seemed to tire him.

He went slower now, keeping to the center of the room and forcing Dobie to cover the longer distance. Dissipation was telling on Carver. His recuperative powers were weakened. But Dobie was not tired. The strange tenseness he had felt at the beginning had left him and he did not fear Carver now.

Then he realized that it was only a matter of a few minutes until Gonzales would come with the soldiers. Carver knew this, too, and he was willing to prolong the battle.

Then Dobie assumed the aggressive. He advanced toward Carver, who eyed him malevolently. He struck a light blow at Carver, who threw up an arm to block it, but did not attempt to strike back. Dobie drew back and grinned.

“Kinda got enough, eh?”

Carver did not speak. Dobie backed away a little and glanced swiftly around. Near the door was the rifle, lying across a box. Carver knew what was in Dobie’s mind. His own gun was on the opposite side of the door, where it had fallen from its holster, and now he cursed himself for not using the gun at first instead of trying to subdue this young wild-cat with his hands.

Suddenly Dobie made a feint, as though to try and get one of the guns. Quick as a flash, Carver darted to intercept him. It was what Dobie knew he would do, and instead of going after the guns he dove sideways into Carver, knocking him almost into the table.

And before Carver could realize what had happened, Dobie tore into him with both hands. Dobie’s first smashing uppercut was the blow that robbed Carver of any chance to win the battle. It struck fair and true to the point of the jaw, and Carver sagged at the knees.

Blindly, wildly, Dobie rained blow after blow to Carver’s head and face. There was no science, no judging of distance, no objective—nothing but a smash, smash, smash, with both arms working like flails.

Dobie was panting, blubbering, half-crying, as he drove Carver backwards to a pile of blankets, where he caught his heel and went down in a heap against the wall.

Dobie caught himself and staggered against the wall, where he stood and panted the air back into his aching lungs. His arms ached numbly and his hands were bruised and bleeding.

But he had whipped a grown man! In a fair fight he had vanquished a big opponent—knocked him out. The little girl was crying bitterly from fright, but Dobie only panted and tried to grin at her.

Then he staggered over and got the two guns. He did not know where Gonzales and his army were—and did not care just now. Carver was trying to get to his feet, but he sank back when Dobie prodded him with the rifle. He was completely whipped; so badly dazed that he did not seem to know what had happened.

There were several pack-saddles in the room, and a number of coils of rope. One of them was made of maguey fiber, a thin, tough rope that has little tendency to stretch.

Dobie selected this one and walked over to Carver.

“Get over on your face,” he ordered hoarsely. Carver gaped at him, but obeyed.

Dobie tied the rope tightly above his left elbow, drew Carver’s right arm across his back and tied that elbow in the same manner. This drew Carver’s elbows together behind him. Then he threw a half-hitch around Carver’s neck, and ordered him to get to his feet.

“Yo’re goin’ to act sweet,” said Dobie softly. “If I yank this maguey rope tight, you’ll plumb choke to death, Carver. This stuff won’t slip.”

But Carver did not speak. His swollen face twitched and he groaned with pain, but he was perfectly helpless to do anything, except hope for the best.

The little girl stumbled across the blankets to Dobie. She had not been harmed in any way and Carver had not even roped her, but there had been no way for her to have escaped.

“You take me to my mama?” she asked tearfully.

“Gosh, I dunno,” admitted Dobie. “It kinda looks like I’d bit off more than I can chaw.”

He was examining the articles in the room, while Carver watched him malevolently. Suddenly it dawned upon Dobie that these things were the drugs that were to be sent across the border on the following night.

He began piling them up in the center of the room and Carver watched him curiously.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” asked Carver thickly.

“Never mind me,” replied Dobie. He did not know that the monetary value of that shipment ran into thousands of dollars, and that this was to be Carver and Gonzales’ big clean-up of the season. He only knew that this stuff was to be smuggled across the border, stuff that every normal minded person detested above all things.

He finished piling the things and turned to Carver.

“Get upon your feet, hombre; we’re goin’ to travel.”

“Where do yuh think we’re goin’?” asked Carver sullenly.

Dobie shook his head. “I dunno. We’re pointin’ away from Verdugo, if that helps yuh any.”

Carver tried to grin. “You won’t get far, kid.”

“Mebbe not, but we’re goin’ to start.”

Carver got to his feet and tested his bound arms, but found that the thin rope only drew tighter. There was nothing he could do, except to obey this kid and pray that Gonzales and his men might not be too late. Inwardly he promised himself sweet satisfaction, when he did get this kid in his power.

Dobie picked little Jane up in his arms.

“Want to ride?” he grinned. “All right. Turn around, Carver.”

“What’s the idea?” growled Carver.

“You packed her here; so yuh can pack her back home. Turn around.”

Dobie placed Jane on Carver’s back and told her to hang on to his neck. She was frightened and protested that she did not like that man, but Dobie assured her that the bad man couldn’t hurt her now and that it was too far for her to walk.

“You can’t get away with this, kid,” assured Carver. “They’ll get yuh when yuh leave here.”

“I s’pose. But dad used to say that the things we worry about the most never happen. Get over by the door.”

Dobie opened the door, but kept the rope looped around his arm, while he extinguished the lamp. Then he unscrewed the top of the lamp and poured the kerosene over the pile of drugs.

“Don’t do that!” roared Carver. “You fool! What are you going to do?”

Dobie’s reply was to scratch a match and drop it into the bundles. The oil exploded into flame almost instantly, and a moment later the valuable lot of drugs was a blazing mass. A cloud of black smoke billowed out of the door as Dobie drove Carver ahead of him out into the street.

“Don’t cha try to yelp,” warned Dobie. “You peep just once and I’ll yank this loop tight.”

Some soldiers were coming down from the barracks, and another group were crossing the street at the east end of town. Dobie drove his man around the corner toward the hitchrack. The little girl was game. She clung to Carver’s neck and braced her knees between his bound elbows.

There were several horses at the hitch-rack. Dobie untied his buckskin. The fire had spread rapidly and the seasoned old building burned like tinder. From across at the cantina came a yelp of alarm, and Dobie knew that it would only be a short time until all of Verdugo would come to the fire.

The horses seemed to sense the danger, especially the buckskin, which reared and tried to break away. The fire was sending up a billow of smoke now, and soldiers were running in from every direction. Dobie looked back toward the cantina and saw Gonzales and three soldiers coming swiftly toward the corner.

Quickly he drew his pocket-knife, cut loose all of the horses, and they galloped away in a group, with the buckskin leading them. Then Dobie shoved Carver into the narrow alley between the burning building and the low adobe which joined it. Some of the soldiers had seen the galloping horses and yelled the information to Gonzales, who ran to the corner.

“The gringo escaped and took the other horses with him,” panted a soldier, whom Dobie recognized as being the officer he had captured.

“Diable!” swore Gonzales. “We’ll never get him now. Back to the fire and find Carver, if possible. That kid is a devil! Hurry!”

They ran back into the crowd. Dobie shoved Carver down the narrow alley, turned to the left at the rear of the adobe building and headed straight for the line. Behind them the flames of the burning building painted the sky a glowing red, and Carver cursed weakly.

Behind them the flames of the burning building painted the sky red

Half-an-hour later Dobie halted Carver. In front of them bulked the dim shape of an automobile. A spot-light flashed and the beams illuminated a white sign on the side of the car, which read:

UNITED STATES REVENUE OFFICERS

Dobie laughed joyously as he yelled:

“Get that one-lunged flivver out of my road. I’m smugglin’ the smuggler.”

“Dobie!” called Bill Steen. “Is that you, Dobie?”

“I’m one of us,” he laughed.

Three flashlights played upon them from different directions, and from Baldy’s lips came a whoop.

“He’s got the little girl!”

They crowded in around him and Bill Steen lifted Jane off Carver’s back. She was very sleepy and very tired, but she grinned in spite of it.

“This looks like a feller by the name of Carver,” said Bill Steen wonderingly. “Kinda looks like he’d spoke out of turn, though. Where does he come in on this deal, Dobie?”

“He killed my dad, Bill. I heard him tell it to Gonzales; so I brought him along.”

“Gonzales, eh? You been to Verdugo?”

“Yeah, I—I sure have, Bill.”

“What’s the big fire yuh can see over there?” asked Baldy.

“That’s the drug store, Baldy. I’ll betcha there won’t be no drugs crossing the line for quite a while. I set the whole works on fire. I’ve lost my horse, but he’ll come home—and probably smuggle a lot of Mexican horses across with him.”

“I—I want my mama,” said little Jane.

“She’s sure lookin’ for yuh, little lady,” said Bill. “We’ll take yuh home right away,” and then to Dobie, “You took an awful chance in goin’ to Verdugo, don’t cha know it?”

Dobie grinned widely in the glare of the flashlights.

“I suppose I might as well make the best of it,” said Carver, before Dobie could reply, “so there’s no use kickin’ against what’s comin’ to me, but I’d just like to inform you bloodhounds that the town of Verdugo and my friend Gonzales were taking awful chances when they gave this kid reasons for coming across the border.”

“Yeah,” admitted Bill seriously; “he’s got the makin’s of a good man.”

“Good man!” snorted Carver. “He’s got the makings of a whole blasted army.”

Five minutes later the flivver spluttered into life and rattled back over the rutty roads, while far back across the border the red glow died out of the sky, and a coyote barked snappily.

It was all in a night’s work.

Transcriber’s Notes

1. This story appeared in the October and November, 1923 issues of Boy’s Life magazine. This story is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Please note that copyright status may differ in other countries.
2. The cover image was produced by the transcriber. The cover illustration was generated to represent a scene from the story. The image is released into the public domain.