Today he was dressed in khaki shirt and breeches.  Instead of puttees he wore high, laced leather boots that reached to his knees.  On his head, pushed back so that his wavy hair showed in front, was a wide-brimmed sombrero.  By his side, suspended from a cartridge belt, swung an automatic revolver in its holster.  This was the outfit so admired by his chums from the East, trim in their light-weight summer suits of the latest cut and wearing low tan shoes more adapted for city streets than for the sands stretching inimitably on every hand.

“We’ve worried considerably while aboard the train, Jack,” said Mr. Temple, “for fear something dire might happen to you these last two or three days.  I’m glad to see you are all right.  Any word from your father?”

Jack shook his head in negation.  “Not a word,” said he, “since those two rascals picked him up in your airplane and headed for Old Mexico.”

“Well, don’t worry, Jack,” said Mr. Temple.  “I don’t believe his life is in danger.”

“I’m trying not to worry, sir,” said Jack.  “But now that you and the fellows are here, we shall have to get busy at once.  It has been pretty hard to wait for you.  I wanted to ride into Old Mexico myself at once.”

Bags in hand the group was moving to the rear of the station, and now came in sight of a ramshackle automobile with a Mexican at the wheel, easily distinguished by his swarthy coloring and his ragged mustaches, as well as by his peculiar dress—­a steep crowned hat like a sugar loaf, with a very wide brim, a tight bolero jacket that did not reach to the waist and disclosed a dark blue silken shirt beneath and tight-fitting trousers that flared at the bottom.

“That is Remedios and his flivver,” explained Jack.  “He does odd jobs all through this region.  I hired him to take us out to camp.  But before we climb aboard, take a look at this view.”

Obediently, they paused and gazed at the surrounding country.  In the foreground was a wide dirt street at the rear of the station.  For the equivalent of the length of a city block it was lined on both sides with wooden structures one-story in height, but with the false fronts of the frontier country pretending to second stories—­a front wall sticking above the roof and with the semblance of windows painted on it.  A dry goods store, a Chinese laundry, an alleged hotel, several restaurants, several ex-saloons still carrying on some kind of business—­these comprised the lot.  At one end the street ran abruptly into the desert.  At the other was a cluster of old freight cars made into dwellings, with Mexican men, women and children loitering in front in the sun.  This was Ransome.

“Not much of a town,” said Jack, “just a trading post for a wide stretch of this country around here.  But look at the setting, will you?” And he swept a hand in a wide gesture indicating the horizon.