FRANK’S ADVENTURES.
Frank had had some exciting adventures since we last saw him, and had
witnessed scenes that it was not probable he would soon forget. We
left him standing face to face with one of his pursuers, whose gun was
at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, and the muzzle of the
weapon pointing straight at Frank’s breast. The chances of escape from
such a situation were small indeed. True, Frank’s revolver was safe in
his pocket, and he was too sure a shot to miss so large a mark as the
Mexican at that distance; but he knew, from the next words his enemy
spoke, that any attempt on his part to draw the weapon, would be the
signal for his death.
“Put your hands above your head,” commanded the Ranchero, sternly.
“Now, if you move an eyelid, I will send a ball through you.”
The very appearance of the man was enough to convince Frank that he
would not hesitate to carry his threat into execution, should occasion
require it; but, large and strong as he was, and savage as he looked,
he was afraid of his captive, and had no intention of approaching
nearer to him until he had put it out of his power to do any mischief.
Keeping his eyes fastened upon Frank, and holding his gun in position
with one hand, he uncoiled with the other a lasso which hung over his
shoulder. The prisoner began to tremble in every limb. He understood
the meaning of this movement, and told himself that there would be a
desperate fight in those bushes before the Mexican should use that
lariat on him. He did not intend to allow himself to be strangled half
to death if he could prevent it. Having already had some experience in
that line, he did not care to have it repeated.
“Look here!” said he, when the Ranchero, after coiling a portion of
the lasso in his hand, began swinging it around his head; “don’t
attempt that.”
“Stand where you are!” exclaimed the Mexican.
“I haven’t moved an inch, and I have no desire to do so, as long as
you keep that gun pointed at me. But you sha’n’t put that lasso around
my neck; you may depend upon that.”
The Ranchero was evidently astonished. Here was a fellow, who
acknowledged himself a prisoner, and yet had the audacity to tell his
captor what he should do, and what he should not do. The tones of
Frank’s voice, his attitude, and the expression of his countenance,
all bore evidence to the fact that he was quite in earnest; and the
Mexican seemed to be in no hurry to come to close quarters with him.
The hand in which he held the lasso fell to his side, and he stood
looking at his captive, measuring him with his eye, and trying to
decide upon some course of action.
Frank was no stranger to the Ranchero. The latter had often seen him,
and he had heard of him, too. He knew the particulars of some of his
exploits, and he had a wholesome respect for him. A boy who had
courage enough to keep a secret with death staring him in the face,
and who, after being nearly strangled, could fight with the
desperation which Frank had exhibited in his encounter with Pierre
Costello, was not one to be approached with impunity. The Mexican had
never taken the trouble to look closely at him before, and now he was
astonished to discover what a powerful young fellow he was. Although
he was not quite seventeen years old, he stood five feet nine inches
in his stockings; and the violent sports and exercises to which he had
been accustomed from his earliest boyhood, had developed his muscles
until they were as large as those of a blacksmith. He looked like a
young Hercules as he stood there, drawn up to his full height, his
arms extended above his head, his hands clenched, and his fingers
moving nervously, as though they were aching to take the Ranchero by
the throat.
“Hadn’t you better make up your mind what you are going to do about
it?” asked Frank, who was beginning to get impatient. “You might as
well put up that lasso, for you shall never catch me with it.”
“Stand where you are!” repeated the Mexican.
These words were addressed, not to the prisoner, but to the empty air.
The spot on which Frank had been standing was vacant, and he had
disappeared from the view of his captor as completely as though he had
never been in the woods at all. While the Ranchero was looking at
Frank, the latter was narrowly watching the Ranchero. He kept his eyes
fastened upon the gun, and finally he saw the muzzle turned a little
aside, so that it no longer pointed at his breast. That was enough for
Frank, who now repeated the trick he had tried with so much success
upon Don Carlos. Gathering all his strength for the effort, he made
two or three tremendous bounds, and vanished.
Like an inexperienced young sportsman, who, seeing a flock of quails
suddenly arise from the bushes at his very feet, stands gazing after
them with open mouth, too astonished to think of the gun he holds in
his hand, so stood the Ranchero. There was something almost magical
in the escape of his prisoner. It was so sudden and unexpected! There
he was, holding a loaded gun in one hand, a lasso in the other, and
standing almost within reach of his prize; and yet he had effectually
eluded him.
“Santa Maria!” yelled the Ranchero, arousing himself as if from a
sound sleep. “Stop, or I fire!”
“Whoop!” yelled another voice. “Hooray fur the boy that fit that ar’
robber! Put in your best licks, youngster, fur the timber’s full of
the varlets.”
How Frank’s heart bounded at the tones of that familiar voice! Friends
had been near him all the while, and he had not been aware of it. He
could not, however, waste much time in thinking about the trapper. He
had imagined that his escape from the Ranchero had placed him beyond
the reach of danger for the present, but now he found that he was
running straight into it. There were other persons in the woods, of
whose presence he had been ignorant, and now they began to show
themselves. The trapper’s wild Indian yell was answered by an order
shouted in Spanish; and then was presented a scene that reminded
Frank of some passages in one of his favorite books--Sir Walter
Scott’s “Lady of the Lake.” When the outlaw and King James were
conversing, and the latter expressed a desire to see the rebel
chieftain and his band, Roderick gave one shrill whistle, and--
“Instant, through heath and copse, arose
Bonnets and spears and bended bows.
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprung up at once the lurking foe.
From shingles gray their lances start;
The bracken bush sends forth the dart;
The rushes and the willow wand
Are bristling into ax and brand;
And every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior, armed for strife.”
In short, the Scottish braves sprung into view in a way that was
utterly bewildering, and so did the men who had been creeping up
through the bushes while Frank was parleying with his captor. The
fugitive had never seen so many Mexicans together before, and it was a
mystery where they all came from. It seemed to him that every bush and
tree within the range of his vision, was turning into a villainous
looking Ranchero. They arose on all sides, and with loud yells rushed
forward intent upon capturing Frank alive and unharmed. Not a shot was
fired at him, but the trapper was a target for a dozen rifles and
pistols; and some of the bullets, that were intended for him, whistled
through the bushes uncomfortably near to Frank’s head. If Archie had
been in his cousin’s place just then, he would have smelt powder to
his heart’s content.
Frank’s first impulse was to stop and surrender himself a prisoner;
but a rapid glance around showed him that one portion of the woods was
still left open to him. Toward this he dashed with the speed of a
frightened deer--paying no heed to the loud commands to halt that were
shouted after him, but trembling in every limb when he heard the
lassos of his pursuers whistling through the air--and in less time
than it takes to tell it, he had once more distanced the fleetest of
the herdsmen. In ten minutes not one of them was to be seen or heard.
The reports of the firearms had ceased, the shouts had died away in
the distance, and the woods were as silent as midnight.
Frank was now rapidly nearing the creek--the only barrier that stood
between him and his home. Once safe on the opposite shore, and his
escape was assured. The five miles that lay between the creek and his
uncle’s rancho, were no obstacle to such a runner as he had proved
himself to be. He reached the bank at last, and, without stopping to
reconnoiter the ground before him, dashed through the bushes at the
top of his speed, and plunged into the water. His movements were so
rapid that the Rancheros, who were concealed in the bushes awaiting
his approach, did not have time to seize him as he passed; but their
lassos were longer than their arms, and before the fugitive had made
half a dozen strokes, one of these dreaded weapons flew through the
air, and the noose settled around his neck. He tried to avoid the
danger by diving under the water; but it was too late. The lariat was
tightened up with a jerk, and he was pulled back to the shore, gasping
for breath, and struggling desperately.
“Here you are again, Fifty-Thousand-Dollars,” exclaimed a familiar
voice; and the instant Frank touched the bank, a stalwart Mexican,
whom he recognized as the one from whom he had escaped a short time
before, threw himself upon him and held him fast; two more bound him
hand and foot; while a fourth searched all his pockets, and took
possession of his revolver. Of course he was easily overpowered, but
it was only after a furious and determined resistance.
The Rancheros were very jubilant over their success. They danced about
their captive like so many savages; and when one seized him by the
collar and jerked him to his feet, the others set up a loud shout of
triumph. Then they held a hurried consultation in their native tongue,
and the prisoner understood enough of what was said to know that they
were talking about the money they expected to receive when they
delivered Frank into the hands of Don Carlos. They seemed to be afraid
that they might be called upon to divide the reward with some of their
companions; and, in order to avoid that, they told one another that
they would take their captive to the rancho by some round-about way.
No sooner was this plan agreed upon, than the Mexicans proceeded to
carry it out. Two of them seized Frank by the arms and hurried him
into the woods, dragging him roughly over fallen logs, and through
thick bushes, which tore his clothing and scratched him severely.
“Now, see here,” he exclaimed, when he thought he could no longer
endure their harsh treatment; “if you will untie my feet, so that I
can walk, you will save yourselves and me a great deal of trouble.”
The Mexicans were deaf to his words. They did not mind the trouble in
the least. Their prisoner was worth a fortune to them; and having seen
him make two remarkable escapes that night, they did not intend to
give him an opportunity to make another.
If they hoped to reach the rancho without meeting any of their
companions, they were destined to be disappointed; for, when they
arrived at the edge of the prairie where they had left their horses,
they were joined by three more of the Don’s band, who, upon
discovering Frank again in confinement, set up a terrific yell.
“No more herding cattle or stealing horses for me,” cried one of the
new-comers. “I am off for Frisco this very night.”
“You can go now, for all we care,” growled one of the men, who was
holding Frank by the collar.
“Yes, but I want my share of the reward first.”
“It’s little of the reward you’ll get. Must we do all the work, risk
all the danger, and then share our hard earnings with you who have
kept yourselves out of harm’s way? Not if we know ourselves.”
This was the beginning of an angry altercation, which did not continue
more than a minute before the disputants came to blows. Frank’s
captors insisted that no one but themselves should touch a cent of the
money; and the new-comers declared that if they did not agree to
divide, they should never take their prisoner to the rancho. As the
debate progressed, the Mexicans began to grow angry. Their voices rose
higher and higher; they flourished their arms in the air, and shook
their clenched hands in one another’s faces; and finally one of them
drew his knife and emphasized his words by making a savage thrust at
the man nearest him. That brought the discussion to a close at once;
and an instant afterward Frank was standing there, the solitary
spectator of the most thrilling scene he had ever witnessed in his
life--a furious hand-to-hand conflict among the Rancheros.
The rapidity with which this state of affairs had been brought about
was astonishing. One moment the Mexicans were all standing erect,
engaged in an angry war of words; the next, they were rolling about on
the ground, struggling madly with each other, pistol balls were flying
about, reeking knife-blades flashing in the air, and the woods were
echoing with cries of pain and shouts of anger. Frank stood
speechless, almost breathless, and unable to move hand or foot. He was
in danger of being knocked down by some of the struggling men, and of
being struck by the bullets which whistled about so recklessly; but he
could not get out of the way. He never once thought of his own peril,
for he was too horrified at what was going on before him to think of
any thing. He was the cause of all this trouble. The herdsmen were
destroying one another to secure possession of the reward that had
been offered for him.
The fight, desperate as it was, did not long continue. It seemed to
Frank that it had scarcely begun before it was over. His captors came
off victorious, but there were not many of them left to rejoice over
their success--only a single man, who, as he arose from the body of
his late antagonist, first looked toward his prisoner, to satisfy
himself that he was safe, and then coolly ran his eye over the
prostrate forms around him. Frank expected to see him manifest some
regret at the fate of his companions, but he did nothing of the kind.
He did not even take the trouble to see if any of them were still
alive. He wiped his knife on a bunch of leaves which he pulled from a
neighboring bush, and then hurried toward the horses, which were tied
to the trees in the edge of the woods. Mounting his own horse, he rode
up beside his prisoner, and, seizing him by the collar, pulled him up
in front of him, and laid him across the horn of his saddle, as if
Frank had been a bag of corn, and he was about to start off to mill
with him. Then he spoke for the first time since the fight, and Frank
knew why it was that he felt no regret at the death of his companions.
“The reward is mine,” said he, with a chuckle. “I have no one to
divide with now.”
He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and set off at a
rapid gallop toward the rancho, which was in plain sight, and not more
than a quarter of a mile distant. Frank turned his eyes toward its
gloomy walls, and wondered what sort of a reception he would meet with
when he arrived there. It was not likely that the Don would greet him
as kindly as he had done before--that he would conduct him into the
house with ceremony, and ask him to make himself comfortable until
supper time. Perhaps, in his rage, the old Spaniard would dispatch him
at once. Frank was prepared for the worst; but he would have submitted
to his fate with much better grace, if his hands and feet had been
unbound for one moment, so that he could have made just one more
attempt at escape.
“It’s of no use for you to kick about so,” said the Ranchero, as Frank
began struggling with his bonds. “You’re as safe now as though you
were locked up in one of Don Carlos’ dungeons.”
The Mexican was a good deal surprised at the reply his prisoner made.
Frank had turned his head, and was looking back toward the woods, as
if he half expected to see help coming from that direction, and he had
discovered a tall figure in buckskin standing in the bushes. A moment
afterward a long rifle was leveled, and Frank thought that the muzzle
was pointed straight at his head. That occasioned him no uneasiness,
however, for he knew that Dick Lewis’s eagle eye was glancing along
the weapon, and that its contents would do no harm to him.
“Did you ever see that fine horse of mine--the one you fellows stole
from me?” asked Frank. “Well, I will stake him against the worthless
animal you are riding, that you don’t take me to Don Carlos.”
“Eh!” exclaimed the Ranchero, facing quickly about in his saddle, and
gazing back at the woods.
That move was all that saved his life. Just then a sheet of flame shot
out from the bushes, and the bullet came humming through the air; but
instead of finding a lodgment in the body of the Mexican, it was
buried in the brain of the horse, which dropped dead in his tracks,
dashing the Ranchero and his prisoner violently to the ground.
Frank, stunned by the fall, and blinded by the blood which flowed
freely from a wound on his forehead, could not have told what had
happened. He lay motionless for a moment, and then, after a few
ineffectual attempts, succeeded in raising himself to a sitting
posture, and began to look around for his enemy. He saw him seated on
the ground at a little distance, holding both hands to his head, and
gazing about him with a bewildered air, as if he had not quite made up
his mind how he had come to be unhorsed so suddenly. But he was not
long in comprehending the matter. Glancing toward the trapper, who was
approaching with long strides, and then toward his prisoner, he
whipped out the knife which had done him such good service in his
recent battle.
“Santa Maria!” he shouted.
That was all he said then, but his actions supplied the place of
words, and indicated the desperate resolve he had formed. He jumped to
his feet and rushed toward Frank, with his knife uplifted ready to
strike.
“Whoop! Bars an’ buffaler! Stop thar, you tarnal Greaser!” cried the
trapper. “If you touch that youngster with that we’pon, I’ll raise
your har fur you.”
The Mexican paid no heed to the warning. He came on as fiercely as
ever, and Frank, unable to lift a finger in his own defense, sat there
on the ground and watched those two frantic men who were racing toward
him--one intent on taking his life, the other on saving it. Which
would reach him first? The Mexican was the nearer to him, but the
fleet-footed trapper was getting over the ground at the rate of ten
feet to his one. If Dick’s rifle had been loaded, Frank would have had
no fears as to the result; but the trusty old weapon was empty, and
his friend might approach within reach of him, and still be unable to
prevent the Mexican from accomplishing his purpose.
“There are fifty thousand dollars wrapped up in your hide,” hissed
the Ranchero, “and if I don’t get it nobody shall.”
A few hurried steps brought him to Frank’s side, and, uttering a yell
of triumph, he seized him by the throat, and threw him backward upon
the ground. Frank saw him shake the knife at the trapper, and when it
was raised above his breast, he closed his eyes that he might not see
it when it descended. But the knife never touched him. Something fell
heavily upon him, and when he opened his eyes he saw the Mexican lying
motionless by his side, and Dick Lewis bending over him.
The trapper’s tomahawk, thrown with unerring aim, had saved Frank’s
life.