Jack might be
keeping all hands busy at the ranch.
In great leaps, he approached the airplane and, as he drew near,
another thought obtruded itself. If he were to take flight in it, how
was he to get away? Who would crank the motor by twirling the
propeller?
This latter difficulty was quickly solved. Two Mexicans stood at
respectful attention as he approached. Bob was dismayed for a moment,
but then, seeing their awkward salute, he chuckled inwardly. They
mistook him for Von Arnheim and evidently that German officer was a
martinet who exacted a measure of discipline from the slovenly rebel
soldiers.
Cracking an order at them in his best garbled Spanish, Bob clambered
into the pilot's seat. He was understood, and better, was obeyed. One
man gingerly approached the propeller and started twirling it, while
the other went to the side of the plane and helped push it forward.
The propeller began to whirl furiously as Bob worked the starting
mechanism. The Mexicans leaped out of the way. The plane began to bump
ahead.
Shouts of anger burst forth at the same moment, there was the crack of
a rifle, and a bullet sang unpleasantly close to Bob's ears. Out of
the tail of his eye he could see a number of dark figures running
toward him from the grove.
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