“Major,” he cried, “I’m under Colonel Welch’s orders, and I’m bringing him a—a—bringing his despatches. I want to get my directions, and what you know about his present location.” The “Major” seemed startled. “Welch? You with him?” “I sure am,” declared Hike, wishing that he soon might be “with” him, at least. The ruse worked. But before the “Major” answered Hike, he spoke with a Mexican who had quantities of gold lace over a shabby weather-worn old uniform-coat. Just then Jack Adeler’s head bobbed up from behind the tarpaulin-covered gun and cartridges at the back. Hike, looking back, felt very anxious. What had he been doing back there? Could it be that Jack Adeler—_Jack Adeler!_—was afraid of a bunch of plundering bush-fighters? If the machine-gun were only loaded—what they could do—! He heard the Lieutenant whispering sharply, “Find out where we are.” “Where are we?” he blurted out to the “Major.” “Ten miles southeast of Calientado—seventeen miles from the border.... But say, Ah don’t think we’d better let you-all go yet. Ah’ll have to see your despatches, first, and then, if they’re all right, Ah’ll have Captain Grendez here go—” Suddenly Jack Adeler’s voice bellowed from the freight-platform, “Stand aside, there, all of you, or we’ll shoot you.” He was waving a revolver with one hand and jerking at the tarpaulin cover with the other. The “Major” seemed only quietly amused. “Ah _thought_ what you said was only a ruse,” he laughed. “You, back there, you better put up that pop-gun or you might hurt yourself, ’cause when we—” Just then the tarpaulin came off. Jack Adeler turned a handle, and the machine-gun went “trrrrrrr,” like an automobile racing without a muffler. Ten men about the machine toppled over, and the rest fled terrified, throwing away their guns as they ran, scattering into the darkness, bellowing horrified fear. Instantly, Hike switched on the contact. The _Hustle_ bumped along the soft ground, stuck a moment in the sand, then went up at a long slant, dangerously close to the fire. In a second she was running smooth, as though on cushions of eiderdown. Jack Adeler, stopping only to cover the machine-gun, came down to the passenger seat beside Hike. Hike’s nerves had been terrible shaken by the sight of men falling over, struck by the hurricane of shells from the machine-gun; and it was all he could do to keep his levers on the jiggle. His nerve was fairly gone, for once. Through the crack of the motor, he shouted to the Lieutenant, “I hope _they_ weren’t killed—wounded.” “I shot low,” yelled back Jack. “(Steer a little more to the west, there.) I shot low, and I don’t think any got killed—though there’s a lot of men that won’t walk—and won’t go plundering innocent rancheros—for a while.... Well, I had a good nap, and our little party back there has waked me up nicely. Better let me drive. I know this country fairly well.”