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

CHAPTER XXVII
ACROSS THE RIO GRANDE

Dave read the note from Ward Porton with intense interest, and then passed it over to Roger.

“What do you know about that!” exclaimed the senator’s son, after he had perused the communication. “Do you think Porton tells the truth?”

“I don’t know what to think, Roger. If he does tell the truth, then it is quite likely that Tim Crapsey was trying to play a double game so far as the Basswoods were concerned.”

“It’s pretty clever on Porton’s part,” said Roger, speculatively. “He knows it would be very difficult for us to get hold of him while he is in Mexico, with this revolution going on. And at the same time he is close enough to keep in touch with you, knowing that you can easily transact this business for the Basswoods–providing, of course, that Mr. Basswood is willing.”

Dave did not answer to this, for he was looking around for the Mexican youth who had delivered the note. But the boy had slipped away, and a search of the camp failed to reveal what had become of him.

“I guess he was instructed to sneak away without being seen,” was our hero’s comment. “Porton knew that I wouldn’t be in a position to answer him at once, and he didn’t want me to follow that boy.”

Dave read the note again, and then went off to consult with Frank Andrews and Mr. Obray.

“It’s too bad you didn’t capture that little greaser,” observed the head of the civil engineers. “We might have been able to get some information from him. However, if he’s gone that’s the end of it. I think the best thing you can do, Porter, is to send a night message to this Mr. Basswood, telling him how the note was received and repeating it word for word. Then the responsibility for what may follow will not rest on your shoulders.”

Our hero thought this good advice, and, aided by his chum, he concocted what is familiarly known as a Night Letter, to be sent by telegraph to Crumville.

On the following day came a surprise for our hero in the shape of a short message from Ben Basswood which ran as follows:

“Yours regarding Porton received. Crapsey makes another offer. Pair probably enemies now. Will write or wire instructions later.”

“This is certainly getting interesting,” remarked Dave, after having read the message. He turned it over to Roger. “I guess Ben is right–Crapsey and Porton have fallen out and each is claiming to have the miniatures.”

“Well, one or the other must have them, Dave.”

“Perhaps they divided them, Roger. Thieves often do that sort of thing, you know.”

“Do you suppose Ward Porton is really around that Bilassa camp in Mexico?” went on the senator’s son.

“Probably he is hanging out somewhere in that vicinity. I don’t think he has joined General Bilassa. He thinks too much of his own neck to become a soldier in any revolution.”

Having sent his message to the Basswoods and received Ben’s reply, there seemed nothing further for our hero to do but to wait. He and Roger were very busy helping to survey the route beyond the new Catalco bridge, and in the fascination of this occupation Ward Porton was, for the next few days, almost forgotten.

“If the Basswoods expect you to do anything regarding that note you got from Porton they had better get busy before long,” remarked Roger one evening. “Otherwise Porton may do as he threatened–destroy the pictures.”

“Oh, I don’t believe he’d do anything of that sort, Roger,” answered Dave. “What would be the use? I think he would prefer to hide them somewhere, thinking that some day he would be able to make money out of them.”

Four days after this came a bulky letter from Ben Basswood which Dave and his chum read eagerly. It was as follows:

“I write to let you know that Tim Crapsey has been caught at last. He was traced to New York and then to Newark, N. J., where the police found him in a second-rate hotel. He had been drinking, and confessed that he had had a row with Ward Porton and that one night, when he was under the influence of liquor, Porton had decamped, taking all but two of the miniatures with him. The two miniatures had been sold to a fence in New York City for one hundred dollars, and the police think they can easily get them back. With the hundred dollars Crapsey had evidently gone on a spree, and it was during this that Porton sneaked away with the other miniatures. Crapsey had an idea that Porton was bound for Boston, where he would take a steamer for Europe. But we know he was mistaken.

“The case being as it is, my father, as well as your folks and Mr. Wadsworth, thinks that Porton must have the pictures with him in Mexico. That being the case, your Uncle Dunston says he will come down to Texas at once to see you, and I am to come with him. What will be done in the matter I don’t know, although my father would much rather give up ten thousand dollars than have the miniatures destroyed. If you receive any further word from Ward Porton tell him that I am coming down to negotiate with him. You had better not mention your uncle’s name.”

“Looks as if Porton told the truth after all,” announced Roger. “Probably he watched his opportunity and the first chance he got he decamped and left Crapsey to take care of himself.”

“Most likely, Roger. I don’t believe there is any honor among thieves.”

Ben had not said how soon he and Dunston Porter would arrive. But as they would probably follow the letter the two chums looked for the pair on almost every train. But two days passed, and neither put in an appearance.

“They must have been delayed by something,” was Dave’s comment.

“Maybe they are trying to get that ten thousand dollars together,” suggested Roger.

“I don’t believe my Uncle Dunston will offer Porton any such money right away,” returned our hero. “He’ll see first if he can’t work it so as to capture the rascal.”

On the following morning Roger was sent southward on an errand for Mr. Obray. When he returned he was very much excited.

“Dave, I think I saw Ward Porton again!” he exclaimed, as he rushed up to our hero.

“Where was that?” questioned Dave, quickly.

“Down on that road which leads to the Rio Grande. There was a fellow talking to a ranchman I’ve met several times, a Texan named Lawson. As soon as he saw me he took to his heels. I questioned Lawson about him and he said the fellow had come across the river at a point about a quarter of a mile below here.”

Dave listened to this explanation with interest, and immediately sought out Mr. Obray. The upshot of the talk was that our hero was given permission to leave the camp for the day, taking Roger with him.

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?”

“I don’t know, Roger. This place ought to be burned down–it’s the only way to get it clean,” Dave added, shaking his head in disgust over the sight.

Less than fifty feet away was the corner of the main building of the ranch. Peering out cautiously, to make sure that no one was watching them, the two chums hurried across the open space and crouched down beneath a wide-open window. Then Dave, pistol in hand, looked in through the opening.

The room beyond was deserted, and a glance around showed him that it contained little besides some heavy pieces of furniture which the looters had evidently been unable to remove. On a table rested several empty liquor bottles, and also a number of cigar and cigarette stubs. On the floor were scattered newspapers and some playing cards.

“The fellows who were here evidently got out in a hurry,” remarked Dave.

“Are you going to go in?” questioned Roger.

“I guess so. What do you think about it?”

“I’m with you, Dave. Now we have gone so far, we might as well finish the job.”

It was an easy matter for the two chums to climb through the low window. Once in the room, they advanced toward a doorway leading to an apartment that opened on the patio of the ranch home–an open courtyard which had once boasted of a well-kept flower garden, but which was now neglected and overrun with weeds.

As Dave gazed out across the patio he saw a movement in a room on the opposite side of the ranch home. The face of a man had appeared for a few seconds. Behind him was some one else–who, however, Dave could not make out.

“My gracious, Roger!” gasped our hero in a low voice. “Did you see that fellow?”

“I saw some one.”

“It was William Jarvey!”

“Jarvey! Are you sure?”

“I am certain of it. Now what do you think of that!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what to think, Dave. Maybe he is making his headquarters here, the same as Ward Porton.”

“I am going to try to find out. Come on.”

Our hero made a quick mental calculation as to the ground plan of the ranch homeland then he and Roger began to work their way from one room to another, and then through a long, narrow hallway, until they reached the other side of the building. Here they paused at the end of the hallway to listen.

From a room close at hand came a murmur of voices. By straining his ears Dave made out the tones of William Jarvey. The former bookkeeper for the Mentor Construction Company was evidently talking to another man, but what was being said was not distinguishable.

“It’s Jarvey all right enough,” whispered Dave.

“Yes. But that isn’t Ward Porton with him,” returned Roger.

“I know it. It’s some man.”

Both continued to listen, and presently heard William Jarvey give a sarcastic laugh.

“You’ve got another guess coming, Packard Brown, if you think you are going to get that much out of the deal!” he cried. “Remember, you haven’t done a thing to help us.”

“That’s all right, Bill Jarvey,” retorted the man called Packard Brown. “When we left the U. S. A. and came over here it was understood that we were to share and share alike in everything.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think this new thing was coming up,” growled Jarvey. “We were to share equal on what we happened to get out of the greasers. This is another thing entirely.”

“I admit that. Just the same, I think I’m entitled to my share.”

“Well, you help us all you can and you’ll get a nice little wad out of it, Brown.”

What more was said on this subject did not reach the ears of Dave and Roger, for just then the latter pulled our hero by the sleeve.

“Somebody’s coming!” he whispered. “Maybe it’s Porton.”

Dave did not answer. At the end of the semi-dark hallway there was a closet which in years gone by had been used for the storage of guns and clothing. Into this closet the two youths went, closing the door carefully after them.

“It’s Porton all right enough,” whispered Dave, who a moment later was crouching low and looking through a large keyhole devoid of a key. “There he goes into the room where the two men are.”

“Then those two men must be in with him,” returned the senator’s son. “Say, Dave, this is certainly getting interesting!”

“It’s going to make our job a pretty hard one,” answered our hero. “If Ward Porton was alone we might be able to capture him. But I don’t see how we are going to do it with Jarvey and that man named Brown present.”

“Maybe if we offer Jarvey and Brown a large reward they will help us make Porton a prisoner,” suggested Roger. “More than likely Jarvey is on his uppers and will do anything to get a little cash.”

The two youths came out into the semi-dark hallway once more, and on tiptoes crept toward the door of the room occupied by Ward Porton and the two men.

“I went all around the buildings, and looked up and down the roadway, but I couldn’t see anything of them,” the former moving-picture actor was saying. “I guess they got cold feet when they saw those soldiers. Say, those greasers certainly were a fierce-looking bunch!”

“I don’t believe they were any of General Bilassa’s army,” returned William Jarvey. “They were probably some detachment out for whatever they could lay their hands on,” and he chuckled coarsely. Evidently he considered that such guerrilla warfare under certain circumstances was perfectly justifiable.

Following this there was some talk which neither of those outside the door could catch. Then came a rather loud exclamation from Ward Porton which startled our friends more than anything else that could have been said.

“Well, now, look here, Dad!” cried the former moving-picture actor. “You let me run this affair. I started it, and I know I can put it through successfully.”

“That’s right, Jarvey!” broke in Packard Brown. “Let your son go ahead and work this deal out to suit himself. He seems to have made a success of it so far–getting the best of that fellow Crapsey,” and the speaker chuckled.

Dave and Roger looked at each other knowingly. Here indeed was a revelation. Evidently Ward Porton was the son of the man they knew as William Jarvey.

“My gracious! I remember now!” burst out our hero in a low tone. “When we went to Burlington to see that old man, Obadiah Jones, about Ward don’t you remember that he told us that Ward was the son of a good-for-nothing lieutenant in the army named Jarvey Porton? That man Pankhurst who was captured declared that Jarvey was living under an assumed name and had been an officer in the army. It must be true, Roger. This fellow is really Jarvey Porton, and he is Ward Porton’s father!”