Three attempts they made, with young Drexel at the wheel; but the soft earth and the pitch of the grade baffled.

“She’s got the power all right,” young Drexel protested.  “But she can’t bite into that mush.”

So far, they had spread on the ground the robes found in the car.  The men now added their coats, and Wemple, for additional traction, unsaddled the roan, and spread the cinches, stirrup leathers, saddle blanket, and bridle in the way of the wheels.  The car took the treacherous slope in a rush, with churning wheels biting into the woven fabrics; and, with no more than a hint of hesitation, it cleared the crest and swung into the road.

“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 the Mexicans.  It’s you Americans.  If you stay here, I’ll have to protect you.  And I can’t protect you, anyway.  We’ll all lose our lives and they’ll destroy the well in the bargain.  And if they fire it, it means the entire Ebano oil field.  The strata’s too broken.  We’re flowing twenty thousand barrels now, and we can’t pinch down any further.  As it is, the oil’s coming up outside the pipe.  And we can’t have a fight.  We’ve got to keep the oil moving.”

The men nodded.  It was cold-blooded logic; but there was no fault to it.

The harassed expression eased on the superintendent’s face, and he almost beamed on them for agreeing with him.

“You’ve got a good machine there,” he continued.  “The ferry’s at the bank at Panuco, and once you’re across, the rebels aren’t so thick on the north shore.  Why, you can beat the steamboat back to Tampico by hours.  And it hasn’t rained for days.  The road won’t be at all bad.”