THE SUIT OF MAIL.
While waiting for the darkness to come on, Frank Reade took the
precaution to see that everything about the machine was kept in trim.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, as the shadows of night began to gather
around the Steam Horse, “I’m going to show you the way in which I
propose to dress when I go driving into that bad crowd. I had just a
few tough experiences to go through when I traveled over this ground
with the Steam Man, and on more than one occasion came near losing my
hair because I was a prominent mark for bullets and knives. I’m not
anything the less prominent now when driving my horse, but I’m well
guarded. Look.”
He lifted a beautiful suit of mail from that wonderful, all-containing
trunk of his, and held it up to view.
It was a splendidly-made piece of work, every link and part being
finished with the greatest care, and they could see at a glance that it
was bullet-proof from top to bottom.
“In this,” said Frank, throwing off part of his clothes and beginning
to put on his steel attire, “I can defy ordinary weapons, but I must
confess to you that some of the lately made rifles on the improved plan
send a bullet with such force that I should rather prefer being absent
to being brave enough for a test. Tomahawks, knives, and ordinary
bullets I laugh at, and a sword would break against my body. This,
gentlemen, is my driving suit.”
By this time he had fully covered his body and head with the
neat-fitting suit of steel.
A very flexible and finely-polished head-piece protected that portion
from any stray bullets, and his blue eyes flashed through the
cross-laced bars of his metal visor.
He seemed invincible in this suit of mail, and Barney looked proudly at
his boy friend.
“It’s a raw gossoon he may be,” said the Irishman, “but this foine
counthry will niver see the fate of him.”
“All aboard,” cried Frank. “The procession is going to start.”
Dwight and Barney hastily tumbled into the wagon.
Frank planted himself firmly on the seat and seized his reins.
The eyes of the horse, lit up by the fierce glare of the magnesium
coils, threw a brilliant glow far out upon the level plain.
Frank pulled his whistle-cord, and the Steam Horse sent forth his
shrill note of defiance.
Then the rods were pulled, and at the rate of about fifteen miles an
hour, just an easy jog for the horse, away they went.
The prairie stretched out before them as bright and green as at
noonday, for the magnesium light dispelled the gloom of night for fully
half a mile ahead of their course.
The night was clear and starlit, and a low breeze just made it pleasant
to dash over the level roadway.
Everything was working finely.
“Barney?” called Frank.
“Here I am.”
“Jump up here and take hold of these ribbons, while I arrange
everything for my surprise party. Just keep him as he is, and look
sharp enough to steer clear of everything in the road.”
“I moind,” said Barney, taking the reins from Frank’s hand.
The genius slowly got down from his perch, for the suit of mail
prevented him from making any very lively motions; and when he reached
the bottom of the wagon he picked up a small china knob having a piece
of wire attached to it.
This he handed to Jared Dwight.
“Take this,” he said, “and when I give you the word, I want you to pull
hard on the knob. You can drop it just as soon as you pull.”
“All right,” said the avenger, and took the knob in his hand.
Frank then passed his hand over the upper portion of the frame of the
body, as if reaching for some particular parts, for his fingers rested
awhile at regular intervals, during which time Dwight vainly endeavored
to see what he was doing.
“All right,” said Frank. “Don’t forget your pull when you hear the
word.”
“You can trust me,” said Dwight.
“Now, tumble down, old boy,” said the young leader to Barney, as he
climbed up into the seat once more, “we will soon be in a dangerous
locality.”
Barney handed him the reins, and then dropped over the seat to the
bottom, by the side of the gloomy Dwight.
Frank looked out ahead.
In the far-reaching light of the brilliant magnesium coils he could see
the mixed band of prairie banditti lying in a big half moon around the
mouth of the awful trap, into which they had driven their prey.
Even as he had looked they began moving, for the bright light startled
them greatly.
Then Frank pulled his reins, and at a swift rate closed in upon them as
they tumbled up from the ground in sudden alarm.
A great united chorus of shouts, shrieks, and yells went up to the sky
as the steed, with blazing eyes, rushed over the plains with rapid
strides.
“Pull!” cried Frank.
Jared Dwight heard the order, and he drew the china knob with a hard
jerk.
From a dozen different points of the huge iron railing, running around
the top of the body, sprang up bright jets of chemical fire--red, blue,
green, orange and other colors--seeming to issue from little tubes set
at regular distances all around the rail.
This variously-colored fire streamed up in a brilliant series of
columns, casting a wonderful and beautiful light upon the steel-clad
form of the boy-driver who guided the rapid motions of the Steam Horse.
Yells of terror from the red men, and shouts of wonder from the white
ones, now filled the air, and then something took place that Frank
Reade had not reckoned upon.
The bandits, terrified and demoralized by the flaming advent of Frank
Reade and his Steam Horse, turned from the brightly flaming wagon and
dashed towards the mouth of the pass.
The emigrants lay there on guard, for they were ready to battle their
lives away in defense of their dear ones, and when the frightened
mass of men mounted and on foot rushed madly towards them their ready
weapons flashed brightly in the light of Frank’s chemical fires.
A deep-toned voice, the voice of a man born to be a leader, rang out
clear and thrilling above the din:
“Fire!”
Crash!
The thundering voices of a score of rifles spoke out sharply and the
answering yells of pain told that many a bullet had found a living mark.
Frank chased them up when he saw the turn affairs had taken, and thus
they were forced to continue on in their desperate charge up the pass.
The emigrants stood firm, and in less than a moment the two parties
came together with an obstinate crash.
Immediately the affair resolved itself into a hand-to-hand fight of the
most fierce and desperate character, for the bandits were running away
from some hobgoblin of terror, and the travelers of the plains were
defending their dear ones with noble hearts.
Frank shut off steam.
The horse went a few rods further and then stopped and there stood like
some prairie-monster, looking upon the battle with his brilliant eyes.
A dark form leaped over the blazing line of lights that streamed up in
parti-colored splendor from the rail.
It was the avenger.
With a yell of furious joy, he sprang into the thickest of the fray,
seeming to court death in his reckless manner of fighting.
“Hooroo!” shrieked Barney Shea, and with a bound the brave fellow went
over after Dwight.
“Worra-worra!” he shouted, smashing a big Indian over the head with his
heavy shillaleh, and laying the red-skin out in the neatest possible
style, “I’m here, and I mane that yez shall know the same, ma bouchals.
Aha, friend top-knot, be me sowl, I’ve not seen ye since last summer;
bedad, so take this schmall wee favor, with me compliments.”
And then another red-skin got the headache in no time, for, while
talking and shouting and hopping around like a merry grasshopper, he
was putting in big clips, and getting some neat ones in return too.
Frank kept his seat on the box, and with the most lively delight
watched the battle before his eyes.
Ah, it was a grand sight to watch those contending blades and weapons
rising and falling, flashing and clashing in the lurid glare, and the
blood went like some mountain torrent through every vein as he gazed
upon the swaying and writhing forms of the deadly foes thus engaged in
mortal strife.
The light glancing over the bright parts of his mailed suit made him a
prominent mark, as Frank well knew.
Ping, ping!
Two bullets spatted up against his breast, and then fell flattened,
from the armor to the ground.
Frank shuddered.
“Without my suit I’d have been a goner that time,” he muttered. “I
wonder if I was aimed at?”
He looked at the wildly struggling horde of men before him.
He caught a glimpse of several wicked eyes.
They gleamed out of white faces, and the boy knew that they were more
to be feared than his Indian foes.
He pulled a pair of revolvers from his belt.
Back went the hammers.
His long arms shot out; the polished barrels of the weapons flashed
crimson bright in the chemical light; his steady fingers pulled the
triggers.
Crack, crack! two whip-like reports rang out.
Shrieks of mortal agony went up, and Frank cried:
“A hit, a double hit.”
And then three gleaming rifle barrels were pointed at him from the
midst of the combatants, the muzzles frowning darkly upon him.
Frank saw them.
He smiled to himself.
“Fire!” he cried, scornfully.
Together the reports rang out.
With a loud cry Frank Reade leaped from his seat.
For a moment he tottered on the steps, and then fell heavily from the
box to the floor of the wagon.