J. Duffield - Bert Wilson at Panama

The boys sat down on the grassy bank and cudgeled their brains. The fierce excitement of the last few minutes had gone down, to be replaced by a steady flame of resolution. Bert's mental processes were quick as lightning. He could not only do, but plan. It was this instant perception and clear insight, as well as his pluck and muscle, that had made him a natural leader and won him the unquestioned position he held among his friends and comrades. Like a flash he reviewed in his mind the various plans that occurred to him, dismissing this, amending that, until out of the turmoil of his thoughts he had reached a definite conclusion.

He lifted his head from his hands and in short crisp sentences sketched out his purpose.

"Now, Tom," he said, "we've got to work harder and quicker than we ever did before. Here's the game. Make tracks for the train. It must be pretty nearly ready to move now. Go through Dick's bag and get his revolver. It may come in handy later on. Grab another big bunch of cartridges. Get the pocket compass out of my valise. Go into the buffet and cram your pockets full of bread and meat. We might shoot small game enough to keep us alive, but shooting makes a noise.

"Do these things first of all, and then hunt up Melton. You know whom I mean – that cattleman from Montana that we were talking to yesterday. He's a good fellow and a game sport. He told me he was going to Montillo on business connected with his ranch. That's the first station on the other side of the bridge. The train will be there in an hour. Tell Melton the fix we're in. He's chased outlaws himself and he'll understand. Ask him to go to the American Consul the minute he gets to Montillo and put it up to him that American citizens need help and need it quick. It's an important town and we'll probably have a consul there. If not, ask Melton to put the facts before the Mexican authorities. They don't love Americans very much, but they're a little afraid that the Washington people may mix in here, and they may not want to get in bad with them. Besides they hate the guerillas just about as much as we do. Anyway we'll have to take the chance."

"How about following the trail?" suggested Tom. "There are plenty of bloodhounds around. They use them to chase the peons and Yaquis. Shall I ask Melton to send some along if he can?"

"No," replied Bert. "I thought of that, but their baying might give us away. If they suspect pursuit, they might kill Dick and scatter before we could get to them. You and I are woodmen enough to follow a trail made by twenty horses. If there were only one they might get away with it, but not when there are so many. Now get a move on, old man. I'll wait for you here studying the signs, and we'll start as soon as you get back. If reinforcements catch up to us, all right. If we can get Dick without them so much the better. If not, they'll help us later on."

Without another word Tom leaped to his feet and was off down the road like the flight of an arrow.

As he flew on, he heard the shrill whistle of the engine and the ringing of its bell. The train was getting ready to move. Groups of workmen, tools in hand, were coming from the ravine, and the passengers, glad that the wearisome wait was over, were getting on the platform, ready to climb into the cars. He let out a link and reached the train just as the engineer was getting into his cab. Tom blurted out the facts of Dick's capture, and the conductor, coming up just then, willingly consented to hold the train a few minutes longer.

To carry out Bert's instructions was with Tom the work of a moment, and then, with pockets crammed to bursting, he sought out Melton, the cattleman.

That individual, a grizzled weather beaten veteran of the plains, listened with the liveliest sympathy and indignation. His eyes, beneath his shaggy brows fairly blazed as Tom panted out the story.

"The dogs! The whelps!" he cried, as he brought down his gnarled fist with a tremendous thump. "If I were only twenty years younger or a hundred pounds lighter, I'd come with you myself. But I'd only hold you back if I went on foot. But you'll see me yet," he went on savagely; "I'll fix up things at Montillo as you ask, and then I'll get a horse and come after you. I thought my fighting days were over, but I've still got one good fight under my belt. Go ahead, my boy. You're the real stuff and I wish I had a son like you. You make me proud of being an American. I'll do my best to be in at the death, and God help those greasers if I get them under my guns."

His warmth and eagerness proved that Bert had made no mistake in enlisting him as their ally at this time of deadly need. With a fervent word of thanks and a crushing hand grip, Tom leaped from the train and sped back to the comrade who was impatiently awaiting him. A hurried report of his mission and they were off on the trail.

What was at the end of that trail? Dick, alive or dead? Rescue or defeat? A joyful reunion or graves for three? All they knew was that, whatever awaited them, it was not disgrace. And they grimly pulled their belts tighter and pressed forward.

As they climbed upward they came to an open space from which they had a wide view of the surrounding country. As they looked back to the south, they heard the faint whistle of the departing train and saw the thin veil of smoke that it left behind. Not until that moment did they realize how utterly alone they were. It was the snapping of the last link that bound them to civilization. With the swiftness of a kaleidoscope their whole life had changed. That morning, without the slightest idea of what fate had in store for them, they had been together, exchanging jest and banter; now one of their comrades was a captive in the power of desperate brigands and they were on their way to save him or die with him. It was a forlorn hope; but forlorn hopes have a way of winning out in this world, where grit is at a premium, and although they were sobered at the awful odds against them, they were not dismayed.

If they should be too late! This was the terrible fear that haunted them. Already the afternoon had advanced and their shadows were growing longer behind them. Bert consulted his watch. Night comes on suddenly in those latitudes and there were only a few hours of the precious daylight left. Whatever they did that day would have to be done before darkness set in. It was difficult enough to follow the trail by daylight, but at night it would be utterly impossible. Since they had not killed Dick at once the probability was that his life would be safe during the flight. But at night they would be resting, with nothing to do but drink and gamble and indulge in every vice of their depraved natures. What deviltry might come to the surface, what thirst for blood and death that could only be slaked in the torture of their captive! Nine-tenths of the world's crime is committed under cover of the night, and it is not without reason that Satan has been called the "Prince of Darkness."

Such thoughts as these gave an added quickness to their steps. The way led steadily uphill. The path was rough and they tripped often over the tangled undergrowth. Long creepers reached down like snakes to grasp them from the branches overhead. Once they narrowly escaped a treacherous bog that got a firm grip on Tom's feet, and from which Bert only pulled him out by the utmost exertion of his strength. At times they lost the trail altogether, and fumed for nearly an hour before they took up the thread again. At the brook through which Dick's captors had walked their horses, they had almost begun to despair, when an exclamation of Tom's showed that he had found the spot where they had left the water. But through all these vexations, they stuck to the work with dogged tenacity. Then suddenly, almost without warning, night came down on them like a blanket. There was nothing of the long dusk and waning light common to northern climes. Five minutes earlier there was light enough for them to read by. Five minutes later and they could not see their hand before their face.