Some time after midnight, Tom was awakened by a disturbance outside the camp. He jumped from his bunk, pulled on khaki slacks, and stepped into his loafers. Then he pressed a switch and hurried outdoors. Bud followed sleepily.
The switch had turned on a series of floodlights which ringed the camp. In the bright glare crewmen and hired native workers could be seen rushing out of their shacks and tents.
NIGHT RAID 143
“Raiders!” Bud gasped, snapping wide awake.
A clatter of hoofbeats echoed back as several fleeing horsemen galloped away into the darkness.
“Brand my runnin’ iron, them rustlers ain’t gonna get away from a Texas cowboy!” Chow bellowed.
The doughty Texan made a rush for his own mount. This was a beautiful Arab mare which Chow had bought from a passing band of tribesmen.
In seconds he had the sleek, dapple-gray horse bridled. Without waiting to saddle her, Chow snatched up a coil of rope and took off.
Tom and the others were so startled they could only gape. The cook raced out of camp with a volley of wild Indian war whoops.
“Chow! Wait!” Tom yelled, finding his voice. “They mav be armed!”
He and Bud were about to follow in an atomicar when Chow returned, beaming proudly. He was leading a prisoner, bound with his lariat.
“Well done, pardner!” Tom said.
He summoned Ali, the interpreter Hank had used in hiring workmen. The captive, a turbaned mountaineer, listened sullenly to Ali’s questions. But his only reply was a shake of the head and a few muttered words.
Ali turned to Tom and shrugged. “I can get nothing out of him.”