The ragged soldiers halted when they came to where the amazed Jimmie stood, and in a moment were joined by the drummer, a slender boy of fourteen, who looked worn out.
When he saw Jimmmie he smiled and saluted by extending the right arm horizontally, palm out, three fingers vertical, with the thumb and little finger crossed on the palm.
"Where did you get that?" demanded Jimmie.
"Did stunts for it," was the reply. "And look here."The drummer swept his left hand down his right sleeve, tapping half a dozen badges. These were those worn by Boy Scouts who had passed as Fireman, Signaller, Pioneer, Marksman, Horseman, and Musician. The officer in charge of the squad looked on with an amused smile as the drummer exhibited his honors.
"The kid is crazy over the Boy Scouts," he said. "He's been hunting for comrades among the Mexicans, and I reckon he found a few, at that. Well, I'm in favor of the organization myself. It teaches, honor, manhood, self-reliance, and has made a man of many a flat-chested, cigarette-smoking youth. It will be the saving of boys in the city slums if carried out properly.""Sure it is all to the good," cried the drummer. "A Boy Scout can find friends wherever he goes--and friends that will stick by him, too. We get into the game ourselves and do things, instead of sitting on the bleachers ad smoking cigarettes while others get the exercise."The little fellow smiled winningly at Jimmie, cast his eyes up the mountain, and then asked:
"Where did you come from? What patrol do you belong to? I'm Panther Patrol, New York.""New York Wolf Patrol," was the reply.
"What you doin' here with the ragged army? Say, but they'd make a hit on a Bowery stoige, them soldiers.""What do you know about the Bowery?" demanded the drummer. "Have you been reading about it in the Newsboy's Delight?""I know every inch of the Bowery," was the indignant reply. "When I walk down to Chatham Square the lamps bow to me. I'm hungry for it right now."The drummer threw out his arms in a gesture of approval.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, then.
"I'm editing this end of a detective case," laughed Jimmie.
"All alone?" grinned the drummer. "Where are the others?""Lost," cried Jimmie. "Jere! I wish Frank Shaw was here and had hold of that drum. There'd be something doin'.
He came down here to drum for Uncle Sam, but they wouldn't have him. They said he was too short an' fat.""Fatty Shaw!"
The drummer held his sides with his hands while he laughed, and then dropped down on a convenient rock. The officer in charge of the file of soldiers shook him by the shoulder, though he was laughing too.
"Get up," he said. "What kind of a minstrel show is this?""Frank Shaw!" roared the drummer, paying no attention to the order.
"He got sore because I told him I'd enlisted as a drummer and lit out.
His father'll be sending after him, though. He's a good scout. Where is he now?""Lost," repeated Jimmie. "I don't know where he is. Just dropped into a hole.""Not into any small hole," observed the drummer. "Are those your tents?"he added, with a longing look at the soft blankets.
"Sure," replied Jimmie. "Want to sleep? Go to it then. You're welcome.""You bet I will," said the drummer.
He started for one of the tents and then turned back.
"Did you see the wig-wagging awhile ago?" he asked.
"Sure I did," was the reply.
"It was brief," said the officer in charge of the file, "but, still, long enough to convince me that we arrived here at the right time.
There is an army forming here, no one seems to know what for, and renegade Americans are mixing in the game. The signals called for a gathering some distance above us.""That's the way I took it," observed Jimmie. "They are calling the men together, I reckon, and there must be Americans in charge for they talk United States.""When you came up," began the officer, "did you observe the fellows near the bottom? They seemed to me to be asking questions of the ones up above.""We saw no one except stragglers when we came up," was the reply.
"After the signals came, Ned Nestor and Frank Shaw went down there to see who they were, and they are down there yet, I guess. At least, they haven't returned."The soldiers, who were now laying aside their weapons and preparing to cook supper, late as the hour was, observed the lad eagerly at the mention of Nestor's name. The lad noticed, too, as they gathered about him with questioning looks, that they were not at all like Mexicans in appearance, now that they had thrown off their outer clothing. Jimmie glanced from the officer to his men.
"You don't look like Greasers to me," he said.
The officer laughed but made no reply.
"You came in with Ned Nestor?" he asked.
"Sure I did."
"And you say he went back down the mountain to see who was signaling down there?""That is what he said when he went away."
"What did he say about coming back?"
"Of course he'll come back," declared Jimmie. "He's needed here.
Since his departure the boy he left here with me has been geezled by some one. I left him alone just a minute, and when I returned he wasn't here. They're all lost but me, and I'm from the Bowery, so nobody can lose me.""Who was it that was taken from the camp?" asked the officer.
Jimmie hesitated, for he did not know what reply to make. These men might be in quest of Fremont. Tempted by the large reward offered for the capture of the boy, they might have crossed the river and followed Nestor into the mountains.
On the other hand, if they were not in search of Fremont, they might render valuable assistance in running down the men who had taken him away. It was rather a hard place to put the loyal little fellow, but he proved equal to the occasion by reserving his decision until further information concerning the new arrivals should be at hand.
"His name is Smith," he replied, shortly.
"And why did these unknown people abduct Smith?" laughed the officer, who understood from the manner of the boy that the name was a fictitious one.
"I don't know," was the truthful reply.
