emented grimly, as he shook hands
with Charley Drexel, who yawned and slippered up to them in pajamas.
"Where are those horses, Charley? Still alive?"

Wemple finished giving orders to the sleepy peons to remain and care for
the place, occupying their spare time with hiding the more valuable
things, and was calling around the corner to Miss Drexel the news of the
capture of Vera Cruz, when Davies returned with the information that the
horses consisted of a pair of moth-eaten skates that could be depended
upon to lie down and die in the first half mile.

Beth Drexel emerged, first protesting that under no circumstances would
she be guilty of riding the creatures, and, next, her brunette skin and
dark eyes still flushed warm with sleep, greeting the two rescuers.

"It would be just as well if you washed your face, Stanton," she told
Davies; and, to Wemple: "You're just as bad, Jim. You are a pair of
dirty boys."

"And so will you be," Wemple assured her, "before you get back to
Tampico. Are you ready?"

"As soon as Juanita packs my hand bag."

"Heavens, Beth, don't waste time!" exclaimed Wemple. "Jump in and grab
up what you want."

"Make a start--make a start," chanted Davies. "Hustle! Hustle!--Charley,
get the rifle you like best and take it along. Get a couple for us."

"Is it as serious as that?" Miss Drexel queried.

Both men nodded.

"The Mexicans are tearing loose," Davies explained. "How they missed
this place I don't know." A movement in the adjoining room startled him.
"Who's that?" he cried.

"Why, Mrs. Morgan," Miss Drexel answered.

"Good heavens, Wemple, I'd forgotten _her_," groaned Davies. "How
will we ever get her anywhere?"

"Let Beth walk, and relay the lady on the nags."

"She weighs a hundred and eighty," Miss Drexel laughed. "Oh, hurry,
Martha! We're waiting on you to start!"

Muffled speech came through the partition, and then emerged a very
short, stout, much-flustered woman of middle age.

"I simply can't walk, and you boys needn't demand it of me," was her
plaint. "It's no use. I couldn't walk half a mile to save my life, and
it's six of the worst miles to the river."

They regarded her in despair.

"Then you'll ride," said Davies. "Come on, Charley. We'll get a saddle
on each of the nags."

Along the road through the tropic jungle, Miss Drexel and Juanita,
her Indian maid, led the way. Her brother, carrying the three rifles,
brought up the rear, while in the middle Davie