THE MESSAGE RECOVERED.
Frank had heard of him, a Spanish refugee and outcast, a man of noble
family, who had sacrificed himself and his fortune for what he firmly
believed was right and justice.
“Count De Saravia!” exclaimed Frank.
“Yes,” said the man.
Then he told them much of his story, and Felicia, who had known nothing
of it herself, sat and listened in wondering silence. But what the
count told did not clear up the mystery that puzzled Frank.
After the supper was over, they returned to the living-room, where
Merry opened the piano and played. Little Felicia sang for them, and
finally she crept into her father’s arms and fell asleep. He carried
her off to bed, and Merry and Bart turned and faced each other.
“Well?” said Hodge.
“Strange,” said Merry. “But the haze remains as deep as ever.”
“Deeper, if anything.”
“I feel like getting some air,” said Frank.
Hodge would have accompanied him when he rose to go out, but instinct
told Bart that Merry chose to be alone.
Frank passed along the deep wood path till he came to the open. The
moon had risen in the east, and was shedding its silver radiance into
Pleasant Valley. The little lake lay with a shimmering path of silver
moonshine across it.
The scene was calm and peaceful enough. Frank stood on the edge of the
shadowy woods and gazed upon the quiet valley. From far, far away came
the cry of some prowling wild beast, but that was the only sound to
break the calm of the peaceful night.
“She said the graves were up this way,” Frank murmured. “I will see if
I can find them.”
After a time he came upon them. They were not far apart, with a great
tree rising near at hand. One had a granite stone at its head, and on
the stone had been crudely chiseled the name “Lucy.”
Frank knew that was the grave of Felicia’s mother. The other grave had
been lately made, and no stone rose above it.
“My father rests here!” murmured Frank, as he knelt beside that mound.
For some minutes he remained there, tears starting from his eyes and
trickling slowly down his cheeks.
“Poor father!” came softly from his lips. “You never knew what real
peace and happiness meant. Yours was a wild, strange life, and it
seems fitting that you should die as you did. But, oh, what would I not
have given to have been at your side! Perhaps I could have comforted
you. To-morrow I will bring flowers and place upon this mound. A stone
shall be erected, and here, dear father, you will sleep your long, last
sleep. At last you have found the peace and rest that was denied you in
life. God knows what is best, and He doeth all things well.”
When he turned away he felt in no mood to return to the cabin at once,
so he wandered down toward the shimmering lake, which seemed calling to
him in the soft whispers of passing breezes. As he approached the lake,
he passed beneath some wide-spreading trees, which gave a deep shadow.
Suddenly his attention was attracted by a moving object on the bosom of
the lake. He paused and gazed, and the moonlight showed to him a canoe
that seemed to be occupied by two persons. It was approaching the side
of the lake on which Merry stood, and he could see the dripping paddle
flash and shine in the moonlight.
Not a sound came from the canoe. There was no movement of either
figure, save the swinging arms of the one in the stern, who plied the
paddle.
Merriwell drew a little nearer to the shore, shielding himself
carefully and waiting. When the canoe was close in, he decided that it
must contain the old Indian, Joe Crowfoot, and the strange boy.
Barely had the craft touched the shore when out from places of
concealment leaped two men and flung themselves on the Indian and the
boy. One of the men clutched the boy, who fought like a tiger-cat.
The other ruffian gave his attention to the old Indian, who whipped out
a knife and met his attack. The man fired a shot, but the Indian closed
in swiftly, as if not touched, and this forced the assailant to drop
his revolver and bring forth a knife.
Then a deadly and terrible battle took place there on the shore of Lake
Sunshine. The knives were heard to strike and grate together as the
foes met, hand to hand and face to face.
It fascinated Merriwell, and, for the instant, he paused to stare at
the spectacle. He saw the Indian’s assailant was almost a giant, and a
startling thought flashed through his mind:
“It’s Gunnison Bill! I did not kill him, after all!”
“Now, redskin, I’m goin’ ter carve yer up! I’ll just rip yer inter
ribbons in a minute!”
The voice was that of the big ruffian, and then Merry knew beyond a
doubt that the man was Gunnison Bill.
A cry came from the lips of the boy, arousing Frank from the strange
lethargy that seemed to have seized him. Without a sound, the young
athlete leaped toward the spot where the boy was doing his best in the
struggle with the man who had clutched him.
“I think I’ll take a hand here!” exclaimed Merry, as he sprang upon the
man.
It was the companion of Gunnison Bill, who had escaped on Frank’s
mustang.
Startled by Merry’s sudden appearance, the fellow whirled about, trying
to fling the boy aside. The moonlight fell full on his face.
“Anton Mescal!” cried Merriwell exultantly. “At last I have found you!”
“Frank Merriwell!” gasped Mescal, for it was the scoundrel who had
snatched the message from Merry in the New York hotel.
“Yes!” shouted Merry, as he fastened his hands upon the fellow. “I
believed fate would bring us together here! Now I shall recover the
message you stole from me!”
“Never! You’ll have to kill me first!”
“Then I shall kill you!” came the cold, hard words from Frank’s lips.
“Bill! Bill!” cried Mescal. “Help, Bill!”
“Bill is having his hands full,” said Merry. “Old Joe Crowfoot is
attending to him.”
“He can kill that old dog in a minute!”
“Perhaps, but Old Joe may get in a few licks while he is doing it.”
A fierce struggle between Frank and Mescal ensued. Mescal was no match
for the young athlete, but he felt that he was fighting for all that he
desired and held dear, so he put up a stiff struggle for a while. At
last Merry forced the fellow to his knees, fastening a clutch on his
throat.
“Give up?”
“Curse you--no!” hoarsely breathed Mescal.
Merry’s fingers shut off the man’s wind, and it seemed that the bones
cracked beneath that pressure. Still the desperado fought to the last,
though he gradually grew weaker and weaker.
Merry choked the man into insensibility. Having done this, he began
to search his clothes for the message. In course of time he found it,
within an inner pocket. Frank opened it and looked at it by the aid of
the moonlight.
“Thank Heaven!” he said. “I have it again! This is the message my
father wrote and sent to me.”
He had been so absorbed that he was quite unaware of anything else that
was taking place. Now, having thrust the message into his pocket, he
rose and looked around.
To his amazement, the canoe, containing the old Indian and the boy,
was gliding swiftly away over the lake, while on the shore lay the
bleeding body of Gunnison Bill. In the knife duel the ruffian had
met more than his match in Old Joe, who had ended the career of the
desperado. Gunnison Bill’s life of evil-doing was over.
Frank called to the Indian and the boy, urging them to return, saying
he was a friend; but they paid not the least heed, and the canoe kept
on till it melted into the shadow along a distant shore.
Anton Mescal lay quite still on the shore, and Frank feared he had
killed the fellow. On kneeling by the side of the scoundrel and feeling
for his heart-beats, Merry found that life remained in Mescal’s body.
“He’ll recover,” Merry decided. “I think I’ll truss him up.”
So he lifted Mescal and carried him up the bank to a large tree. The
unconscious villain was placed in a sitting position on the ground,
with his back against the tree, after which Merry stripped up the man’s
coat and bound him in that position.
Having disposed of Mescal thus, Frank hastened back toward the cabin
home of Delores. On the way he met Hodge.
“I thought I heard a shot,” said Bart. “Didn’t know but you were in
trouble, and that brought me out hot-foot.”
Hodge was ready for anything.
“You did hear a shot,” said Frank. “It was fired by Gunnison Bill.”
“Gunnison Bill? Why, he’s dead!”
“You are right; he is dead now; but we did not leave him dead in the
timber over yonder, as we fancied.”
“Didn’t? What has happened, Merry? Tell me as quick as you can.”
But Bart could scarcely believe the story Frank had to tell.
“You met Mescal there?” he exclaimed joyously; “and you have the
message?”
“Safe in my pocket,” said Frank. “I shall read it to-night.”
“I told Delores I would go out and see what the shot meant. He remained
to guard Felicia. Let’s return and let him know there is no danger.”
So they went to the cabin, where they found Delores waiting, rifle in
hand, for anything that might occur. When he heard Merry’s story he was
even more excited than Bart.
“Mescal out there?” he panted. “Dat man must not git away! Take me to
dat man! He know my secret, an’ he be my enemy!”
It was not without serious misgivings that Merry led the way to the
spot where the struggle had taken place on the shore of the lake. He
found an opportunity to whisper to Bart:
“Watch him! We can’t stand by and see him murder Mescal, no matter what
Mescal may have done.”
But when they came to the tree where Frank had bound Mescal, they found
the man had recovered, broken his bonds, and escaped.
Delores was like a hound on the scent, and he followed the trail till
it ran into a piece of timber, where it was lost for the time.
“But I’ll take it up in da morning!” declared the refugee. “He must
make da fast track if he get away.”
The body of Gunnison Bill they buried that night not far from where he
fell.
And then, with Bart in the room where they were to sleep, Frank
Merriwell brought forth and read the strange and startling message sent
him by his dying father.