Frank Merriwell’s Bravery E-Book

Burt L. Standish

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

Beschreibung

Burt L. Standish has always portrayed Frank as an improved hero. He has a body like Tarzan’s and a head like Einstein’s. This book reveals another major feature of Frack – his bravery. The hard way is trying to knock him off of success. But will it work out?

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. TWO TRAVELERS

CHAPTER II. "HANDS UP!"

CHAPTER III. A THRILLING ACCUSATION

CHAPTER IV. FOR LIFE AND HONOR

CHAPTER V. HURRIED TO JAIL

CHAPTER VI. SOLOMON SHOWS HIS NERVE

CHAPTER VII. IN JAIL

CHAPTER VIII. THE LYNCHERS

CHAPTER IX. THE ASSAULT ON THE JAIL

CHAPTER X. IN CADE'S CANYON

CHAPTER XI. BLACK HARRY APPEARS

CHAPTER XII. A CHANCE IN A THOUSAND

CHAPTER XIII. A THRILLING RESCUE

CHAPTER XIV. WALTER CLYDE'S STORY

CHAPTER XV. PROFESSOR SEPTEMAS SCUDMORE

CHAPTER XVI. THE MAD INVENTOR

CHAPTER XVII. GONE

CHAPTER XVIII. MISKEL

CHAPTER XIX. OLD SOLITARY

CHAPTER XX. MOUTH OF THE CAVE

CHAPTER XXI. HUMAN BEASTS

CHAPTER XXII. PROFESSOR SCUDMORE RETURNS

CHAPTER XXIII. LAST OF THE DANITES

CHAPTER XXIV. YELLOWSTONE PARK

CHAPTER XXV. FAY

CHAPTER XXVI. OLD ROCKS

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HERMIT

CHAPTER XXVIII. VANISHING OF LITTLE FAY

CHAPTER XXIX. FACE TO FACE

CHAPTER XXX. SEARCH FOR THE TRAIL

CHAPTER XXXI. A FIGHT WITH GRIZZLIES

CHAPTER XXXII. TRAILED DOWN

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE RESCUE

CHAPTER XXXIV. IN SAND CAVE

CHAPTER XXXV. A PECULIAR GIRL

CHAPTER XXXVI. FRIENDS AND FOES

CHAPTER XXXVII. BOY SHADOWERS

CHAPTER XXXVIII. "QUEER" MONEY

CHAPTER XXXIX. PURSUED

CHAPTER XL. ELUDED

CHAPTER XLI. BIG GABE

CHAPTER XLII. OVER THE PRECIPICE

CHAPTER XLIII. A FRIGHTFUL PERIL

CHAPTER XLIV. A GIRL'S MAD LEAP

CHAPTER XLV. QUEEN OF THE COUNTERFEITERS

CHAPTER XLVI. AFTER THE FIGHT

CHAPTER I

TWO TRAVELERS

“Well, that’s a pretty nervy piece of business!”

It was Frank Merriwell who spoke the words, more to himself than to any one else.

Frank was westbound, from Oklahoma City at the time, continuing the extensive tour mapped out after his Uncle Asher had died and left him so much money.

As readers of former books in this series know, Frank was not making the tour alone. Professor Scotch, his guardian, was with him as was also Barney Mulloy, his old schoolmate from Fardale. But, as the professor and Barney had not wanted to stop at Oklahoma, they had gone on ahead, leaving Frank to catch up with them later.

The “nervy piece of business” to which Frank referred was the following account of a hold-up published in a leading Oklahoma newspaper:

“BLACK HARRY’S LATEST STROKE.

“HE HOLDS UP AN EXPRESS TRAIN, AND SHOOTS AN EASTERN BANKER.

“As we go to press, an imperfect account of Black Harry’s latest outrage reaches us from Elreno. Ten days ago this youthful desperado was unknown to fame, but within that number of days he has left a red trail from the Texas Panhandle to the Canadian River. He began by raiding Moore’s ranch, and killing a cowboy, and he and his band of desperadoes, which he calls his ‘Braves,’ have robbed and plundered and burned and murdered at their own sweet will, till the climax was capped last night by the holding up of the northbound express on the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific, shortly after leaving Chickasha and crossing the Washita. Between Chickasha and Minco is a twenty-mile stretch of desolate track, and a better place for a train hold-up could not be found.

“Just how the express was stopped we do not know at present, but the trick was accomplished, and Black Harry and his Braves boarded the cars. Strangely enough, they did not attempt to enter the express car, but were satisfied to go through the train hastily and relieve the passengers of their valuables. In this work, Black Harry took the lead; but Mr. Robert Dawson, an Eastern banker, who happened to have quite a sum on his person, objected, and snatched the mask from the young ruffian’s face. Before the eyes of Miss Lona Dawson, who was traveling with her father, Black Harry deliberately shot the banker down, and then relieved him of his watch, diamond pin, and pocketbook, having first re-covered his face with the mask.

“The robbers made a hasty but very thorough job of it, leaping from the train at a signal from their boy leader, and quickly disappearing in the darkness. But Black Harry’s face was seen fairly by the banker’s horrified daughter, and by several other passengers, so there will be no trouble in identifying him if he is captured. Sheriff Kildare, of Canadian County, is aroused, and Burchel Jones, an Eastern detective, has promised to round up Black Harry within a very short time. Let us hope, for the good of the Territory, that the young ruffian’s career may be quickly terminated, and that he may receive his just due at the hands of the law.

“Mr. Dawson was taken to Elreno, where a surgical operation was performed. He is still alive, but his chance of recovery is small. His daughter, who seems to be a girl of spirit, has stated that, if her father dies, she will know no rest nor spare no expense till Black Harry is run to earth.”

The article terminated abruptly, showing it had been hastily written, and had been inserted at the last moment before publication.

“Truly an outrage!” Frank continued. “It would be a good scheme to organize a hunting party, and give this Black Harry a run for it.”

“Just my idea,” said an oily voice, as a man slipped into the seat beside the young traveler, without as much as saying “by your leave.” “The people out here do not seem to mind these things. I suppose they are used to them.”

Frank glanced the speaker over, with a pair of searching, brown eyes. He saw a slender figure in a well-worn suit of gray. The striking features of the man’s face were his eyes and his nose. His eyes were too near together, and his nose was long and pointed. He was smooth-shaved, and there was a cunning, foxy look about his face.

Frank did not seem in any hurry about speaking; he continued to inspect the man, who moved restlessly beneath the scrutiny, and said:

“I have not been very long in this country, but I have noted the peculiarities of the people. They do not seem to have time to bother much about an affair like this train hold-up, and the shooting of an occasional tenderfoot, as they call all Easterners. If they should happen to capture Black Harry, they would give him their full attention for a short time–a very short time. They would be pretty sure to lynch him, as they would consider that the easiest way of disposing of him, and they would not consider it worth while to spend time in giving him a regular trial. To be sure, this train robbery and tragedy occurred in Indian Territory, but I understand that Hank Kildare, the sheriff at Elreno, has offered three hundred dollars reward for the capture of Black Harry himself, and fifty dollars each for his men. Er–ah–ahem! My name is–Walker. I am from Jersey.”

Frank bowed.

“How do you do, Mr.–er–ah–Walker. I presume that what you say about Black Harry’s chances, if he is captured, is quite true–he will be lynched.”

“Oh, it is not certain, of course; he might obtain protection by officers of the law. But he would stand a good show of being lynched. And Elreno is the worst place in Oklahoma for him to show his face in at present.”

“I should presume it might be. Dawson, the wounded banker, is there?”

“And his daughter–can she identify this young desperado the moment she sees him?”

“Without doubt.”

“Black Harry will be very foolish if he goes to Elreno.”

“He is not likely to go there, I fancy.”

“I don’t know about that. He is a dare-devil fellow.”

“So it seems.”

“And he might take a fancy that Elreno would be the last place where he would be expected to appear, and so he would go there.”

“He might do that.”

“Now, in your own case, if you were Black Harry, for instance, you might put on a bold face, and show yourself in Elreno, while everybody outside that town would be on the lookout for you.”

“Possibly, you are right.”

“I think such a trick would be very like Black Harry. He might go so far as to take the train to Elreno from some place that would make it seem that he could not have been in the locality where the hold-up was committed. If he were to come into Elreno on this train, for instance, it would be a blind.”

“How far is Oklahoma City from the place where the train was robbed?”

“Between thirty and forty miles, direct.”

“That distance could be made on horseback between the time of the robbery and this morning–do you think so?”

“Well, it is very likely. What do you think, Mr.–ah–er–I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Frank Merriwell.”

“Really?”

Walker lifted his eyebrows in a very odd manner, which Frank did not fail to observe.

“You appear as if you doubted me,” came a trifle warmly from the lad’s lips, while the color rushed to his cheeks.

“Oh, not at all–not at all! You are in Oklahoma on business?”

“No, sir.”

“Not?”

“No.”

“Pleasure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How? Traveling?”

“I am.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

“Didn’t notice you had company.”

“I have not, at present.”

“H’m! Ha! Your friends–are they on this train?”

“No, sir.”

Walker elevated his eyebrows again. His nose seemed longer and more pointed than ever. It was a nose that reminded the boy of an interrogation point. It seemed built to thrust itself into other people’s business.

“Ha! Not on the train?”

“No.”

“You expect to meet them?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In Elreno.”

“How many of them?”

“Two.”

“No more?”

“No.”

Frank was answering curtly, and his manner announced his dislike for his inquisitive companion. Still, he was courteous and cool, holding himself in check.

“I presume your companions are older than yourself?” questioned the prying Jerseyite, his small eyes glistening.

“One is; the other is a boy about my age.”

“Ha! H’m! Just so. You are from the East, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It seems to me that I have seen you before, but I cannot remember where it was. And I do not remember your name. Do you mind giving me the names of your traveling companions?”

“Not at all. They are Professor Horace Orman Tyler Scotch, of Fardale Military Academy, sometimes known as ‘Hot’ Scotch, as he has a peppery temper, and the initials of his first three names form the word ‘hot.’ The other is Barney Mulloy, a youth who was born in Ireland, and has not recovered from it yet. The latter was a classmate of mine at Fardale, and he is traveling with me as a friendly companion, which he can afford to do, as I pay all the bills.”

“Haw!” exclaimed Walker. “You must have money to burn!”

“No, I have not. My uncle left me a comfortable fortune, and his will provided that, in order to broaden my knowledge of the world, I should travel in company with my guardian. He selected Professor Scotch as a proper man to become my guardian, and specified that I might take along a schoolmate as a companion, if I so desired.”

“Re-e-markable!” cried Walker. “A most astonishing will! And how does it happen that you have become separated from your guardian and friend?”

“We were going through to Texas on the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific. I wished to visit Guthrie, the capital of Oklahoma, and they did not care to do so. I left them at Caldwell, in Kansas, with the understanding that they were to proceed to Elreno, and wait for me there.”

“H’m!”

Walker’s nose seemed pointing at the boy like an accusing finger. Doubt was expressed all over that foxy face.

“You tell it well,” said the man, with another queer lifting of his thin eyebrows.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded the youth, sharply, wheeling squarely toward Walker. “Do you insinuate that I am not telling the truth?”

Before Walker could reply, a commotion arose in the seat directly behind them.

CHAPTER II

“HANDS UP!”

“Aw! Thay, weally, this ith verwy impudent, don’t yer know!” drawled a languid voice. “What wight have you to cwout yourthelf into a theat bethide a gentleman, thir?”

“I don’d seen der shentleman anyvere,” replied a nasal voice, a voice that had the genuine Jewish sound.

“Thir! Do you mean to thay I am no gentleman, thir?”

“Vell, I don’d mean to say nodding aboud id. I don’d vant to hurd your veelings.”

“You insulting w’etch!”

“Don’d get excided, mein friendt.”

“Will you leave thith theat, thir?”

“Cerdinly I vill–ven I leaf der drain.”

“I thall call the conductor!”

“Don’d vaste your preath–peckon to him.”

“Thir, I would have you understand that my name ith Cholly Gwayson De Smythe.”

“Vell, I vos bleased to meed you. Anypody vould be pleased shust to dake a look ad you.”

“Thir!”

“My name vas Solomon Rosenbum, vid the accent on der bum. Shake handts vid yourself.”

By this time everybody in the car was staring at the Jew and the dudish fellow beside whom Solomon had taken a seat. The latter was a youth of uncertain age, with an insipid mustache, a sallow face, and spectacles of colored glass, which seemed to indicate that he had weak eyes. He was dressed, as far as possible, in imitation of an English tourist.

The Jew, who had given his name as “Solomon Rosenbum, vid der accent on der bum,” was a rather disreputable-looking man of about thirty, having the appearance of the Jew peddler, and carrying a pack, which he had stuffed down between his knees and the back of the next seat, thus completely fencing in Cholly De Smythe.

“Will you wemove yourthelf fwom this theat?” squawked the dude, in a flutter.

“Say, mein friendt, you vas nervous. Now, I dell you vat you do vor dat. Shust dake a pottle of Snyde’s Shain-Lighdning Nearf Regulardor. Id vill simbly gost you von tollar a pottle, dree bottles vor dwo tollars. I haf shust dree pottles left. Vill you dake ‘em?”

Solomon began to untie his pack.

“Stop it!” squealed Cholly, in terror. “I don’t want your nawsty stuff, don’t yer know!”

“Berhaps I know petter dan vat you do. I haf studied to pe a horse toctor, und I make a sbecialty uf shack-asses.”

“You wude thing!”

The other passengers in the car were enjoying all this, and the laughter that had begun with the first passage between the two now threatened to swell to a tumult.

“Uf one pottle don’d gure you, der dree pottles vill–or kill you, und nopody vill mindt dot.”

“Go’way!”

“Vill you half der dree pottles?”

“No, thir!”

“Veil, dake von uf dem ad sefenty-fife cends.”

“Get out!”

“I alvays haf von brice vor all uf mine goots, und I nefer make a bractice uf dakin’ off a cend; but I see dat you vas on der verge uf nerfus brosdration, und I vant to safe your life, so I vill sell you von pottle vor a hellufer-tollar.”

“I don’t want it–I won’t take the nawsty stuff!”

“Dat vas too sheap at hellufer-tollar, but in your gase I vill make an eggsception, und you may haf von pottle vor a qvarter. Dake id qvick, before I shange my mindt.”

“Help! Take the w’etch away!”

“Moses in der pulrushes! Vat you vant? Vas you dryin’ to ruin me? Dot medicine gost me ninedy-dree cends a pottle, und I don’d ged a cend discoundt uf I puy dwo pottles. Dake a pottle ad dwenty cends, und I vill go indo pankrupcy.”

“Conductaw! Conductaw!” squawked Cholly.

“What is all this noise about?” demanded the conductor, as he came hastily down the aisle and stood scowling at Cholly.

He had overheard all that passed, and he was enjoying it as much as any of the passengers.

“Conductaw,” said the dude, with great dignity, “I wish you to instantly wemove this verwy insolent cwecher. He cwoded in thith theat without awsking leave.”

“Have you paid for a whole seat?”

“I have paid one fare, thir, and ––”

“So has this gentleman. He is entitled to half of this seat, if he chooses to sit here. Don’t bother me again.”

The conductor walked away, and Cholly looked at Solomon, faintly gasping:

“Thith gentleman! Gweat Scott!”

Then he seemed to collapse.

Solomon grinned, and lifted his hat to the conductor. Then he turned to Cholly.

“Vill you half a pottle uf der Nearf Regulador ad dwendy cends?”

“Let me out!” gurgled the dude. “I will not stay heaw and be inthulted!”

“Set down,” advised the Jew. “You ain’d bought a pottle uf medicine, und I can’d boder to mofe vor you.”

Cholly fell back into his seat, giving up the struggle. He turned his head away, and looked out of the window, while Solomon talked to him for ten minutes, without seeming to draw a breath. Cholly, however, could not be induced to purchase a single bottle of the “Nearf Regulador.”

All through this, Mr. Walker had not seemed to remove his keen eyes from the face of the boy at his side. The lad apparently enjoyed the affair between the Jew and the dude as much as any one in the car, laughing merrily, and seeming quite at ease.

Somehow, Walker did not seem to be pleased at all. He appeared like a man with a very little sense of humor, or he had so much of grave importance on his mind that he did not observe what was going on behind him.

When Cholly De Smythe had collapsed, and the Jew had ceased to talk, the boy squared about in his seat, and seemed to settle to take things in the most comfortable manner possible. He pulled his hat over his forehead, and continued his perusal of the newspaper.

This did not satisfy his seat mate.

“You seem to be very interested in that paper,” said Walker.

“I am,” was the curt return, and the boy continued reading.

“You are not much of a talker.”

“You are.”

“H’m! Ha! I am; I am very sociable.”

“So I observed.”

“I have been wondering what we would do if a band of robbers was to hold up this train.”

“I am sure I cannot tell what I would do. I scarcely think any person can tell what he would do in such a case till he meets the emergency.”

“I presume you go armed?”

“In the West–yes.”

Walker’s thin nose seemed to resemble a wedge which he was driving deeper and deeper with each question.

“Would you mind permitting me to look at your revolver?”

“Yes.”

The boy uttered that word, and remained silent, without offering to take the weapon out.

Walker coughed.

“H’m! Ha! I think you misunderstood me.”

“I think not.”

“I asked you if you would mind letting me look at your revolver.”

“And I said I would mind.”

“Oh!”

The Jew’s voice sounded in Walker’s ear.

“I haf a revolfer vat I vill sell you sheep. Id vas a recular taisy, selluf-cocker, und dirty-dwo caliber. Here id vas, meester. Id vas loated, so handle id vid care. Vat you gif vor dat peautiful revolfer, meester?”

Walker took the weapon, glanced into the cylinder, to see that it was actually loaded, and then suddenly thrust it against the head of Frank, crying, sharply:

“Hands up, Black Harry! You are my prisoner!”

CHAPTER III

A THRILLING ACCUSATION

The words rang through the car, startling the passengers, and causing them to stare in astonishment at the man and the boy.

The man with the revolver was quivering with excitement, while Frank, at whose head the weapon was held, seemed strangely calm.

Exclamations were heard on all sides.

“Black Harry!”

“Is it possible?”

“Not that beardless boy!”

“It’s a mistake!”

“If that’s Black Harry, his Braves are near, and there is liable to be some shooting before long.”

“Sufferin’ Moses!” came from the Jew, who owned the revolver. “Ish dat der ropper vat ve read apout der baper in? Stop der cars! I vant to ged off!”

“What do you mean by this crazy act?” calmly demanded Frank, looking straight into Mr. Walker’s eyes.

“I mean business, and I am not going to fool with a fellow of your reputation a minute! If you don’t put up your hands, I’ll send a bullet through your head immediately!”

“Then I shall put up my hands, for I have no fancy for having the top of my head blown off.”

Up went the boy’s empty hands.

“That’s where you are sensible,” declared the man with the foxy face. “I have dealt with your kind before, and I know better than to let ‘em monkey with me. I am a man with a reputation for catching criminals. At the sound of my name, the professional crooks in the East tremble.”

“Walker does not seem to be such a very terrible name.”

“Walker–bah! That’s not my name!”

“No?”

“Not much!”

“Pray, what is your name, then?”

“I am Burchel Jones, the famous detective,” declared the owner of the gimlet eyes, swelling with importance. “Out in this country the fools call me a tenderfoot, but I will show them the kind of stuff I am made of. When they want to catch their desperadoes and robbers, they should send for a tenderfoot detective.”

The boy laughed outright.

“You are more sport than a barrel of monkeys,” he said, merrily. “What do you think you have done, anyway?”

“I have captured Black Harry, the terrible desperado, who has been giving them so much trouble out here of late.”

“You think I am Black Harry?”

“I do not think anything about it–I know it.”

“How do you know it?”

“By your face.”

“Have you ever seen Black Harry?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

“On the northbound Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific express.”

“You were on that train?”

“I was, and I saw Black Harry’s face when he was unmasked by Robert Dawson–saw it distinctly. You are Black Harry!”

“You were never more deceived in all your life. My name is Frank Merriwell, as I can easily prove.”

“Your real name may be Frank Merriwell, but you are the boy desperado who is known as Black Harry, and you are the chap who shot Mr. Robert Dawson.”

The detective spoke with conviction, and it was plain that he really believed what he said. The boy began to look grave, as the situation was not exactly pleasant.

“You came from Elreno to Oklahoma City on the first train this morning, did you?” asked the youth.

“I did.”

“How did it happen that you took this train back?”

“I spotted you. The moment I saw your face I knew you, and I shadowed you till the train started. I boarded the train with the determination to capture you. I seldom fail when I have resolved on a thing, and I did not fail this time.”

“Then this is no joke?”

“You will find it is no joke.”

“Well, I can’t ride from this place to Elreno with my hands held above my head, as you must very well know.”

“Of course you can’t. I’ll have to put the irons on you. Here, young man, hold this revolver to his head while I handcuff and search him.”

He spoke to Cholly De Smythe, who had been watching, with staring eyes, his jaw dropped, and a look of amazement on his face.

“Haw?” squawked the dude, aghast. “What ith that you want, thir?”

“Take this revolver, and hold it to this boy’s head. If he moves, shoot him as if he were a dangerous dog.”

“Good gwacious!” gurgled Cholly. “I nevah touched a wevolver in awl my life! You will hawve to excuse me, thir.”

“If you are determined to treat me as if I were a mad beast, I beg you to let some one who knows something about firearms handle that revolver,” said the captive. “I will give you my word not to make any trouble if you lower the weapon.”

“Your word does not count with me,” declared the crafty detective. “I wouldn’t trust you a second–not a second.”

“I can show you my card, letters, and other papers to prove my claim that I am Frank Merriwell, a traveler.”

“Black Harry would be likely to have such letters and papers ready for just such an emergency. That trick will not count.”

“Oh, well, don’t fool around with that loaded gun held up against my head! Put on the irons, and give me a chance to rest my arms. Hurry up!”

“Shust led me dake dat revolfer, mine friendt,” said the voice of the Jew. “Uf dot poy tries any funny pusiness, he vill be deat, vid der accent on der deat.”

“Can I trust you?” cautiously asked Burchel Jones.

“Vell, I dunno. You can uf you vant to. I alvays make a bracdice uf doin’ a cash pusiness.”

After some hesitation, the tenderfoot detective decided that he could not do better than trust Solomon, and the revolver was surrendered to the Jew.

“Don’d you vink!” commanded Solomon, as he screwed the muzzle of the weapon up against the lad’s head. “Uf you do, you vas a deat poy!”

The detective searched the youth, removing a handsome revolver from one of his pockets. That was the only weapon found anywhere on his person.

Burchel Jones was disappointed, for he had expected to find “guns” and knives concealed all over the lad.

“Oh, you’re slick–you’re slick!” he said. “But you can’t fool me. I know how to deal with rascals like you. I have handled hundreds of ‘em–hundreds upon hundreds.”

“You must be a very old hand in the business,” said the captive, with a laugh. “Still, you seem to need assistance to capture a boy, who has made no offer to resist you, although he knows very well that you have no legal right to arrest him.”

“Oh, you are ready with your tongue–altogether too ready.”

Having searched the lad, Jones produced some manacles, and snapped them on the wrists of his prisoner.

“There,” he said to Solomon, “you needn’t hold the revolver to his head any longer. I have him foul now.”

“Dank you,” nodded the Jew. “You vas much opliged vor der use of my revolfer.”

“Of course, of course.”

“V’y you don’d puy dot revolfer, den, und gif a poor man a drade?”

“Oh, get out. I don’t want it any longer.”

“Vell, I am glad uf dat, vor it vas long enough alretty. Uf you like id so vel, v’y you don’d bought id?”

“I have one of my own.”

“Vell, haf dwo. I gif you a drade on dat revolfer. I sell you dat revolfer vor elefen tollar.”

“Don’t want it.”

“Ten tollar.”

“Don’t want it.”

“Nine.”

“No.”

“Eight.”

“Say, shut up! I wouldn’t take it for five!”

“Vell, you may haf him vor your tollar, und dot vas less dan haluf vat id vas vort’. Shall I put a biece uf baper roundt id?”

“I won’t buy it at any price.”

“Moses in der pulrushes! Do you vant me to gif him to you? I vill dake tree tollar, und dat vas der rock-pottom brice. Here you haf him.”

But the detective still declined to take the weapon, which made Solomon exceedingly disgusted and angry.

“You vas der meanest man vat I nefer met!” he cried. “Uf I hat known how mean you vas, I vouldn’t helluped you capture dot ropper! I hat better do pusiness vid der ropper anyhow.”

Burchel Jones was well satisfied with himself. At Yukon he sent a dispatch to Hank Kildare, the sheriff at Elreno, saying:

“Have captured Black Harry. Bringing him in irons. Have Miss Dawson at station to identify him when train arrives.

Burchel Jones, “Private Detective.”

Jones was surprised at the quiet manner in which Frank had submitted to arrest, but he felt that the lad had been cleverly taken by surprise, and had seen by the eye of the man with the revolver that the best thing he could do was to give in without a struggle.

The boy saw it was quite useless to attempt to convince the man that any mistake had been made, and so, after the first effort, ceased to waste his time in the vain struggle. He remained calm and collected, much to the dismay of the some nervous passengers, who were certain the train would be held up by Black Harry’s Braves, who would be on hand to rescue their chief.

Jones heard one man declaring over and over that he knew the train would not reach Elreno without a hold-up, and the detective immediately declared:

“If an attempt is made to rescue Black Harry, it will be very unfortunate for Harry, as I shall immediately shoot him. I do not propose to let him escape, to continue his career of crime and devastation.”

The boy smiled, in a scornful and pitying way.

When the train drew into Elreno, a great crowd was seen on the platform of the station, and, for the first time, a troubled look came to the face of the youthful prisoner.

“The whole town has turned out to see Black Harry and the man who captured him,” said Jones, swelling with importance.

Frank said nothing; he knew well enough that such a crowd was dangerous in many cases. What if it were generally believed that he was, in truth, Black Harry, and the mob should take a fancy to lynch him? His chance of escaping a speedy death would be slim, indeed!

The train stopped, and, with his hand clutching the boy’s shoulder, Jones descended to the platform.

“Thar he is!”

The cry went up, and the crowd surged toward the two.

“Stan’ back hyar!”

A man that was six feet and four inches in height, and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, forced his way through the throng, casting men to the right and left with his muscular arms. He had a hard, weather-tanned face, and looked as if he did not fear the Evil One himself.

“Are you Burchel Jones, ther detective?” asked this man, as he loomed before Jones and his captive.

“I am, sir,” was the dignified reply; “and this is Black Harry. I surrender him to you, and claim the reward offered for his capture.”

“Thet ther skunk known as Black Harry?” said the giant sheriff, in evident surprise. “He don’t look like a desperado. Wal, we’ll soon settle all doubts on thet yar point, fer Miss Dawson is hyar, an’ she will recognize him ef he is Black Harry. Come on, boy.”

Kildare, the sheriff, for such the giant was, again forced a path through the crowd.

In the station door, a woman and a girl were standing. The girl was not more than seventeen, and was very pretty, despite the traces of grief upon her face.

Kildare led the boy up before the woman and girl, and he spoke to the latter:

“Take a good, squar’ look at this yar kid, Miss Dawson, an’ see ef yer ever saw thet face afore.”

The girl looked at Frank, and then fell back, horror and loathing depicted on her face. She stretched out one hand, with a repellent gesture, as if warning them to keep him away, and with the other hand she clutched at her throat, from which came a choking sound. The woman offered to support her, but she sprang up in a moment, pointed straight at the youthful captive, and literally shrieked:

“He is the wretch who shot my poor father!”

CHAPTER IV

FOR LIFE AND HONOR

A sudden, mad roar went up from the crowd on the station platform. They swayed, surged, struggled, and shouted:

“Lynch him!”

That cry was like the touching of a torch to dry prairie grass. Men climbed on each others’ shoulders; men fought to get nearer the prisoner, and the mob seemed to have gone mad in a moment.

“Lynch him!”

A hundred throats took up the shout, and it became one mighty roar for blood, the most appalling sound that can issue from human lips.

The face of the menaced boy was very pale, but he did not cower before that suddenly infuriated mob. He showed that he had nerve, for he stood up and faced them boldly, helpless as he was.

Burchel Jones, the detective, looked as if he would give something to get away from that locality in a hurry.

A black scowl came to the face of Hank Kildare, and his hands dropped to his hips, reappearing from beneath the tails of his coat with a brace of heavy, long-barreled revolvers in their grasp. The muzzles of the weapons were thrust right into the faces of the men nearest, and the sheriff literally thundered:

“Git back thar, you critters, or by thunder, thar’ll be dead meat round hyar! You hyar me chirp!”

Lona Dawson, the banker’s daughter, was badly frightened by the sudden outbreak of the mob, and, with her older companion, she retreated into the waiting-room of the station.

“Death to Black Harry!”

A man with strong lungs howled the words above all the uproar and commotion.

“Bring the rope!” screamed another.

And then, as if by magic, a man struggled to the shoulders of those about him, waved a rope in the air, and yelled:

“Hyar’s ther necktie fer Black Harry!”

And then, once more, there was a roar, and a surge, and a struggle to get at the handcuffed boy.

“Stiddy!” sounded the voice of Hank Kildare. “Back! back! back! or, by the eternal skies, I’ll begin ter sling lead!”

But twenty hands seemed reaching to clutch the lad and drag him away. The sheriff saw that he would not be able to retain his prisoner if he remained where he was.

“Inter ther station, boy!” came from the giant sheriff’s lips. “It’s yer only chance ter git clear o’ this yar gang!”

“Howly shmoke!” cried a familiar voice just behind the handcuffed youth. “Pwhat are they doin’ wid yez, Frankie, me b’y?”

“Yes,” quavered another voice, likewise familiar, “what is this crazy mob trying to do? This is something appalling!”

“Barney! Professor!” cried the boy, joyously. “Now I can prove that I am what I claim to be!”

“I’ve got him!”

A big ruffian roared the words, as he fastened both hands upon the manacled lad, and tried to drag him into the midst of the swaying mob.

“Thin take thot, ye spalpane!” shouted the Irish boy, who had appeared in company with a little, red-whiskered man at the door of the station.

Out shot the hard fist of the young Irishman, and–smack!–it struck the man fairly in the left eye, knocking him backward into the arms of the one just behind him.

“It’s toime ye got out av thot, me b’y,” said Barney Mulloy, as he grasped the imperiled youth by the collar, and drew him into the waiting-room of the station.

“That’s right, that’s right!” fluttered the little man, who was Professor Scotch. “Let’s hurry out by the back door, the way we came in. We were detained, so we did not arrive in time for the train, but we came as quickly as we could.”

“And arrived just in time,” said Frank. “I am in a most appalling position.”

“Well, well!” fluttered the professor. “You can explain that later on. Let’s get away from here.”

“Look!”

Frank held up his hands, and, for the first time, his friends saw the irons on his wrists. They cried out in amazement.

“Pwhat th’ ould b’y is th’ m’anin’ av thot?” demanded Barney Mulloy, in the most profound astonishment.

“It means that I have been arrested; that’s all.”

“Pwhat fer?”

“Robbing, shooting, murdering.”

“G’wan wid yez!”

“This is no time to joke, Frank,” said Professor Scotch, reprovingly. “Are you never able to restrain your propensity for making sport?”

“This is a sorry joke, professor. I am giving you the straight truth.”

“But–but it is impossible–I declare it is!”

“It is the truth.”

“Who arristed yez?” asked Barney, as if still doubtful that Frank really meant what he was saying.

“A private detective, known as Burchel Jones. He surrendered me to the sheriff of Canadian County, Hank Kildare. That’s his voice you can hear above the howling. He is trying to beat the mob back, so he can get me to the jail before I am lynched.”

“Before you are lynched!” gurgled the little professor, in a dazed way. “What have you done that they should want to lynch you?”

“Nothing.”

“Pwhat do they think ye have done?” asked Barney.

“I presume you have heard of Black Harry?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they say I am that very interesting young gentleman.”

Small man though he was, Professor Scotch had a deep, hoarse voice, and he now let out a roar of disgust that drowned the stentorian tones of Hank Kildare.

“This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!” fumed the professor, in a rage. “Somebody shall suffer for it! You Black Harry! Why, it is ridiculous!”

Barney Mulloy seemed to regard it as extremely funny, for he laughed outright.

“Thot bates th’ worruld!” he cried. “But it’s dead aisy ye kin prove ye’re not Black Harry at all, at all!”

“I don’t know about that. I have been identified.”

“Pwhat’s thot?”

“I have been recognized by a person who has seen Black Harry’s face.”

“Who is that fool person?” demanded Scotch, furiously. “Show me to him, and let me give him a piece of my mind!”

“There is the person.”

Frank pointed straight at Lona Dawson, who was regarding him with horrified eyes from a distant corner of the waiting-room.

“Thot girrul?”

“The young lady?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“Miss Dawson, daughter of Robert Dawson, the banker, whom Black Harry shot during the train hold-up last night. Dawson tore the mask from the young robber’s face, and she saw it. A few moments ago she declared that I was the wretch who shot her father.”

The girl heard his words, and she started forward, panting fiercely:

“You are! You are! I will swear to it with my dying breath! I saw your face plainly last night, and I can never forget it. You are the murderous ruffian from whose face my father tore the mask!”

Professor Scotch was fairly staggered, but he quickly recovered, and swiftly said:

“My dear young lady, I assure you that you have made the greatest mistake of your life. I know this boy–I am his guardian. It is not possible that he is Black Harry, for––”

“Were you with him last night?”

“No. We were––”

“Don’t talk to me, then! Black Harry or not, he shot my father!”

“But–but–why, he would not do such a thing!”

“He did!”