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'