“It was brought by Mr. Colvin here. He was pursued and barely reached me with his life.”
“Which I allows I would not have done but for Mr. Merriwell himself,” said Colvin. “My horse throws me unexpected, and the two galoots arter me has me down and is about to silence me some when Mr. Merriwell takes a hand.”
“Are you sure this is straight goods?” questioned Dick.
“That’s Bart’s writing,” declared Merry. “I’d know it anywhere.”
“Then there can be no mistake.”
“Certainly not. Colvin tells me that there are fifteen or more ruffians in this plot.”
“Do you believe, Frank, that it is their scheme?”
“I can’t say.”
“Perhaps this Macklyn Morgan is behind it.”
“He may be.”
“I believe he is!” cried Dick. “Somehow I am confident of it, Frank. If he detains you here in Prescott, you will lose those mines. You must get out of this place without delay.”
“It certainly looks that way. I shall do so, Dick.”
“But we must go with you.”
“Have you thought of Felicia? She is here. Some one must remain to look after her.”
“But, good gracious, Frank! I can’t stay here, knowing that you are in such difficulties. It is impossible!”
“It may seem impossible to you, Dick, but you know the peril through which Felicia has lately passed. You also know that Black Joaquin is at liberty and may find her again.”
“But can’t we take her?”
“Do you think she is prepared to endure the hardships she would be compelled to face? No, Dick, it can’t be done. You will have to stay with her.”
“I will be crazy, Frank. When I think of you pitting yourself against such odds I will literally explode.”
Dick’s cheeks were flushed and he was panting with excitement. It seemed that even then the scent of battle was in his nostrils and he longed for the fray.
“Don’t let your hot blood run away with your judgment, boy,” half smiled Merriwell. “Colvin, do you know anybody in Prescott?”
“I reckons not, sir.”
“You don’t know a man you can depend upon – a good fighter who will stick by us if paid well?”
“Nary a one, sir.”
“Then that’s not to be reckoned on.”
Merriwell frowned as he walked the floor. Of a sudden there came a sound of heavy feet outside and the door burst open. Into the room strode Brad Buckhart, color in his cheeks and fire in his eyes.
“Waugh!” he cried. “Get out your artillery and prepare for action!”
“What’s up now, Brad?” demanded Frank.
“I certain judge they’re after you in earnest,” said the Texan. “Cap’n Wiley left me to watch a fine gent named Morgan. I did the trick, and I’ll bet my shooting irons that Morgan has a warrant sworn out for you this minute, and he is on his way here with officers. They mean to jug you, pard, sure as shooting. You hear me gently murmur!”
“Then,” said Frank calmly, “it’s about time for me to make myself scarce in Prescott.”
“If you’re going, you want to get a move on,” declared Brad. “I am not a whole lot ahead of old Morgan and the officers.”
Even as he spoke there reached their ears the sound of many feet outside.
“Here they come!” said Dick.
With a leap, the Texan reached the door and pressed himself against it. A hand fell on the knob of the door, but the powerful shoulder of Buckhart prevented any one from entering. Immediately there was a heavy knock.
“Open this door!” commanded a voice.
“Who is there? and what do you want?” demanded Buckhart.
“We want Frank Merriwell. Open this door!”
“Perhaps you will wait some,” retorted Brad.
Then another voice was heard outside, and it was that of Morgan himself.
“Break down the door!” he commanded. “Merriwell is in there! Break it down!”
“Remember my instructions, Dick,” said Frank, as he coolly turned and opened a window. “Just hold this window a moment.”
On the door there fell a crashing blow.
“That’s right!” growled Buckhart, who remained immovable. “I hope you don’t damage yourself in doing it.”
Frank balanced himself on the window ledge, glancing downward.
“Remember, Dick,” he said again.
Crash, crash! fell the blows upon the door. It could not withstand such shocks, and the hinges began to break clear.
“I am good for four seconds more!” grated Brad, maintaining his position.
Frank made a light spring outward and dropped. It was more than fifteen feet to the ground, but he landed like a cat upon his feet, turned to wave his hand to Dick, and disappeared round the corner.
Dick quietly lowered the window.
“Let them in, Brad,” he said.
The Texan sprang away from the door and two men came plunging into the room as it fell. Behind them was a third, and behind him was Macklyn Morgan.
Dick faced them, his eyes flashing.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Where is Frank Merriwell?” questioned one of the officers.
“He is here! He is here!” asserted Morgan, in the doorway. “I know he is here!”
“You’re a whole lot wise,” sneered Buckhart. “You certain could have given old Solomon a few points! I admire you a great deal – not!”
“He is hiding somewhere in this room,” asserted Morgan, paying no attention to the Texan.
“If that is so, he may as well come out,” said the leading officer. “We will have him in a minute.”
“Go ahead,” said Dick, beginning to laugh. “Pull him out.”
Dick’s laughter was tantalizing, and one of the officers became enraged and threatened him.
“Why, you’re real amusing!” said Dick. “Ha! ha! ha! Oh! ha! ha! ha! Some one has a door to pay for. There is a joke on somebody here.”
“Who are you?” demanded Morgan.
Dick took a step nearer, his dark eyes fixing on the man’s face.
“Who am I? I will tell you who I am. I am Frank Merriwell’s brother.”
“His brother? I have heard of you.”
“Not for the last time, Macklyn Morgan; nor have you heard of Frank for the last time. Your plot will fizzle. Your infamous schemes will fail. You know what the plotting of your partner, Milton Sukes, brought him to. Look out, Mr. Morgan – look out for yourself!”
“Don’t you dare threaten me, you impudent young whelp!” raged Morgan.
“You will find, sir, that I dare tell you just what you are. Your money and your power do not alarm me in the least. You’re an unscrupulous scoundrel! You have trumped up a charge against my brother. He will fool you, and he will show you up, just as he did Milton Sukes. Where is Sukes now? Look out, Macklyn Morgan!”
Although usually able to command his passions and appear cold as ice, the words of this fearless, dark-eyed lad were too much for Morgan, and he lifted his clinched fist.
Quick as thought, his wrist was seized by Buckhart, who growled in his ear:
“If you ever hit my pard, you will take a trip instanter to join Milton Sukes down below!”
Then he thrust Morgan aside. In the meantime the officers had been searching the room. They opened the closet, looked under the bed, and inspected every place where a person could hide.
“You’re mistaken,” said one of them. “Your man is not here.”
“He must be!” asserted Morgan. “I know it!”
“You can see for yourself he is not here.”
“Then where is he?”
As this question fell from Morgan’s lips there was a clatter of hoofs outside. Morgan himself glanced from the window and quickly uttered a cry of baffled rage.
“There he is now!” he shouted. “There he goes on a horse! He is getting away! After him!”
“And may the Old Nick give you the luck you deserve!” laughed Dick.
Morning in the Enchanted Valley. Bart Hodge was standing in front of a newly constructed cabin. His ear was turned to listen for sounds of labor from the lower end of the valley, where a crew of men was supposed to be at work building other cabins. The valley was strangely still.
“They’re not working,” muttered Hodge, a dark frown on his face. “They have quit. What will this day bring? Oh, if Frank were only here!”
Finally, as he stood there, to his ears from far down the valley came a faint sound of hoarse voices singing.
“I know the meaning of that!” he declared. “They’re drinking. At last Bland has given them the liquor. They’re getting ready for their work.”
He turned back into the cabin, the door of which stood open. From a peg on the wall he took down a Winchester rifle and carefully examined it, making sure the magazine was filled and the weapon in perfect working order. He also looked over a brace of revolvers, which he carried ready for use.
Tossing the rifle in the hollow of his left arm, he left the cabin and turned toward the end of the valley where the men were engaged. He observed some caution in approaching that portion of the valley. At last he reached a point amid some bowlders from which he could look down into a slight hollow, where stood some half-constructed cabins upon which the men had been working.
Not one of them was at work now. They were lying around carelessly, or sitting in such shade as they could find, smoking and drinking. Several bottles were being passed from hand to hand. Already two or three of them seemed much under the influence of liquor, and one bowlegged fellow greatly amused the others by an irregular, unsteady dance, during which he kicked out first with one foot and then with the other, like a skirt dancer. At intervals some of them sang a melancholy sort of song.
“The miserable dogs!” grated Bart. “They’re ready to defy me now and carry out their treacherous plans.”
A tall man, with a black mustache and imperial, stepped among the others, saying a word now and then and seeming to be their leader.
“You’re the one, Texas Bland!” whispered Hodge. “You have led them into this!”
As he thought of this his fingers suddenly gripped the rifle, and he longed to lean over the bowlder before him, steady his aim, and send a bullet through Texas Bland. Bart was unaware that two men were approaching until they were close upon him. This compelled him, if he wished to escape observation, to draw back somewhat, and he did so. He did not crouch or make any great effort at hiding, for such a thing he disdained to do. He was not observed, however, although the men stopped within a short distance.
“Well, what do yer think o’ this game, Dug?” said one of them, who was squat and sandy.
“I reckons the boss has it all his own way, Bight,” retorted the other, a leathery-faced chap with tobacco-stained beard.
“The boss!” exclaimed Bight. “Mebbe you tells me who is the boss?”
“Why, Bland, of course,” said Dug. “He is the boss.”
“Mebbe he is, and then – mebbe again,” returned the sandy one.
“Well, we takes our orders from him.”
“Sartin; but I reckons he takes his orders from some one else.”
Bight pulled out a bottle.
“Now,” he said, “he furnished plenty o’ this. My neck is getting dry. How is yourn, Dug?”
“Ready to squeak,” returned Dug, grasping the bottle his comrade extended.
When they had lowered its contents until very little was left, Bight observed:
“I s’pose Bland he’s going to chaw up this yere chap, Hodge?”
“Sure thing,” nodded Dug. “Pretty soon he calls Hodge down yere on a pretense o’ business or something, and then he kicks up a fuss with him. He has it all fixed for several of the boys to plug him as soon as the fuss starts. That settles his hash.”
The eyes of Bart Hodge gleamed savagely.
“I wonder how he gits onter it that anything’s up?” questioned Dug. “Mebbe that sneak, Colvin, tells him.”
“Mebbe so,” nodded Bight. “Anyhow, nobody trusts Colvin none, and I opines he’d been polished off here ef he’d stayed.”
“And he’ll sartin never git very fur,” declared Dug. “Them boys arter him will sure run him down and make buzzard bait o’ him.”
Hearing this, Hodge knew for the first time that there were men in pursuit of Colvin, his messenger, who had slipped out of the valley the previous night. Colvin had sworn, if he lived, to carry the message for Frank to the nearest telegraph station and send it. But he was pursued by ruffians who meant to slay him. It was doubtful if he reached a telegraph office. If he failed, of course Merriwell would remain uninformed as to the situation in the Enchanted Valley and would not hurry about returning there.
Even if Colvin succeeded, it might be too late. Bart believed it probable that Merry was in San Diego or that vicinity, and therefore it would take him some time to reach Prescott and travel by horse from Prescott to the valley. Long before he could make such a journey the mutineers would be able to accomplish their evil design.
“Who do you s’pose is back of this yere business, Dug?” said Bight. “You thinks Bland is not behind it, does yer?”
“Dead sartin. Bland he never does this fer hisself. He wouldn’t dare. It wouldn’t do him no good.”
“Why not?”
“Because he can’t hold this yere mine and work it. Somebody locates him, and he has to evaporate, for his record counts agin’ him. Howsomever, he can jump the mine for some other gent and git paid fer doing the trick, arter which he ambles into the distance and gently disappears. This is his little game, and I will bet on it.”
“I wonders some who the gent is behind it.”
“That’s nothing much ter us as long as we gits our coin.”
“Does we git it sure?”
“You bet I gits mine. Ef I don’t, there’ll be blazes a-roaring around yere.”
“Why, you don’t buck up agin’ Bland none?” half laughed the other. “You knows better than ter do that.”
“I don’t do it by my lonesome; but if I raises a holler there is others does the same thing. But I will git my dust, all right. Don’t you worry about that.”
At this point several of the men in the vicinity of the unfinished cabins set up a wild yell of laughter. One of their number had attempted to imitate the awkward motions of the former dancer and had fallen sprawling on his stomach. Immediately after this burst of laughter the men began to sing again.
“That oughter bring this yere Hodge over this way,” said Dug, with a hoarse laugh. “Ordinarily he comes a-whooping to see what is up, and he raises thunder. He sets himself up as a boss what is to be obeyed, and I reckons so far he has had the boys jumping when he gives orders.”
“If he comes over now,” observed Bight, “he gits his medicine in a hurry. I don’t care any about shooting him up, so I am for staying away from the rest of the bunch.”
“Oh! what ails yer?” growled Dug.
“It’s murder!” said Bight.
“Well, I opines you has cooked yer man afore this?”
“Ef I ever has,” retorted Bight, “it certain was in self-defense.”
“I reckon you’re something of a squealer, pard,” sneered Dug. “You wants to git your share o’ the dust without taking no part in the danger. You tells how you raises a roar if you don’t git your coin, but what does yer do to earn it?”
“Well, I fights some when I has to,” returned Bight, rather savagely. “Mebbe you talks too much to me, Dug, and you gits yourself into some trouble.”
Bight was ugly now, and his companion involuntarily retreated a step, for the squat chap had a reputation as a fighter.
“Go slow, pard!” exclaimed Dug. “I am not a-picking trouble with you.”
“All right, all right,” nodded Bight, “Only just be a little keerful – a little keerful. Don’t think just because a gent don’t keer about shooting another gent down promiscuous-like that he is soft and easy. There’s Texas Bland out yander. He has a reputation as a bad man. Well, partner, I picks no quarrels with him, but if he stomps on my tail he gets my claws.”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Dug, in astonishment. “You ain’t a-giving it ter me that you bucks up agin’ Bland, are yer?”
“I am a-giving it ter yer that I does in case I has to. I don’t propose any ter have ter do it. I jines in with this yer move because it seems popular with the gang, and I am none anxious ter work myself. This yere is a nice bunch o’ miners, now, ain’t it? Why, the gent what hires this outfit and brings it yere had a whole lot better stick to his sailoring business! He may know how to pick out seamen, but it’s right certain he makes a mess of it when it comes to engaging miners.”
“That’s right,” agreed Dug. “And he certain is the biggest liar it ever were my pleasure to harken unto. The way he can tell things to make a galoot’s eyes bug out is a whole lot remarkable. Whither he gits his lively imagination I cannot surmise. Let’s see, whatever was his name?”
“Wiley – Cap’n Wiley he calls himself.”
“Well, however does he happen to be hiring men for this yere mine? I don’t judge any that he is interested in it.”
“Not a whole lot. The mine is owned by a gent named Merriwell, and by this yere Hodge. Them two locates it.”
“Relocates it, you mean. I onderstand it were located original by another gent what is dead now. And I reckons some that it is through this other gent’s action that the man that is back o’ this yere jumping movement is going to stake his claim to the mine. I hears one o’ the boys say that if Bland ain’t back o’ the game, it sartin is a gent with heaps o’ money – one o’ them yere money kings we hears about.”
This conversation was of no simple interest to Hodge, for, although it did not reveal the instigator of the movement, it satisfied him that the plot did not originate among the men themselves. Some enemy of Frank Merriwell must be behind it all. As Sukes was dead, it was not easy for Bart to conjecture who this new enemy was.
After a few moments more the two ruffians finished the contents of the bottle and moved slowly away. This gave Hodge an opportunity to turn back toward his cabin, and he hastened to get away from that dangerous locality.
“It’s well for me that I suspected what was up,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “Under ordinary circumstances, failing to hear the men at work and hearing their singing and shouts, I should have hastened over and demanded to know the meaning of it. As a result they would have finished me in short order. Now I am prepared for them. But what can I do? What can I do alone?”
The situation seemed desperate and hopeless.
Another fellow in Bart’s position, and realizing his desperate peril, might have lost no time in getting out of the valley. Even though he happened to be a courageous person, his judgment might have led him to pursue such a course, for certainly it seemed a wild and hopeless plan to think of remaining there alone and contending against those ruffians.
Bart, however, was an obstinate chap and one in whom fear was an emotion seldom experienced. Not that he had always been fearless, for as a boy he had sometimes felt the thrill of terror; but his iron will had conquered, and time after time he had refused to submit to the approach of the slightest timidity, until at last fear seemed banished from his heart. Now, as he hastened back to the cabin, he revolved in his mind certain thoughts in regard to the situation; but not once did he entertain the idea of leaving the valley and abandoning it to those desperadoes.
“I will stay,” he muttered. “I will stay as long as I am able to shoot. While I live they will never gain full possession of the valley. Merry left me here to guard this property, and I will do it with my life. But for Wiley’s carelessness – ”
He stopped, suddenly struck by a startling suspicion.
“Was it carelessness?” he asked himself.
An instant later he was ashamed of the suspicion, for he remembered how on other occasions he had suspected Wiley, and each time had found himself wrong.
“No, no,” murmured Hodge; “it was simply a blunder, on Wiley’s part. He remembered Merriwell’s thirty, and thought he was doing the right thing in engaging men of similar calibre. The cap’n is on the level.”
Still troubled and perplexed by his thoughts, he grew, if possible, more fixed in his determination to defend the mines single-handed. He approached the cabin, the door of which was still standing open as he left it. Hurrying in, he stopped, suddenly turned to stone as he saw sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, a human being, who was calmly smoking a long pipe.
A moment later the muzzle of Bart’s revolver covered this figure, which, however, did not stir or lift a hand. Coming, as he did, from the bright light outside into the shadows within the cabin, Hodge failed at first to note more than that the smoker who sat thus was wrapped in an old blanket. After a moment or two, however, he finally saw that he was face to face with an aged, wrinkled, leathery-skinned Indian. The little sharp eyes of the old savage were fixed steadily on Bart’s face, and he betrayed not a symptom of alarm as Hodge brought the rifle to bear upon him. With stoical calmness he deliberately pulled at his pipe.
“What in thunder are you doing here?” demanded Hodge, in astonishment.
“Ugh!” was the only reply vouchsafed.
Somehow that grunt seemed familiar. Bart had heard it before, but it simply increased his amazement. Lowering the rifle, he stared wonderingly.
“Great Scott!” he breathed. “Is it possible? Are you old Joe?”
“Heap same,” was the curt answer.
In a twinkling Bart dropped the rifle on the table and strode forward to shake the hand of an old friend.
“Old Joe Crowfoot!” he shouted. “Where under the stars did you drop from?”
“Joe he come visit. How, how!”
“Why, you amazing old Nomad!” cried Bart, in delight. “You’re always turning up just when you’re wanted the most, and if ever you were wanted it is now.”
“Frank him not here?”
“No.”
“Joe he want see Frank.”
“If that’s the case, you will have to wait a while.”
“Strong Heart he better be here,” declared the aged redskin. “Heap lot o’ trouble pretty soon.”
“That’s right, Joe. But how do you know anything about it?”
“Joe he know. Him no fool. Him find out.”
Bart had extended his hand, and now he assisted the old man to his feet. Although old Joe tried to conceal the fact, he seemed rather stiff in his joints just then.
“What’s the matter, Crowfoot?” questioned Bart. “Rheumatism troubles you again?”
“Debble got old Joe in his bones,” indignantly returned the savage. “Old Joe him no good any more. Make old Joe mad when him think he no good.”
Under other circumstances the indignation of the redskin over his infirmities might have been somewhat amusing.
“But tell me – tell me how you came to be here at this time,” questioned Hodge. “We last saw you away up in Wyoming. You said then that you’d never travel south again.”
“Heap think so then. When winter he come Joe have debble ache in his bones plenty bad. Sabe?”
“And so the rheumatism and cold weather drove you south, eh?”
“One time,” said the redskin, drawing his blanket about his shoulders with an air of dignity, “Joe him face cold and never feel um. One time him no care how cold. One time he laugh at snow and ice. Then all him bones be good. Then old Joe a heap strong to hunt. Now it ain’t the same. Once Joe him hunt the grizzly bear for game; now he hunt poker.”
In spite of himself, Bart was forced to smile. He knew something of the skill of old Joe at the white man’s game of poker, and the thought of the old Indian who had once tracked the grizzly now turned to gambling was both amusing and remarkable.
“So that is what brought you south. You turned this way to escape the cold and to find at the same time the kind of game you were after?”
“Heap so,” nodded Crowfoot, as he produced from beneath his blanket a greasy pack of cards. “I came to play some. Mebbe I find um good players here.”
“I don’t know where, Joe,” said Hodge.
“Mebbe over yon,” suggested the Indian, waving his hand toward the southern end of the valley.
“See here, Joe,” said Bart, “those men down there are my enemies. They have betrayed me. There are valuable mines in this valley, and they belong to Frank Merriwell and myself. These ruffians mean to seize them. Even now they are ready to shoot me on sight, and intend to drop Frank when he appears.”
“Heap bad,” observed Joe, without betraying the slightest emotion.
“Bad!” cried Hodge. “I should say so!”
“Too many for you, Black Eyes,” asserted the redskin. “Mebbe you pull up stake and lope?”
“Not by a blamed sight!” grated Hodge. “I will stay here and defend these mines as long as I am able to lift a weapon.”
The Indian shook his head.
“Heap young, heap young,” he declared, as if speaking to himself. “Blood hot. Joe him know. Once him blood hot.”
“Well, you don’t suppose I’d let them drive me out, do you?” indignantly demanded Hodge. “You don’t think I’d betray Frank like that! He left me here in charge of the property, and here I will remain. I want you to stick by me, Joe.”
“Ugh!” grunted the old fellow noncommittally. “Mebbe not much difference to old Joe. I may croak pretty soon now. Mebbe only make it some quicker.”
“Perhaps that’s right,” said Hodge slowly. “I have no right to ask you to lose your life in helping me fight against overwhelming odds. It’s not your quarrel, Joe. You can do as you please.”
“Joe him think it over,” said the Indian. “No like to see Frank lose um mines, but him have plenty more.”
Bart turned away, not without a feeling of disappointment. As he did so, through the still open door he caught a glimpse of a man who was advancing toward the cabin. Instantly he strode toward the door, and his eyes rested on Texas Bland, who was several rods away.
“Oh, Mr. Hodge!” Bland called at once. “I want yer ter come over yon. The men has quit work, and they refuse to strike another stroke.”
Trying to repress and conceal his indignation, Bart asked, as if wholly unsuspicious of the real situation:
“What’s the matter, Bland?”
“I dunno,” lied the scoundrel. “I can’t make ’em work; perhaps you can, sir.”
Suddenly, almost without being aware of what was happening, Bart permitted his hot indignation to get the best of his judgment. Instantly, as he stepped out of the cabin, he blazed:
“You’re lying, Bland, and I know it! I am on to the whole dastardly game! You’re at the bottom of it, too! You have incited the men to mutiny. I know your plot, you treacherous whelp! I know you meant to get me over there for the purpose of assassinating me. The end of this business will be a rope for you, Bland. Go back and tell your dogs I am onto their game. Go back and bring them here. They will meet a hot reception!”
Texas Bland had been astonished, but now, quick as a flash, he whipped out a revolver for the purpose of taking a shot at Hodge, whose hands were empty. Rapid though he was in his movements, he was not quick enough, for within the cabin sounded the loud report of a rifle, and the bullet knocked Bland’s pistol from his hand, smashing two of his fingers.