Chapter XXVI The Chase on the Bridge - Dave Porter and his Double by Edward Stratemeyer

“My, Dave! but it’s hot!”

“I agree with you, Roger. This is the hottest day we’ve struck yet. And such a hard day as it’s been too!” and our hero paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

“What do you say if we take a swim this evening?” went on the senator’s son. “A plunge into the river would feel good to me.”

“I’m with you, Roger. Let us eat a light supper and get down to the river before it grows too dark.”

Four weeks had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter, and matters in and around the construction camp had once more quieted down. Work was being pushed forward rapidly, and Dave and Roger were making excellent progress in their chosen profession. They had made a warm personal friend of Frank Andrews, as well as a friend of Mr. Obray, and both of these individuals gave them many instructions during off hours which proved highly beneficial.

No more had been heard from the Mexican raiders, and it was hoped that those bandits had departed for some other locality along the Rio Grande. The prisoners taken during the raid were still in jail, awaiting trial.

Down along the stream over which the new Catalco bridge was being constructed there was a favorite swimming place used by the civil engineers and their assistants, the men and boys of the construction gang using another spot farther down the stream.

“I’ll beat you getting in, Dave!” cried Roger, as the pair neared the bathing place that evening, and he started to take off some of his clothes.

“Don’t jump in too quickly, Roger,” warned our hero. “Remember you have just been eating and you are rather warm. Better take it easy on the bank for a little while.”

“I guess you’re right,” was the reply. “I don’t want to get a cramp or a chill, or anything like that.”

To reach the swimming spot, the chums had to pass one end of the new bridge. As they drew closer they saw somebody high up on the skeleton structure gazing at them curiously.

“Hello! who’s that up there?” remarked Dave.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Roger. “I thought all our men were back in camp.”

As they came still closer the individual on the bridge turned to walk toward them. Suddenly, however, he stopped short and tried his best to hide himself behind some of the steel work.

“Say! that looks rather queer to me,” remarked Dave. “He acts just as if he didn’t want us to see him.”

“Just what I thought, Dave.” The senator’s son gave a sudden start. “You don’t suppose it’s one of those Mexican raiders, do you?”

“I can’t say anything about that. I’m going up there to find out who he is. It seems to me he is acting very suspiciously. Maybe he’s trying to plant some more bombs.”

Dave turned back to a point where he could get up on the bridge, and his chum followed. From this point they could not see the person above them nor could he see them. When they reached the flooring of the big bridge they were less than two hundred feet from where the unknown person stood. He was leaning over the side of the structure, evidently trying to find out what had become of them.

“Why, Dave, he–he–looks like you!” burst out the senator’s son, as both hurried in the direction of the unknown person.

“I do believe it’s Ward Porton!” ejaculated our hero. He began to quicken his pace. “Yes, I’m almost sure it’s Porton,” he added, a few seconds later.

“If it’s Porton what in the world tempted him to follow you to this place?” queried Roger.

“I don’t know. But I do know that I’m going to capture him if it is possible to do so,” answered Dave, with determination.

The two chums were still almost a hundred feet from the other person when the latter glanced up suddenly and discovered them. He looked them full in the face for just an instant, and then turned and began to run away towards the opposite end of the long bridge.

“It’s Porton, sure enough!” burst out Roger.

“Hi there, Porton! Stop!” cried Dave. “Stop, I tell you!”

“You go on back!” yelled Ward Porton, in an ugly voice. “Go on back, I tell you! If you don’t it will be the worse for you!” and he shook his fist at the chums.

“You might as well stop,” continued Dave, undaunted by the threat. “You can’t get away from us. If you try to jump off the unfinished end of the bridge you’ll break your neck.”

“If you fellows don’t go back I’ll shoot,” returned the fellow who resembled Dave. “Stop right where you are! Don’t dare to come a step closer!”

“Oh, Dave! do you suppose he is armed?” questioned Roger, hastily and in a low tone.

“Maybe he is. But I am going to keep on after him until he shows his pistol,” was the rapid reply. “You need not come if you don’t want to. I’m going to capture him and make him give up the Basswood fortune.”

“If you are going after him, so am I,” returned the senator’s son, sturdily. “Maybe it was only a bluff about shooting after all.”

While running along the bridge Dave’s eyes fell on a short steel bar left there by one of the workmen. He stopped just long enough to pick the bar up, and then went after Porton with all the speed at his command.

It was a perilous chase, for in many places the flooring of the big bridge was still missing and they had to leap from girder to girder of the steel structure.

“Stop, I tell you!” yelled Ward Porton once more, when Dave was within ten yards of him. And then he turned squarely around and our hero and Roger saw the glint of a pistol as the rascal pointed it toward them.

“He is armed!” cried Roger, and now there was a note of fear in his voice, and not without reason.

“Get behind the steel work,” ordered Dave, and lost no time in dodging partly out of sight. As he moved, however, he launched forth the steel bar he had picked up.

More by good luck than anything else the bar sped true to its mark. It struck Ward Porton in the forearm, the hand of which was holding the pistol. In another instant the weapon was clattering down through the steel work of the bridge to the river far below.

“Hurrah, Dave! you’ve disarmed him!” cried Roger.

For the instant Ward Porton seemed dazed by the sudden turn of affairs. Evidently, however, the blow from the steel bar had not hurt him much, for, turning quickly, he continued his flight along the bridge. Dave and Roger lost no time in following him.

It was not long before the fugitive and those behind him reached a section of the long bridge which was far from completed. Here there was practically no flooring, and Ward Porton had to jump from one piece of steel work to another, while Dave and Roger, of course, had to do the same. Once those in the rear saw the rascal ahead make a misstep and plunge downward. But he saved himself, and, scrambling to his feet, dashed forward as madly as before.

“Take care, Dave, it’s dangerous here,” gasped Roger; and scarcely had he spoken when he himself made a misstep and shot down below the level of the bridge flooring.

Dave was several feet in advance, but turned instantly when his chum let out a cry of alarm. He saw Roger four or five feet below him, clinging frantically to one of the stays of the bridge.

“Hel–help m–me!” panted the unfortunate youth.

“Hold tight, Roger. I’ll help you,” returned Dave, quickly.

The stay below was so small in diameter that all Roger could do was to cling to it with both hands and one leg. In this position he hung until Dave let himself down several feet and managed to give him a hand. Then with extreme caution both worked their way back to the unfinished flooring of the bridge.

“Oh my! I thought sure I was a goner!” panted the senator’s son, when he found himself safe once more. He had turned white and he was trembling from head to foot.

“I guess you had better not go any farther, Roger,” remarked Dave. “This certainly is dangerous work.”

“It’s a wonder Porton doesn’t fall,” was the other’s comment, as they both watched the fleeing rascal, who was leaping from girder to girder with a recklessness that was truly amazing.

“He’s scared stiff at the idea of being captured,” was Dave’s comment. “If it wasn’t for that, I don’t believe he would take any such chance;” and in this surmise our hero was probably correct.

Dave hated to give up the chase, so he continued his way along the bridge, making sure, however, of every step and jump he took. Roger remained where he was, too shaken up to proceed farther when he knew that each step would prove more hazardous than the last.

At last Ward Porton gained a point where one of the foundations of the bridge rested on comparatively solid ground, with the river behind and a wide stretch of marshland ahead. Here there was a long ladder used by the workmen, and down this the rascal went as fast as his feet could carry him. By the time Dave reached the top of the ladder, Porton was well on his way over the solid ground. Soon the gathering darkness hid him from view.

Knowing that it would be next to useless to attempt to follow the rascal now that he had left the vicinity of the bridge, Dave returned to where he had left Roger. Then the pair started slowly back to the end of the bridge from which they had come.

“I can’t understand what brought Ward Porton here,” remarked Roger, when the chums had once more gained the swimming-place. “Do you suppose he knew you were in this vicinity, Dave?”

“Possibly, Roger. But at the same time, I don’t think that would explain his presence here. He wouldn’t dare to impersonate me around this camp. He’d be sure to be caught at it sooner or later.”

“Well, I don’t understand it at all.”

“Neither do I. I am sorry that we didn’t catch the rascal,” returned Dave, soberly.

When they went back into camp they informed Frank Andrews, and also Mr. Obray, of what had occurred. These men had already heard some of the particulars regarding Dave’s double and the disappearance of the Basswood fortune.

“Too bad you didn’t get him,” said Frank Andrews. “But you be careful how you run over that unfinished bridge, unless you want to have a nasty fall and either get killed or else crippled for life.”

Several days went by, including Sunday, and nothing more was seen or heard of Ward Porton although the lads made a thorough search for him. Dave sent letters home and to Ben Basswood, telling the folks in Crumville of what had happened.

“A little greaser to see you, Dave,” remarked one of the civil engineers as Dave was coming from an unusually difficult afternoon’s work.

He walked to where his fellow worker had pointed, and there saw a dirty, unkempt Mexican lad standing with a letter in his hand. The communication was addressed to Dave, and, opening it, he read the following:

“I have broken with Tim Crapsey and have the Basswood miniatures here with me safely in Mexico. If the Basswoods will pay me ten thousand dollars in cash they can have the pictures back. Otherwise I am going to destroy them. I will give them two weeks in which to make good.

“As you are so close at hand, maybe you can transact the business for Mr. Basswood. When you are ready to open negotiations, send a letter to the Bilassa camp, across the border, and I will get it.

“Ward Porton.”