Avoiding the cavalry camp, they entered Panuco with all the speed the
ruts permitted, swinging dizzy corners to the squawking of chickens and
barking of dogs. To gain the ferry, they had to pass down one side of
the great plaza which was the heart of the city. Peon soldiers, drowsing
in the sun or clustering around the _cantinas_, stared stupidly at
them as they flashed past. Then a drunken major shouted a challenge from
the doorway of a _cantina_ and began vociferating orders, and as
they left the plaza behind they could hear rising the familiar mob-cry
"_Kill the Gringoes!_"

"If any shooting begins, you women get down in the bottom of the car,"
Davies commanded. "And there's the ferry all right. Be careful,
Charley."

The machine plunged directly down the bank through a cut so deep that it
was more like a chute, struck the gangplank with a terrific bump, and
seemed fairly to leap on board. The ferry was scarcely longer than the
machine, and Drexel, visibly shaken by the closeness of the shave,
managed to stop only when six inches remained between the front wheels
and overboard.

It was a cable ferry, operated by gasoline, and, while Wemple cast off
the mooring lines, Davies was making swift acquaintance with the engine.
The third turn-over started it, and he threw it into gear with the
windlass that began winding up the cable from the river's bottom.

By the time they were in midstream a score of horsemen rode out on the
bank they had just left and opened a scattering fire. The party crowded
in the shelter of the car and listened to the occasional richochet of a