But he rode up to the absurd little shack labeled “GaRRagGe.” At his shout, a lanky Texan came to the door, and looked at him suspiciously. “Gasoline—quick—all you can load on this horse,” he cried. “Well, my boy, let’s think about it,” drawled the Texan. He looked as though he saw in Hike only a tall boy, the son of some rich Northerner ranching it in Mexico. “Think about nothing,” snorted Hike. “Insurrectos after our ranch. Got to have gasoline for aeroplane.” “Airyplane—boy, you’re crazy,” drawled the Texan again, maddeningly slow in speech. “Well, even if you _are_, you can have the gasoline if you pay for it.” “Adeler—he’s got a ranch at Aguas Grandes—he’ll pay for it.” “He’ll pay for it right now, or he won’t get it; not at this gara-jee,” began the Texan, and stopped short, for Hike was looking at him across the sight of a leveled revolver. The Texan threw up his hands and whined, “_All_ right—just as you say, Mister. I guess Adeler is good for it.” He called his Mexican helper, and between them they loaded on the pinto as much gasoline, in cans, as she could carry. It was not much, but enough to take the _Hustle_ to Torreas from Aguas Grandes. Twice, Hike saw the Texan’s hand carelessly wandering toward a revolver, and each time he said “Look out,” in a low and quiet voice, that meant business. When the loading was finished, the Texan suddenly smiled. “I thought you was a boy,” he stated, “but I take it back. You’re crazy, all right—airyplanes! But they grow nerve, where you come from. Where is that?” “Hell,” snapped Hike, “if I don’t get back to it in time; but heaven if I do,” and galloped off, leaving the Texan too astounded to take the pot-shot at Hike’s back which he had planned. With all this gasoline aboard, he had to ride back more slowly; keeping a look-out for the insurrectos. Twice he circled to avoid what looked like distant riders. He reached the ranch safely. Jack Adeler himself rushed to open the east gate, shouting, “Where you been?” “Gasolining,” said Hike cheerfully, trying to look as grown-up as he could. “But that’s nothing to where I’m going on the _Hustle_, right now.” “Oh, well,” said Jack Adeler, resignedly, “I suppose there’s no keeping you from getting killed.... Old man, I won’t put it that way. If you’ve got the nerve to ride out and get gasoline, I’ll just cut out the older brother air, and say ‘Great work, old Hike.’” He made Hike rest for an hour, and eat, incidentally, but an hour and seven minutes later, Hike rose from the ranch-yard in the _Hustle_, soared up to three thousand feet, and drove her toward Torreas at full speed. CHAPTER XXV THE RAIN OF DEATH