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!"
It seemed that nothing could shake her belief.
"Av yez plaze, miss," said Barney, lifting his hat, and bowing politely,
"it's thot same b'y Oi have known a long toime. Oi went ter school with
thot lad, an' a whoiter b'y nivver drew a breath. He'd foight fer ye
till he died, av he didn't git killed, an' it's nivver would he shoot
anybody at all, at all, onless it wur in silf-definse. Oi give ye me
wurrud thot is th' truth, th' whole truth, an' nothing but th' truth."
The girl was unmoved.
"I have sworn to avenge my poor father!" she declared. "He shall not
escape!"
"It is useless to talk here," said Frank. "She believes she is right,
and her mind will not be changed till she sees the real Black Harry at
my side. It must be that the fellow is my double, and so my life will be
in peril till he is captured, and meets his just deserts. From this time
on for me it is a fight for life and honor."