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“Some machine to climb a bank like that,” was Davies’ comment. “What it did do was to go down the bank–take a scout after it, Charley, while Wemple and I get Mrs. Morgan off her fractious mount. No machine ever built could travel far through those bananas.”

The flea-bitten roan, on its four legs upstanding, continued bravely to stand until the lady was removed, whereupon, with a long sigh, it sank down on the ground. Mrs. Morgan likewise sighed, sat down, and regarded her tiny feet mournfully.

“Go on, boys,” she said. “Maybe you can find something at the river and send back for me.”

But their indignant rejection of the plan never attained speech, for, at that instant, from the green sea of banana trees beneath them, came the sudden purr of an engine. A minute later the splutter of an exhaust told them the silencer had been taken off. The huge-fronded banana trees were violently agitated as by the threshing of a hidden Titan. They could identify the changing of gears and the reversing and going ahead, until, at the end of five minutes, a long low, black car burst from the wall of greenery and charged the soft earth bank, but the earth was too soft, and when, two-thirds of the way up, beaten, Charley Drexel braked the car to a standstill, the earth crumbled from under the tires, and he ran it down and back, the way he had come, until half-buried in the bananas.

“‘A Merry Oldsmobile!'” Miss Drexel quoted from the popular song, clapping her hands. “Now, Martha, your troubles are over.”

“Six-cylinder, and sounds as if it hadn’t been out of the shop a week, or may I never ride in a machine again,” Wemple remarked, looking to Davies for confirmation.

Davies nodded.

“It’s Allison’s,” he said. “Campos tried to shake him down for a private loan, and–well, you know Allison. He told Campos to go to. And Campos, in revenge, commandeered his new car. That was two days ago, before we lifted a hand at Vera Cruz. Allison told me yesterday the last he’d heard of the car it was on a steamboat bound up river. And here’s where they ditched it–but let’s get a hustle on and get her into the running.”

Three attempts they made, with young Drexel at the wheel; but the soft earth and the pitch of the grade baffled.

“She’s got the power all right,” young Drexel protested. “But she can’t bite into that mush.”

So far, they had spread on the ground the robes found in the car. The men now added their coats, and Wemple, for additional traction, unsaddled the roan, and spread the cinches, stirrup leathers, saddle blanket, and bridle in the way of the wheels. The car took the treacherous slope in a rush, with churning wheels biting into the woven fabrics; and, with no more than a hint of hesitation, it cleared the crest and swung into the road.

“Isn’t she the spunky devil!” Drexel exulted. “Say, she could climb the side of a house if she could get traction.”

“Better put on that silencer again, if you don’t want to play tag with every soldier in the district,” Wemple ordered, as they helped Mrs. Morgan in.

The road to the Dutch gusher compelled them to go through the outskirts of Panuco town. Indian and half breed women gazed stolidly at the strange vehicle, while the children and barking dogs clamorously advertised its progress. Once, passing long lines of tethered federal horses, they were challenged by a sentry; but at Wemple’s “Throw on the juice!” the car took the rutted road at fifty miles an hour. A shot whistled after them. But it was not the shot that made Mrs. Morgan scream. The cause was a series of hog-wallows masked with mud, which nearly tore the steering wheel from Drexel’s hands before he could reduce speed.

“Wonder it didn’t break an axle,” Davies growled. “Go on and take it easy, Charley. We’re past any interference.”