Frank Merriwell Down South E-Book

Burt L. Standish

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The book begins with the search for the protagonist of the lost Silver Palace in Mexico. After that, he goes to Mardi Gras in New Orleans and must unravel the mystery of the queen of flowers. Many obstacles appear on his way. But they make him stronger.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. A WONDERFUL STORY

CHAPTER II. GONE

CHAPTER III. HELD FOR RANSOM

CHAPTER IV. UNMASKED

CHAPTER V. KIDNAPED

CHAPTER VI. CARRIED INTO THE MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER VII. THE CAMP IN THE DESERT

CHAPTER VIII. THE TREASURE SEEKER

CHAPTER IX. THE PROFESSOR'S ESCAPE

CHAPTER X. THE STRANGER

CHAPTER XI. THE AWAKENING VOLCANO

CHAPTER XII. DOOM OF THE SILVER PALACE

CHAPTER XIII. A STAMPEDE IN A CITY

CHAPTER XIV. THE HOT BLOOD OF YOUTH

CHAPTER XV. MYSTERY OF THE FLOWER QUEEN

CHAPTER XVI. PROFESSOR SCOTCH FEELS ILL

CHAPTER XVII. LED INTO A TRAP

CHAPTER XVIII. BARNEY ON HAND

CHAPTER XIX. A HUMBLE APOLOGY

CHAPTER XX. THE PROFESSOR'S COURAGE

CHAPTER XXI. FRANK'S BOLD MOVE

CHAPTER XXII. THE QUEEN IS FOUND

CHAPTER XXIII. FIGHTING LADS

CHAPTER XXIV. END OF THE SEARCH

CHAPTER XXV. THE MYSTERIOUS CANOE

CHAPTER XXVI. STILL MORE MYSTERIOUS

CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE EVERGLADES

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUT ON THE ISLAND

CHAPTER XXIX. A WILD NIGHT IN THE SWAMP

CHAPTER XXX. FRANK'S SHOT

CHAPTER XXXI. YOUNG IN YEARS ONLY

CHAPTER XXXII. A MYSTERIOUS TRANSFORMATION

CHAPTER XXXIII. GAGE TAKES A TURN

CHAPTER XXXIV. A FEARFUL FATE

CHAPTER XXXV. THE SERPENT VINE

CHAPTER XXXVI. RIGHT OR WRONG

CHAPTER XXXVII. FRANK'S MERCY

CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN THE MOUNTAINS AGAIN

CHAPTER XXXIX. FRANK AND KATE

CHAPTER XL. A JEALOUS LOVER

CHAPTER XLI. FACING DEATH

CHAPTER XLII. MURIEL

CHAPTER XLIII. SAVED!

CHAPTER XLIV. FRANK'S SUSPICION

CHAPTER XLV. THE GREATEST PERIL

CHAPTER XLVI. THE MYSTERY OF MURIEL

CHAPTER I

A WONDERFUL STORY

“It is in the heart of the Sierra Madre range, one hundred and twenty-five miles west of Zacatecas,” said the dying man. “Across the blue chasm you can see its towers and turrets glistening in the sunshine. It is like a beautiful dream–dazzling, astounding, grand!”

“He wanders in his mind,” softly declared Professor Scotch. “Poor fellow! His brain was turned and he was brought to his death by his fruitless search for the mythical Silver Palace.”

The man who lay on a bed of grass in one corner of the wretched adobe hut turned a reproachful look on the little professor.

“You are wrong,” he asserted, in a voice that seemed to have gained strength for the moment. “I am not deranged–I am not deceived by an hallucination. With my eyes I have seen the wonderful Silver Palace–yes, more than that, I have stood within the palace and beheld the marvelous treasures which it contains.”

The professor turned away to hide the look on his face, but Frank Merriwell, deeply interested, bent over the unfortunate man, asking:

“By what route can this wonderful palace be reached?”

“There is no route. Between us and the Silver Palace lie waterless deserts, great mountains, and, at last, a yawning chasm, miles in width, miles in depth. This chasm extends entirely round the broad plateau on which the wonderful palace stands like a dazzling dream. The bottom of the chasm is hidden by mists which assume fantastic forms, and whirl and sway and dash forward and backward, like battling armies. Indians fear the place; Mexicans hold it in superstitious horror. It is said that these mist-like forms are the ghosts of warriors dead and gone, a wonderful people who built the Silver Palace in the days of Cortez–built it where the Spaniard could not reach and despoil it.”

Despite his doubts, the professor was listening with strong interest to this remarkable tale.

The fourth person in the hut was the Dutch boy, Hans Dunnerwust, who sat on the ground, his back against the wall, his jaw dropped and his eyes bulging. Occasionally, as he listened to the words of the dying man, he would mutter:

“Chimminy Gristmas!”

For several weeks Frank Merriwell, our hero, Hans, his chum, and Professor Scotch, his guardian, had been exploring the country around the city of Mendoza, Mexico. They had come to Mexico after having numerous adventures in our own country, as related in “Frank Merriwell Out West,” a former volume of this series.

Only a short hour before they had run across the sufferer, whose head seemed so full of the things he had seen at what he called the Silver Palace. They had found him almost dead in a hut at the edge of a sandy plain, suffering great pain and calling loudly for aid. They had done what they could, and then he had begun to talk, as related above.

With surprising strength the man on the bed of grass sat up, stretching out his hands, gazing across the sunlit sand-plain beyond the open door of the hut, and went on:

“I see it now–I see it once again! There, there–see it gleaming like a dazzling diamond in the sunshine! See its beautiful towers and turrets! That dome is of pure gold! Within those walls are treasures untold! There are great vaults of gold and silver ornaments, bars and ingots! There are precious stones in profusion! And all this treasure would make a thousand men rich for life! But it’s not for me–it’s lost to me forever!”

With a stifled moan, he fell back into Frank’s arms, and was lowered on the bed of grass.

Professor Scotch hastily felt the man’s pulse, listened for the beating of his heart, and then cried:

“Quick, Frank–the brandy! It may be too late, but we’ll try to give him a few more minutes of life.”

“That’s right!” palpitated Frank. “Bring him back to consciousness, for we have not yet learned how to reach the Silver Palace.”

“There is no such place as the Silver Palace,” sharply declared the professor, as he forced a few drops of brandy between the lips of the unfortunate man. “The fellow has dreamed it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps! Why, Frank, I took you for a boy of more sense! Think–think of the absurdity! It is impossible!”

“It may be.”

“I know it is.”

“Vell, maype you don’d nefer peen misdooken, brofessor?” insinuated Hans, recovering for a moment from his dazed condition.

The professor did not notice the Dutch boy’s words, for the man on the bed of grass drew a long, fluttering breath and slowly opened his eyes.

“I thought I saw the palace once more,” he whispered. “It was all a delusion.”

“That is true,” nodded the professor, “it is all a delusion. Such a place as this Silver Palace is an absurd impossibility. The illness through which you have passed has affected your mind, and you dreamed of the palace.”

“It is not so!” returned the man, reproachfully. “I have proof! You doubt me–you will not believe?”

“Be calm–be quiet,” urged the professor. “This excitement will cut your life short by minutes, and minutes are precious to you now.”

“That is true; minutes are precious,” hastily whispered the man. “It is not the fever I am dying of–no, no! The water from the spring you may see behind the hut–it has destroyed many people. This morning, before you came, a peon found me here. He told me–he said the spring was poison. The water robs men of strength–of life. I could not understand him well. He went away and left me. I could see him running across the desert, as if from a plague. And now I am dying–dying!”

“But the Silver Palace?” observed Frank Merriwell. “You are forgetting that.”

“Yah,” nodded the Dutch lad; “you peen forgetting dot, ain’d id?”

“The proof,” urged Frank. “You say you have proof.”

“Yah,” put in Hans; “you say you haf der broof. Vere id peen?”

“It is here,” declared the unfortunate, as he fumbled beneath the straw. “You are my countrymen–you have been kind to me. Alwin Bushnell may never return. It is terrible to think all that treasure may be lost–lost forever!”

“Who is Alwin Bushnell?”

“My partner–the one who was with me when I found the palace.”

“Where is he now?”

“Heaven knows! He went for another balloon.”

“Another balloon?”

“Yes; it was with the aid of a balloon that we reached the Silver Palace. Without it we could not have crossed the gulf.”

“Absurd!” muttered the professor.

Despite the fact that the word was merely murmured, the miserable man on the bed of grass did not fail to catch it.

“Oh, I will convince even you!” he exclaimed, gasping for breath, and continuing to fumble beneath the straw. “You shall see–you shall know! But our balloon–we had no means of obtaining a further supply of gas. It was barely sufficient to take us across the gulf, with a few pieces of treasure. We struck against the side of the bluff–we were falling back into the abyss! Barely were we able to scramble out of the car and cling to the rocks. Then we saw the balloon rise a little, like a bird freed of burden; but it suddenly collapsed, fluttered downward, and the mists leaped up and clutched it like a thousand exulting demons, dragging it down from our sight. We crawled up from the rocks, but it was a close call–a close call.”

He lay exhausted, his eyes closed, his hand ceasing to fumble beneath the straw. Once more Professor Scotch gave him a little of the brandy.

Frank Merriwell was more than interested; he could feel his heart trembling with excitement. Something seemed to tell him that this man was speaking the truth, and he was eager to hear more.

For a long time the unfortunate lay gasping painfully for breath, but, at last, he was easier. He opened his eyes, and saw Frank watching him steadily, with an anxious expression.

“Ah!” he murmured, exultantly, “you believe me–you do not doubt! I must tell you everything. You shall be Jack Burk’s heir. Think of it–heir to wealth enough to make you richer than Monte Cristo! Witness–witness that I make this boy my heir!”

He turned to the professor and Hans, and both bowed, the former saying:

“We are witnesses.”

“Good! We escaped with our lives, but we brought little of the treasure with us. I was determined to find the way back there, and I made a map. See, here it is.”

He thrust a soiled and crumpled piece of paper into Frank’s hand, and the boy saw there were lines and writing on it.

“How we found our way out of the mountains, how we endured the heat of the desert I cannot tell,” went on the weak voice of the man on the bed of straw. “We reached Zacatecas, and then Bushnell went for another balloon. He knows friends who have money and power, and he will get the balloon–if he lives.”

“But the proof–the proof that you were going to show us?”

“It is here! Look!”

From beneath the straw Jack Burk drew forth a queer little figure of solid gold–a figure like the pictures of Aztec gods, which Frank had seen.

“This is proof!” declared the man. “It is some of the treasure we brought from the palace. Bushnell took the rest.”

The professor excitedly grasped the little image, and gazed searchingly at it.

“It is all right–it is genuine!” he finally exclaimed.

“Of course it is genuine!” said the man on the bed of grass. “And there are more in the Silver Palace. There the treasures of the Aztecs were hidden, and they have remained. The country all around is full of fierce natives, who hold the palace in awe and prevent others from reaching it. They have kept the secret well, but––”

“Vot vos dot?” interrupted Hans.

At some distance on the plain outside the hut were wildly galloping horses, for they could hear hoof-beats and loud cries. Then came a fusillade of pistol shots!

“Frank began shooting, and his first bullet brought down one of the ponies of the pursuers.”

CHAPTER II

GONE

“Bandits!” cried Jack Burk. “It may be Pacheco!”

“Pacheco?” questioned Frank.

“Pacheco, the human hawk! He haunts the mountains and the desert. He pursued us across the desert, but we escaped him. I have been in hiding here to avoid him. He believes we brought much treasure from the mountains.”

The professor had leaped to the door, and was looking away on the plain. Now he cried, excitedly:

“Look here! A band of horsemen pursuing a white man–plainly an American. Look, he is shooting again!”

Once more the shots were heard.

Frank ran to the door, catching up a rifle that had been leaning against the wall of the hut, for he knew he was in a “bad man’s land.”

“Stand aside!” he shouted, forcing his way past the professor. “No countryman of mine can be in danger that I do not try to give him a helping hand.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“Get a crack at those Greasers.”

“You are crazy! You will bring the entire band down on us!”

“Let ‘em come! One Yankee is good for six Greasers.”

Past the hut at a distance a single horseman was riding, hotly spurring the animal which bore him. At least a dozen dark-faced, fierce-looking ruffians, mounted on hardy little ponies, were in pursuit.

As Professor Scotch had said, the fugitive was plainly an American, a native of the United States. He had turned in the saddle to send bullets whistling back at his pursuers.

Frank ran out and dropped on one knee. The professor followed him, and Hans came from the hut.

Just as Frank lifted the rifle to his shoulder and was on the point of shooting, the voice of Jack Burk sounded from the doorway, to which he had dragged himself:

“It is Bushnell, my partner! Al! Al! Al Bushnell!”

His voice was faint and weak, and it did not reach the ears of the man out on the plain.

Then Frank began shooting, and his first bullet brought down one of the ponies of the pursuers, sending a bandit rolling over and over in the dust, to leap up like a cat, and spring behind a comrade on the back of another pony.

“Dot peen britty goot, Vrankie,” complimented Hans Dunnerwust.

Again and again Frank fired, and the bandits quickly swerved away from the hut, feeling their ponies sway or fall beneath them.

In an astonishingly brief space of time the course of pursuit was deflected, giving the fugitive a chance to get away into Mendoza, which lay at a distance of about three miles from the hut.

The man in flight heard the shots, saw the figures in front of the hut, and waved his hand to them.

The professor excitedly beckoned for Bushnell to come to the hut, but the horseman did not seem to understand, and he kept straight on toward the town.

“Confound him!” exploded the professor. “Why didn’t he come?”

“He don’d like a trap to run into,” said Hans.

“But there is no trap here.”

“How he known dot?”

“Well, I don’t know as I blame him. Of course he could not be sure it was not a trap, and so he was cautious.”

Frank was calmly refilling the magazine of the rifle with fresh cartridges.

“Why you didn’t shoot some uf der pandits deat, Vrankie?” asked Hans.

“I do not wish to shed human blood if I can avoid it.”

“You don’t done dot uf you shoot six or elefen uf dose togs.”

“Oh, they are human beings.”

“Don’t you belief me? Dey vos volves–kiotes.”

“Well, I did not care to shoot them if I could aid the man in any other way, and I succeeded. See, they have given up the pursuit, and the fugitive is far away in that little cloud of dust.”

“Frank!”

“Yes, professor.”

“We should follow him, and bring him back to his dying partner.”

“And leave Jack Burk here alone–possibly to die alone?”

“We can’t do that.”

“Of course not.”

“What then?”

“We’ll have to consider the matter. But Burk–– Look–see there, professor! He is flat on his face in the doorway! He fell like that after trying to shout to his partner.”

Frank leaped forward, and turned the man on his back. It was a drawn, ghastly face that the trio gazed down upon.

Professor Scotch quickly knelt beside the motionless form, feeling for the pulse, and then shaking his head gravely.

“What is it?” anxiously asked Frank. “Has he––”

He was silent at a motion from the professor, who bent to listen for some movement of the man’s heart.

After a few seconds, Professor Scotch straightened up, and solemnly declared:

“This is the end for him. We can do nothing more.”

“He is dead?”

“Yes.”

There was an awed hush.

“Now we can leave him,” the professor finally said. “Pacheco, the bandit, cannot harm him now.”

They lifted the body and bore it back to the wretched bed of straw, on which they tenderly placed it.

“The idol–the golden image?” said the professor. “You must not forget that, Frank. You have it?”

“Little danger that I shall forget it. It is here, where it fell from my fingers as I ran out.”

He picked up the image, and placed it in one of his pockets.

Then, having covered the face of Jack Burk with his handkerchief, Frank led the way from the hut.

Their horses had been tethered near at hand, and they were soon mounted and riding away toward Mendoza.

The sun beat down hotly on the plain of white sand, and the sky was of a bright blue, such as Frank had never seen elsewhere.

Outside Mendoza was a narrow canal, but a few feet in width, and half filled with water, from which rose little whiffs of hot steam.

Along the side of the canal was a staggering rude stone wall, fringed with bushes in strips and clumps.

Beyond the canal, which fixed the boundary of the plain of sand, through vistas of tree trunks, could be seen glimpses of brown fields, fading away into pale pink, violet, and green.

The dome and towers of a church rose against the dim blue; low down, and on every side were spots of cream-white, red, and yellow, with patches of dark green intervening, revealing bits of the town, with orange groves all about.

Across the fields ran a road that was ankle deep with dust, and along the road a string of burros, loaded with great bundles of green fodder, were crawling into the town.

An undulating mass of yellow dust finally revealed itself as a drove of sheep, urged along by peons, appeared.

Groups of natives were strolling in both directions, seeking the shadows along the canal. The women were in straw hats, with their black hair plaited, and little children strung to their backs; the men wore serapes and sandals, and smoked cigarettes.

Along the side of the canal were scattered scores of natives of all ages and both sexes, lolling beneath the bushes or soaking their bodies in the water, while their heads rested on the ground.

Those stretched in the shadow of the bushes had taken their bath, and were waiting for their bodies to dry, covered simply by serapes.

From beneath such a covering dark-eyed native girls stared curiously at the passing trio, causing Hans no small amount of confusion.

“I say, Vrankie,” said the Dutch boy, “vot you dinks apoudt dot pusiness uf dakin’ a path in bublic mit der roadt beside?”

“It seems to be the custom of the country,” smiled Frank; “and they do not seem to think it at all improper.”

“Vell, somepody better toldt dem to stob id. Id keeps mein plood mein face in so much dot I shall look like you hat peen drinking.”

“They think nothing of it,” explained the professor. “You will notice with what deftness they disrobe, slipping out of their clothes and into the water without exposing much more than a bare toe.”

“Oxcuse you!” fluttered Hans. “I don’d like to took mein chances py looking. Somepody mighd make a misdake.”

The sun was low down as they rode into the town.

“We have no time to lose,” said Frank. “We must move lively, if we mean to return to the hut before nightfall.”

“That’s right,” nodded Professor Scotch.

They were successful in finding a native undertaker, but the fellow was very lazy, and he did not want to do anything till the next day.

“To-morrow, señors, to-morrow,” he said.

That did not satisfy, however, and he was soon aroused by the sight of money. Learning where the corpse was, he procured a cart and a burro, and they again set out along the road.

They found whole families soaking in groups in the canal, sousing their babies in the water, and draining them on the bank.

Young Indian girls in groups were combing out their hair and chatting merrily among themselves and with friends in the water.

“Dere oughter peen some law for dot,” muttered Hans.

Leaving the canal, they set out upon the sand-plain, the undertaker’s burro crawling along at an aggravating pace, its master refusing to whip it up, despite urging.

The sun had set, and darkness was settling in a blue haze on the plain when the hut was reached.

Frank lighted a pocket lamp he always carried, and entered.

A cry of astonishment broke from his lips.

“Professor! professor!” he called; “the body is gone!”

CHAPTER III

HELD FOR RANSOM

“Gone!”

The professor was astonished.

“Shimminy Gristmas! I don’d toldt you dot!” came from Hans Dunnerwust.

“Yes, gone,” repeated Frank, throwing the light about the room and finally bringing it back to the bed of grass.

“But–but it’s impossible.”

“Impossible or not, it is true, as you may see.”

“But the man was dead–as dead as he could be!”

“Yah!” snorted Hans. “Py shingoes! dot peen der trute. Dot man vos teader as a goffin nail, und don’d you vorget him!”

The trio were silent, staring in stupefied amazement at the bed of grass.

An uncanny feeling began to creep over Frank, and it seemed that a chill hand touched his face and played about his temples.

Hans’ teeth began to chatter.

“I am quite ill,” the professor faintly declared, in a feeble tone of voice. “The exertions of the day have been far too severe for me.”

“Yah, yah!” gurgled the Dutch lad. “You vos anodder. Oxcuse me while I go oudt to ged a liddle fresh air.”

He made a bolt for the open door, and Professor Scotch was not long in following. Frank, however, was determined to be thoroughly satisfied, and he again began looking for the body of the dead man, once more going over the entire hut.

“The body is gone, beyond a doubt,” he finally muttered.

“There is no place for it to be concealed here, and dead men do not hide themselves.”

He went out, and found Professor Scotch and Hans awaiting his appearance with no small amount of anxiety.

“Ah!” said the professor, with a deep breath of relief, “you are all right.”

“All right,” said Frank, with amusement; “of course I am. What did you think? Fancy I was going to be spirited away by spooks?”

The little man drew himself up with an assumption of great dignity.

“Young man,” he rumbled, in his deepest tone, “don’t be frivolous on such an occasion as this. You are quite aware that I do not believe in spooks or anything of the sort; but we are in a strange country now, and strange things happen here.”

“Yah,” nodded Hans. “Dot peen oxactly righdt.”

“For instance, the disappearance of that corpse is most remarkable.”

“Dot peen der first dime I nefer known a deat man to ged ub un valk avay all alone mit himseluf by,” declared Hans.

“What do you think has happened here, professor?” asked Frank.

“It is plain Jack Burk’s body is gone.”

“Sure enough.”

“And does it not seem reasonable that he walked away himself?”

“Vell, you don’d know apout dot,” broke in Hans. “Maype he don’d pelief we vos goin’ pack here to bury him, und he got tiret uf vaiting for der funerals.”

“There must have been other people here after we left,” said Frank.

“Right,” nodded the professor.

“Bandits?”

“Bushnell?”

“One or the other.”

“Perhaps both.”

Frank fell to examining the ground for “signs,” but, although his eyes were unusually keen, he was not an expert in such matters, and he discovered nothing that could serve as a revelation.

“The man was dead beyond a doubt, professor–you are sure?”

“Sure?” roared the little man, bristling in a moment. “Of course I’m sure! Do you take me for a howling idiot?”

“Don’t get excited, professor. The best of us are liable to err at times. It would not be strange if you––”

“But I didn’t–I tell you I didn’t! The body may have been removed by the bandits which hang about this section.”

“Or by Al Bushnell, Burk’s partner.”

“Yes; Bushnell may have recognized him, although he did not seem to do so. In that case, he has been here––”

“And that explains everything.”

“Everything.”

“He took the body away to give it decent burial.”

“And we have had our trouble for nothing.”

By this time the native undertaker got the drift of the talk, and set up a wail of lamentation and accusation. He had come all that distance at great expense to himself and great waste of time during which he might have been sleeping or smoking. It was robbery, robbery, robbery. It was like the Americanoes. He had a wife and many–very many children depending on him. He had been tricked by the Americanoes, and he would complain that he had been cheated. They should be arrested; they should be compelled to pay.

“Oh, come your perch off, und gone took a fall to yournseluf!” cried Hans, in disgust. “You gif me der lifer gomblaint!”

The native continued to wail and lament and accuse them until Frank succeeded in quieting him by paying him three times as much as he would have asked had the body been found in the hut. The old fellow saw how he could make it appear as a clean case of deception on the part of the strangers, and he worked his little game for all there was in it. Having received his money, he lost no time in turning his cart about and heading back toward Mendoza, evidently fearing the body might be found at last and forced upon him.

“We’d better be going, too,” said Professor Scotch.

“That’s right,” agreed Frank. “There is no telling what danger we may encounter on the plain after nightfall.”

“Vell, don’d let us peen all nighd apout gedding a mofe on,” fluttered Hans, hastening toward the horses.

So they mounted and rode away toward Mendoza, although Frank was far from satisfied to do so without solving the mystery of the remarkable disappearance.

Darkness was falling heavily on the plain, across which a cool and refreshing breath came from the distant mountains.

Frank kept his eyes open for danger, more than half expecting to run upon a gang of bandits at any moment. As they approached the town they began to breathe easier, and, before long, they were riding along the dusty road that led into the little town.

Entering Mendoza they found on each hand low buildings connected by long, white adobe walls, against which grew prickly pears in abundance, running in straggling lines away out upon the open country.

About the edges of the town were little fires, winking redly here and there, with earthen pots which were balanced on smoldering embers raked out from the general mass.

Withered and skinny old hags were crooning over the pots, surrounded by swarthy children and lazy men, who were watching the preparation of the evening meal.

Groups of peons, muffled to the eyes with their serapes, were sitting with their backs to the adobe walls, apparently fast asleep; but Frank noted that glittering, black eyes peered out from between the serapes and the huts, and he had no doubt but that many of the fellows would willingly cut a throat for a ridiculously small sum of money.

Within the town it was different. All day the window shutters had been closely barred, but now they were flung wide, and the flash of dark eyes or the low, musical laugh of a señorita told that the maidens who had lolled all the hot day were now astir.

Doors were flung wide, and houses which at midday had seemed uninhabited were astir with life. In the patios beautiful gardens were blooming, and through iron gates easy-chairs and hammocks could be seen.

Many of the señoritas had come forth, and were strolling in groups of threes or fours, dressed in pink and white lawn, with Spanish veils and fans. The most of them wore white stockings and red-heeled slippers.

Many a witching glance was shyly cast at Frank, but his mind was so occupied that he heeded none of them.

The hotel was reached, and they were dismounting, when a battered and tattered old man, about whose shoulders was cast a ragged blanket, and whose face was hidden by a scraggly, white beard, came up with a faltering step.

“Pardon me,” he said, in a thin, cracked voice, “I see you are Americans, natives of the States, Yankees, and, as I happen to be from Michigan, I hasten to speak to you. I know you will have pity on an unfortunate countryman. My story is short. My son came to this wretched land to try to make a fortune. He went into the mines, and was doing well. He sent me home money, and I put a little aside, so that I had a snug little sum after a time. Then he fell into the hands of Pacheco, the bandit. You have heard of Pacheco, gentlemen?”

“We have,” said Frank, who was endeavoring to get a fair look into the old man’s eyes.

“We surely have,” agreed the professor.

“Vell, you can pet my poots on dot!” nodded Hans.

“The wretch–the cutthroat!” cried the old man, shaking his clinched hand in the air. “Why didn’t he kill me? He has robbed me of everything–everything!”

“Tell us–finish your story,” urged the professor.

Frank said nothing. The light from a window shone close by the old man. Frank was waiting for the man to change his position so the light would shine on his face.

For some moments the man seemed too agitated to proceed, but he finally went on.

“My son–my son fell into the hands of this wretched bandit. Pacheco took him captive. Then he sent word to me that he would murder my son if I did not appear and pay two thousand dollars ransom money. Two thousand dollars! I did not have it in the world. But I had a little home. I sold it–I sold everything to raise the money to save my boy. I obtained it. And then–then, my friends, I received another letter. Then Pacheco demanded three thousand dollars.”

“Der brice vos on der jump,” murmured Hans.

“But that is not the worst!” cried the old man, waving his arms, excitedly. “Oh, the monster–the demon!”

He wrung his hands, and groaned as if with great anguish.

“Be calm, be calm,” urged Professor Scotch. “My dear sir, you are working yourself into a dreadful state.”

“How can I be calm?” groaned the stranger. “It is not possible to be calm and think of such a terrible thing!”

“What terrible thing?” asked Frank. “You have not told the entire story, and we do not know what you mean.”

“True, true. Listen! With that letter Pacheco–the monster!–sent one of my boy’s little fingers!”

“Shimminy Gristmas! I don’d toldt you dot, do I?”

“Horrible! horrible!”

The professor and Hans uttered these exclamations, but Frank was calm and apparently unmoved, with his eyes still fastened on the face of the old man.

“How you toldt dot vos der finger uf your son, mister?”

“That’s it, that’s it–how could you tell?” asked the professor.

“My son–my own boy–he added a line to the letter, stating that the finger had been taken from his left hand, and that Pacheco threatened to cut off his fingers one by one and send them to me if I did not hasten with the ransom money.”

“Dot seddled you!”

“You recognized the handwriting as that of your son?”

“I did; but I recognized something besides that.”

“What?”

“The finger.”

“Oh, you may have been mistaken in that–surely you may.”

“I was not.”

“How do you know?”

“By a mark on the finger.”

“Ah! what sort of a mark?”

“A peculiar scar like a triangle, situated between the first and second joints. Besides that, the nail had once been crushed, after which it was never perfect.”

“That was quite enough,” nodded Professor Scotch.

“Yah,” agreed Hans; “dot peen quide enough alretty.”

Still Frank was silent, watching and waiting, missing not a word that fell from the man’s lips, missing not a gesture, failing to note no move.

This silence on the part of Merriwell seemed to affect the man, who turned to him, saying, a trifle sharply:

“Boy, boy, have you no sympathy with me? Think of the suffering I have passed through! You should pity me.”

“What are you trying to do now?” asked Frank, quietly.

“I am trying to raise some money to ransom my son.”

“But I thought you did raise money?”

“So I did, but not enough.”

“Finish the story.”

“Well, when I received that letter I immediately hastened to this land of bandits and half-breeds. I did not have three thousand dollars, but I hoped that what I had would be enough to soften Pacheco’s heart–to save my poor boy.”

“And you failed?”

The old man groaned again.

“My boy is still in Pacheco’s power, and I have not a dollar left in all the world! Failed–miserably failed!”

“Well, what do you hope to do–what are you trying to do?”

“Raise five hundred dollars.”

“How?”

“In any way.”

“By begging?”

“I do not know how. Anyway, anyway will do!”

“But you cannot raise it by begging in this land, man,” said the professor. “This is a land of beggars. Everybody seems to be poor and wretched.”

“But I have found some of my own countrymen, and I hoped that you might have pity on me–oh, I did hope!”

“What? You didn’t expect us to give you five hundred dollars?”

“Think of my boy–my poor boy! Pacheco has threatened to murder him by inches–to cut him up and send him to me in pieces! Is it not something terrible to contemplate?”

“Vell, I should dink id vos!” gurgled the Dutch boy.

“But how did you lose your money?”

“I was robbed.”

“By whom?”

“Pacheco.”

“How did it happen?”

“I fell into his hands.”

“And he took your money without setting your son free?”

“He did.”

“Did you tell him it was all you had in the world?”

“I told him that a score of times.”

“What did he say?”

“Told me to raise more, or have the pleasure of receiving my boy in pieces.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three days.”

“Near here?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been in Mendoza?”

“Two days, and during that time I have received this from Pacheco.”

He took something from his pocket–something wrapped in a handkerchief. With trembling fingers, he unrolled it, exposing to view––

A bloody human finger!

CHAPTER IV

UNMASKED

Hans and Professor Scotch uttered exclamations of horror, starting back from the sight revealed by the light that came from the window set deep in the adobe wall.

Frank’s teeth came together with a peculiar click, but he uttered no exclamation, nor did he start.

This seemed to affect the old man unpleasantly, for he turned on Frank, crying in an accusing manner and tone:

“Have you no heart? Are you made of stone?”

“Hardly,” was the reply.

“This finger–it is the second torn from the hand of my boy by Pacheco, the bandit–Pacheco, the monster!”

“Pacheco seems to be a man of great determination.”

Professor Scotch gazed at Frank in astonishment, for the boy was of a very sympathetic and kindly nature, and he now seemed quite unlike his usual self.

“Frank, Frank, think of the suffering of this poor father!”

“Yah,” murmured Hans; “shust dink how pad you vould felt uf you efer peen py his blace,” put in Hans, sobbing, chokingly.

“It is very, very sad,” said Frank; but there seemed to be a singularly sarcastic ring to the words which fell from his lips.

“Have you seen your son since he fell into the hands of Pacheco, sir?” asked the professor.

“Yes, I saw him; but I could scarcely recognize him, he was so changed–so wan and ghastly. The skin is drawn tightly over his bones, and he looks as if he were nearly starved to death.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

The man wrung his hands with a gesture of unutterable anguish.

“Oh, his appeal–I can hear it now! He begged me to save him, or to give him poison that he might kill himself!”

“Where is he now?”

“In a cave.”

“Where is the cave?”

“That I cannot tell, for I was blindfolded all the time, except while in the cave where my boy is kept.”

“It is near Mendoza?”

“It must be within fifty miles of here.”

“Perhaps it is nearer?”

“Possibly.”

“But you have no means of knowing in which direction it lies?”

“No.”

“Your only hope is to raise the five hundred dollars?”

“That is my only hope, and that can scarcely be called a hope, for I must have the money within a day or two, or my boy will be dead.”

“Hum! hum!” coughed the professor. “This is a very unfortunate affair–very unfortunate. I am not a wealthy man, but I––”

“You will aid me?” shouted the old man, joyously. “Heaven will bless you, sir–Heaven will bless you!”

“I have not said so–I have not said I would aid you,” Scotch hastily said. “I am going to consider the matter–I’ll think it over.”

“Then I have no hope.”

“Why not?”

“If your heart is not opened now, it will never open. My poor boy is lost, and I am ready for death!”

The old man seemed to break down and sob like a child, burying his face in his hands, his body shaking convulsively.

Frank made a quick gesture to the others, pressing a finger to his lips as a warning for silence.

In a moment the old man lifted his face, which seemed wet with tears.

“My last hope is gone!” he sighed. “And you are travelers–you are rich!”

He turned to Frank, to whom, with an appealing gesture, he extended a hand that was shaking as if with the palsy.

“You–surely you will have sympathy with me! I can see by your face and your bearing that you are one of fortune’s favorites–you are rich. A few dollars––”

“My dear man,” said Frank, quite calmly, “I should be more than delighted to aid you, if you had told the truth.”

The old man fell back. He was standing fairly in the light which shone from the window.

“What do you mean?” he hoarsely asked. “Do you think I have been lying to you–do you fancy such a thing?”

“I fancy nothing; I know you have lied!”

“Frank!” cried Professor Scotch, in amazement.

“Shimminy Gristmas!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust, in a dazed way.

The manner of the old man changed in a twinkling.

“You are insolent, boy! You had better be careful!”

“Now you threaten,” laughed Frank. “Well, I expected as much from a beggar, a fraud, and a scoundrel!”

Professor Scotch and Hans fell into each other’s arms, overcome with excitement and wonder.

Frank was calm and deliberate, and he did not lift his voice above the tone used in ordinary conversation.

Still another step did the man fall back, and then a grating snarl broke from his lips, and he seemed overcome with rage. He leaned forward, hissing:

“You insulting puppy!”

“The truth must always seem like an insult to a scoundrel.”

“Do you dare?”

“What is there to fear?”

“Much.”

Frank snapped his fingers.

“Your tune has changed in the twinkling of an eye. You are no longer the heart-broken father, begging for his boy; but you have flung aside some of the mask, and exposed your true nature.”

Professor Scotch saw this was true, and he was quaking with fear of what might follow this remarkable change.

As for Hans, it took some time for ideas to work their way through his brain, and he was still in a bewildered condition.

For a moment the stranger was silent, seeming to choke back words which rose in his throat. Finally, he cried:

“Oh, very well! I did not expect to get anything out of you; but it would have been far better for you if I had. Now––”

“What?”

Frank asked the question, as the speaker faltered.

“You shall soon learn what. I am going to leave you, but we shall see more of each other, don’t forget that.”

“Wait–do not be in a hurry. I am not satisfied till I–see your face!”

With the final words, Frank made a leap and a sweep of his hand, clutching the white beard the man wore, and tearing it from his face!

The beard was false!

The face exposed was smoothly shaven and weather-tanned.

“Ha!” cried Frank, triumphantly. “I thought so! This poor old man is Carlos Merriwell, my villainous cousin!”