Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune

The two chums went off armed with their pistols, not knowing what might happen. They first walked to where Roger had met the ranchman, and there the senator’s son pointed out the direction that the young man who had run away had taken. They followed this trail, and presently reached the roadway which ran in sight of the river. There were comparatively few craft on the stream, and none of these looked as if it might be occupied by the young man they were after. But presently they reached a small creek flowing into the Rio Grande, and on this saw two flat-bottomed rowboats.

“There he is now!” exclaimed Dave, suddenly, and pointed to the first of the rowboats, which was being sent down the creek in the direction of the river.

The sole occupant of the craft was the fellow at the oars, and the two chums readily made out that it was the former moving-picture actor. As soon as he made certain of Porton’s identity, Dave pulled Roger down in the tall grass which bordered the creek.

“There is no use in letting him see us,” explained our hero.

“Do you suppose he is bound for the Mexican shore?” questioned the senator’s son.

“More than likely, Roger.” Dave looked questioningly at his chum. “Are you game to follow him?” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“We might take that other rowboat and go after him. I see it contains a pair of oars. Either of us ought to be able to row as well as Porton, and if we can catch him before he lands maybe we’ll be able to drive him back to the United States side of the river.”

“All right, I’ll go with you,” responded Roger, quickly. “Come ahead!” and he started on a run for the rowboat.

The craft was tied fast to two stakes, but it was an easy matter for them to loosen the ropes. This done, Dave took up the oars, shoved off, and started to row with all the strength at his command.

Evidently Ward Porton had not expected to be followed, for he was rowing leisurely, allowing his flat-bottomed boat to drift with the current. He was much surprised when he saw the other boat come on at a good rate of speed.

“Get back there!” he yelled, when he recognized the occupants of the second craft. “Get back, I tell you, or I’ll shoot!”

“If you do we’ll do some shooting on our own account, Porton!” called back Roger, and showed his pistol.

The sight of the weapon evidently frightened Porton greatly. Yet he did not cease rowing, and now he headed directly for the Mexican shore.

The river at this point was broad and shallow and contained numerous sand-bars. Almost before they knew it the craft containing our friends ran up on one of the bars and stuck there. In the meantime Ward Porton continued his efforts to gain the shore.

“What’s the matter, Dave?” cried Roger, when he saw our hero stop rowing.

“We are aground,” was the answer. “Here, Roger, get to the stern of the boat with me, and we’ll see if we can’t shove her off again.”

With the two chums in the stern of the craft, the bow came up out of the sand-bar, and in a few seconds more Dave, aided by the current of the stream, managed to get the rowboat clear. But all this had taken time, and now the two chums saw that Ward Porton had beached his boat and was running across the marshland beyond.

“I’m afraid he is going to get away,” remarked Roger, dolefully.

“Not much!” answered Dave. “Anyway, I’m not going to give up yet,” and he resumed his rowing.

“Here, let me take a turn at that. You must be getting a little tired,” said Roger, and he insisted that Dave allow him to do the rowing.

Soon they reached the Mexican shore, at a point where there was a wide stretch of marshland with not a building in sight. They had gotten several glimpses of Ward Porton making his way through the tall grass. The trail was an easy one to follow.

“Come on! We’ll get him yet!” muttered Dave, and started off on the run with Roger behind him.

They had just reached an ill-kept highway when they heard shouting in the distance. They saw Ward Porton running wildly in the direction of a set of low buildings, evidently belonging to some sort of ranch. As the former moving-picture actor disappeared, a band of Mexican cavalry swept into view.

“Quick, Roger! Down in the grass!” cried Dave. “We don’t want those soldiers to see us! They may be government troops, but they look more like guerrillas–like the rascals who raided the Tolman ranch!”

“Right you are,” answered the senator’s son. And then both lay low in the tall grass while the Mexican guerrillas, for they were nothing else, swept past them.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A STRANGE DISCOVERY

As nearly as Dave and Roger could calculate, there were about two hundred of the Mexican guerrillas–dirty and fierce-looking individuals, led by an officer wearing an enormous hat and a long, drooping mustache.

The entire crowd looked disreputable in the extreme, and the youths could not help but shudder as they gazed at the cavalcade.

“My gracious, Dave! do you call those revolutionists?” remarked Roger, after the last of the horsemen had disappeared down the roadway.

“They may be revolutionists, Roger. But to my mind they look more like bandits than anything else. Under the pretense of aiding Mexico they probably steal whenever they get the chance.”

“I’d hate awfully to fall into their clutches. I think they’d rob a fellow of every dollar he had.”

“Well, never mind those Mexicans, Roger,” pursued Dave. “Come on, let us see if we can’t locate Ward Porton.”

“He went over into one of yonder buildings.”

“I know it, and I’ve got an idea,” answered our hero. “Let us see if we can’t sneak across the roadway without being seen and then come up to those buildings through the thick grass and behind that chaparral. If we expose ourselves Porton will, of course, keep out of our sight or run away.”

With extreme caution the two chums worked their way through the tall grass to the edge of the roadway. Then, watching their chance when nobody seemed to be looking, they dashed to the other side and into the grass again. Then they began to work their way cautiously in the direction of the group of buildings into which the former moving-picture actor had disappeared.

The buildings belonged to a Mexican ranch; but the place had evidently been the scene of a fight at some time in the past, for one of the buildings was completely wrecked and several of the others much battered. There were no horses, cattle, pigs, or chickens anywhere in sight; and the youths came to the conclusion that the ranch had been abandoned by its owner.

“Probably some of those guerrillas came along and cleaned him out,” observed Dave, “and after that he didn’t think it would be worth while to stay so long as the country was in a state of war.”

In a few minutes more Dave and his chum gained the first of the buildings. Here they paused to listen and to look around.

“You want to be on your guard, Roger,” whispered our hero. “Porton may be watching us and he may have some of his friends here. For all we know this may be his hang-out.”

“I’ll be on guard, don’t fear,” answered the senator’s son, and brought forth his pistol.

“Don’t use that gun unless you have to,” warned Dave, who did not favor any shooting, even in an extreme case like this.

“I’ll not give a rascal like Porton the chance to shoot me first,” retorted Roger. “That fellow ought to be in jail, and you know it.”

To this our hero did not answer. He felt in his pocket to make sure that his own weapon was ready for use.

Not a sound from the other buildings had reached them, nor did any one appear to be in sight.

“Looks to me as if we were in sole possession, now that those guerrillas have gone,” announced Roger. “Wow! I hope they don’t come back,–at least not until we are safe on our side of the Rio Grande,” he added grimly.

“Come on, we’ll take a look through the buildings,” answered Dave. “Don’t make any noise if you can possibly help it.”

Leaving the building which they had first entered–an abandoned stable–they moved through a broken-down cow-shed to a long, low structure which had evidently been used by the helpers on the ranch. This building was also deserted, and all that remained in it was some filthy bedding alive with vermin.

“Come on, let us get out of here,” remarked Roger, as he looked with disfavor at the squalor presented. “How can human beings live like this, Dave?”