"I've got to consider the owners," he told them. "This is the biggest well in Mexico, and you know it--a hundred and eighty-five thousand barrels daily flow. I've no right to risk it. We have no trouble with the Mexicans. It's you Americans. If you stay here, I'll have to protect you. And I can't protect you, anyway. We'll all lose our lives and they'll destroy the well in the bargain. And if they fire it, it means the entire Ebaño oil field. The strata's too broken. We're flowing twenty thousand barrels now, and we can't pinch down any further. As it is, the oil's coming up outside the pipe. And we can't have a fight. We've got to keep the oil moving." The men nodded. It was cold-blooded logic; but there was no fault to it. The harassed expression eased on the superintendent's face, and he almost beamed on them for agreeing with him. "You've got a good machine there," he continued. "The ferry's at the bank at Panuco, and once you're across, the rebels aren't so thick on the north shore. Why, you can beat the steamboat back to Tampico by hours. And it hasn't rained for days. The road won't be at all bad." * * * * * "Which is all very good," Davies observed to Wemple as they approached Panuco, "except for the fact that the road on the other side was never built for automobiles, much less for a long-bodied one like this. I wish it were the Four instead of the Six." "And it would bother you with a Four to negotiate that hill at Aliso where the road switchbacks above the river." "And we're going to do it with a Six or lose a perfectly good Six in trying," Beth Drexel laughed to them. Avoiding the cavalry camp, they entered Panuco with all the speed the ruts permitted, swinging dizzy corners to the squawking of chickens and barking of dogs. To gain the ferry, they had to pass down one side of the great plaza which was the heart of the city. Peon soldiers, drowsing in the sun or clustering around the _cantinas_, stared stupidly at them as they flashed past. Then a drunken major shouted a challenge from the doorway of a _cantina_ and began vociferating orders, and as they left the plaza behind they could hear rising the familiar mob-cry "_Kill the Gringoes!_" "If any shooting begins, you women get down in the bottom of the car," Davies commanded. "And there's the ferry all right. Be careful, Charley." The machine plunged directly down the bank through a cut so deep that it was more like a chute, struck the gangplank with a terrific bump, and seemed fairly to leap on board. The ferry was scarcely longer than the machine, and Drexel, visibly shaken by the closeness of the shave, managed to stop only when six inches remained between the front wheels and overboard.