"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."

They swung into the Dutch camp and into the beginning of their real
troubles. The refugee steamboat had departed down river from the
Asphodel camp; _Chill II_ had disappeared, the superintendent knew
not how, along with the body of Peter Tonsburg; and the superintendent
was dubious of their remaining.

"I've got to consider the owners," he told them. "This is the biggest
well in Mexico, and you know it--a hundred and eighty-five thousand
barrels daily flow. I've no right to risk it. We have no trouble with