Читать книгу: «Frank Merriwell's Triumph: or, The Disappearance of Felicia», страница 6

The shadows of evening were thickening in the mountain when Merry and his companion passed from the valley and reached the abrupt foothills. Here the trail was more clearly defined, and soon they were startled to see standing beside it an aged Indian, who regarded them with the stony gaze of the Sphinx. Dulzura drew up and asked the Indian in Spanish if the San Monica Mission was near. The reply was that it was less than half a mile in advance.

They came to it, sitting on a little plateau, silent and sad in the purple twilight. It was worn and battered by the storms of years. On its ancient tower the cross stood tremblingly. A great crack showed in its wall, running from base to apex. In the dark opening of the tower a huge bell hung, silent and soundless.

Merry drew up and sat regarding the ancient pile in almost speechless awe and reverence. It was a monument of other days in that sunny land. Here, long before the coming of the gold seekers, the Spanish priest had taught the Indian to bow his knee to the one true God. Here they had lived their calm and peaceful lives, which were devoted to the holy cause.

“Come,” urged Dulzura, “let’s get a peep within ere it becomes quite dark. There must be an Indian village somewhere near, and there, after looking into the mission, we may find accommodations.”

Frank did not say that he was doubtful if such accommodations as they might find in an Indian village could satisfy him; but he followed his companion to the stone gate of the old mission, where Dulzura hastily dismounted. Even as Frank sprang from his horse he saw a dark figure slowly and sedately approaching the gate. It proved to be a bare-headed old monk in brown robes, who supported his trembling limbs with a short, stout staff.

Dulzura saluted the aged guardian of the mission in a manner of mingled worship and respect.

“What do ye here, my son?” asked the father, in a voice no less unsteady than his aged limbs.

“We have come, father, to see the mission,” answered the Spaniard. “We have journeyed for that purpose.”

“It’s now too late, my son, to see it to-night. On the morrow I will take you through it.”

“You live here alone, father?”

“All alone since the passing of Father Junipero,” was the sad answer, as the aged monk made the sign of the cross.

Frank was deeply touched by the melancholy in the old man’s voice and in the lonely life he led there in the ruined mission.

“What is the mission’s income?” questioned Merry.

“Our lands are gone. We have very little,” was the reply. “Still Father Perez has promised to join me, and I have been looking for him. When I heard your horse approaching I thought it might be he. It was but another disappointment. Still, it matters not.”

“Let us take a peep inside,” urged Dulzura. “Just one peep to-night, father.”

“You can see nothing but shadows, my son; but you shall look, if you wish.”

He turned and moved slowly along the path, aided by the staff. They followed him through the gate and into the long stone corridor, where even then the twilight was thick with shadows. In the yard the foliage grew luxuriantly, but in sad neglect and much need of trimming and attention.

At the mission door they paused.

“Let’s go in,” urged Dulzura.

“To-morrow will be time enough,” answered Frank, a sudden sensation of uneasiness and apprehension upon him.

At this refusal Dulzura uttered a sudden low exclamation and took a swift step as if to pass Merry. Frank instantly turned in such a manner that he placed his back against the wall, with the door on his left and the old monk close at hand at his right.

Suddenly, from beyond the shadows of the foliage in the yard, dark forms sprang up and came bounding into the corridor. Out from the door rushed another figure. Dulzura uttered a cry in Spanish and pointed at Frank. They leaped toward him.

Merry’s hand dropped toward the holster on his hip, but with a gasp he discovered that it was empty. Instead of grasping the butt of his pistol, he found no weapon there with which to defend himself.

For all of the shadows he saw the glint of steel in the hands of those men as they leaped toward him, and he knew his life was in frightful peril.

How his pistol had escaped from the holster, whether it had slipped out by accident, or had in some inexplicable manner been removed by human hands, Frank could not say. It was gone, however, and he seemed defenseless against his murderous assailants.

In times of danger Frank’s brain moved swiftly, and on this occasion it did not fail him. With one sudden side-step, he snatched from the old monk’s hand the heavy staff. With a swift blow from this he was barely in time to send the nearest assailant reeling backward. The others did not pause, and during the next few moments Frank was given the liveliest battle of his career.

“Cut him down! Cut him down!” cried Dulzura, in Spanish.

They responded by making every effort to sink their knives in Frank. They were wiry, catlike little men, and in the gloom their eyes seemed to gleam fiercely, while their lips curled back from their white teeth.

Merriwell’s skill as a swordsman stood him in good stead now. He took care not to be driven against the wall. He whirled, and cut, and struck in every direction, seeking ample room for evolutions. He knew full well that to be pressed close against the wall would put him at a disadvantage, for then he would not have room for his leaps, and swings, and thrusts, and jabs.

The fighting American bewildered and astounded them. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. When one leaped at him from behind to sink a knife between his shoulders Frank suddenly whirled like lightning and smote the fellow across the wrist, sending the steel flying from his fingers to clang upon the stones. The old monk lifted his trembling hands in prayer and tottered away. What had happened seemed to him most astounding and appalling.

“Come on, you dogs!” rang Frank’s clear voice. “Come on yourself, Felipe Dulzura, you treacherous cur! Why do you keep out of reach and urge your little beasts on?”

The Spaniard uttered an oath in his own language.

“Close in! Close in!” he directed. “Press him from all sides! Don’t let one man beat you off like that!”

“You seem to be taking good care of your own precious hide,” half laughed Frank. Then, as the opportunity presented, he made a sudden rush and reached Dulzura with a crack of the staff that caused the fellow to howl and stagger.

It did not seem, however, that, armed only with that stick, Merry could long contend against such odds. Soon something must happen. Soon one of those little wretches would find the opportunity to come in and strike swift and sure with a glittering knife.

The racket and uproar of the conflict startled the echoes of the mission building, and in that peaceful, dreamy spot such sounds seemed most appalling. Frank knew the end must come. Had he possessed a pistol he might have triumphed over them all in spite of the odds.

Suddenly in the distance, from far down the trail toward the valley, came the sound of singing. As it reached Merry’s ears he started in the utmost amazement, for he knew that tune. Many a time had he joined in singing it in the old days. Although the words were not distinguishable at first, he could follow them by the sound of the tune. This is the stanza the unseen singers voiced:

 
“Deep in our hearts we hold the love
Of one dear spot by vale and hill;
We’ll not forget while life may last
Where first we learned the soldier’s skill;
The green, the field, the barracks grim,
The years that come shall not avail
To blot from us the mem’ry dear
Of Fardale – fair Fardale.”
 

“Fair Fardale!” – that was the song. How often Frank had joined in singing it when a boy at Fardale Military Academy. No wonder Frank knew it well! By the time the stanza was finished the singers were much nearer, and their words could be plainly distinguished. Dulzura and his tools were astounded, but the man urged them still more fiercely to accomplish their task before the singers could arrive.

The singing of that song, however, seemed to redouble Merry’s wonderful strength and skill. He was now like a flashing phantom as he leaped, and dodged, and swung, and thrust with the heavy staff. His heart was beating high, and he felt that he could not be defeated then.

Finally the baffled and wondering assailants seemed to pause and draw back. Frank retreated toward the wall and stood waiting, his stick poised. The musical voices of the unseen singers broke into the chorus, and involuntarily Frank joined them, his own clear voice floating through the evening air:

 
“Then sing of Fardale, fair Fardale!
Your voices raise in joyous praise
Of Fardale – fair Fardale!
Forevermore ’twixt hill and shore,
Oh, may she stand with open hand
To welcome those who come to her —
Our Fardale – fair Fardale!”
 

It was plain that, for some reason, Dulzura and his band of assassins had not wished to use firearms in their dreadful work. Now, however, the leader seemed to feel that there was but one course left for him. Merry saw him reach into a pocket and felt certain the scoundrel was in search of a pistol.

He was right. Even as Dulzura brought the weapon forth, Frank made two pantherish bounds, knocking the others aside, and smote the chief rascal a terrible blow over the ear. Dulzura was sent whirling out between two of the heavy pillars to crash down into the shrubbery of the yard.

That blow seemed to settle everything, for with the fall of their master the wretches who had been urged on by him took flight. Like frightened deer they scudded, disappearing silently. Merry stood there unharmed, left alone with the old monk, who was still breathing his agitated prayers. From beyond the gate came a call, and the sound of that voice made Frank laugh softly with satisfaction.

He leaped down from the corridor and ran along the path to the gate, outside which, in the shadows, were two young horsemen.

“Dick – my brother!” exclaimed Merry.

“Frank!” was the cry, as one of the two leaped from the horse and sprang to meet him.

CHAPTER IX.
WHAT THE MONK TOLD THEM

“By all that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Merry, as he beheld his brother. “I thought I must be dreaming when I heard you singing. Dick, how did you come here?”

“I heard nothing from you, Frank,” was the reply. “I didn’t know for sure that you had received my message. I did know that Felicia was in trouble and in danger, and so I resolved to hasten to her at once. When I reached San Diego I found she was gone and that you had been there ahead of me. I have been seeking to overtake you ever since. This afternoon we saw you far away in the valley, although we could not be certain it was you. You had a companion. We thought it might be Bart Hodge.”

Dick had made this explanation hastily, after the affectionate meeting between the brothers.

“It was not Hodge,” said Frank; “far from it! It was a man I fell in with on the trail, and a most treacherous individual he proved to be.”

Then he told of the encounter with Dulzura’s ruffianly crew, upon hearing which Dick’s companion of the trail uttered a cry.

“Whoop!” he shouted. “That certain was a hot old scrimmage. Great tarantulas! Why didn’t we come up in time to get into the fracas! Howling tomcats! but that certain would have been the real stuff! And you beat the whole bunch off, did you, Mr. Merriwell? That’s the kind of timber the Merriwells are made of! You hear me gently warble!”

“Hello, Buckhart!” exclaimed Frank, as the chap swung down from the saddle. Brad Buckhart and Dick Merriwell were chums at the Fardale Military Academy, and Frank knew him for one of the pluckiest young fellows he had ever met. Buckhart was a Texan through and through.

“Put her there, Mr. Merriwell,” said Brad, as he extended his hand – “put her there for ninety days! It does my optics a heap of good to rest them on your phiz. But I’ll never get over our late arrival on the scene of action.”

“We knew you were here somewhere, Frank, when we heard you join in ‘Fair Fardale,’” said Dick.

“And by that sound the greasers knew I had friends coming,” added Merry. “It stopped them and sent them scurrying off in a hurry.”

“Where are they now?” asked Brad. “Why don’t they sail right out here and light into us? Oh, great horn spoon! I haven’t taken in a red-hot fight for so long that I am all rusty in the joints.”

“Where is Felicia, Frank?” anxiously asked Dick.

Merry shook his head.

“I can’t answer that question yet,” he confessed. “I have followed her thus far; of that I am satisfied, for otherwise I don’t believe these men would have attacked me.”

Through the shadows a dark figure came slowly toward them from the direction of the mission building.

“Whoever is this yere?” exclaimed Buckhart.

“It’s the old priest,” said Merry, as he saw the cloaked and hooded figure.

The old man was once more leaning on his crooked staff, which Merry had dropped as he hastened to meet his brother. Even in the gathering darkness there was about him an air of agitation and excitement.

“My son,” he said, in a trembling voice, still speaking in Spanish, “I hope you are not harmed.”

“Whatever is this he is shooting at you?” inquired Buckhart. “Is it Choctaw or Chinese?”

Paying no attention to Brad, Merry questioned the monk, also speaking in Spanish.

“Father,” he said, “who were those men, and how came they to be here?”

“My son, I knew not that there were so many of them. Two came to me to pray in the mission. The others, who were hidden outside, I saw not until they appeared. Why did they attack you?”

“Because they are wicked men, father, who have stolen from her home a little girl. I am seeking her, hoping to restore her to her friends.”

“This is a strange story you tell me, my son. Who is the child, and why did they take her from her home?”

“There’s much mystery about it, father. She’s the daughter of a Spanish gentleman, who became an exile from his own country. There are reasons to suppose she may be an heiress. Indeed, that seems the only explanation of her singular abduction. I have traced her hither, father. Can you tell me anything to assist in my search?”

The old man shook his hooded head, his face hidden by deep shadows.

“Nothing, my son – nothing,” he declared, drawing a little nearer, as if to lay his hand upon Frank. “I would I could aid you.”

Suddenly, to the astonishment of both Dick and Brad, Merry flung himself upon the monk, grasping his wrist and dropping him in a twinkling. He hurled the agitated recluse flat upon his back and knelt upon his chest.

“Frank! Frank!” palpitated Dick. “What are you doing? Don’t hurt him!”

“Strike a match, one of you,” commanded Merry. “Give us a look at his face.”

The man struggled violently, but Frank’s strength was too much for him, and he was pinned fast.

Dick quickly struck a match and bent over, shading it with his hands, flinging the light downward upon the face of the man Merry held.

“Just as I thought!” Merry exclaimed, in satisfaction, as the light showed him, not the features of the old monk, but those of a much younger man, with dark complexion and a prominent triangular scar on his right cheek. “This is not the holy father. He couldn’t deceive me with his attempt to imitate the father’s voice. I have seen this gentleman on a previous occasion. He dogged my steps in San Diego after I left Rufus Staples’ house.”

It was, in truth, the same man Merry had warned on the street corner in San Diego. The little wretch swore savagely in Spanish and glared at his captors.

“Spare your breath, my fine fellow,” said Frank. “Profanity will not help you.”

“Well, whatever was the varmint trying to do?” cried Buckhart. “I certain thought he was going to bless you.”

“He would have blessed me with a knife between my ribs had I been deceived by him,” asserted Merriwell. “In my saddlebags you will find some stout cord. Give it to me.”

A few moments later, in spite of his occasional struggles, the captured rascal was securely bound.

“There,” said Merry, “I think that will hold you for a while. Now, boys, I am going to see what has become of the holy father. This is his cloak.”

“You’re not going back there alone,” protested Dick, at once.

“Not on your life!” agreed Buckhart. “We are with you, Frank.”

They followed him into the yard, where the darkness was now deep, and came together to the entrance of the mission, but without discovering anything of the aged monk. Standing in the corridor, they peered in at the yawning door, but could see or hear nothing. Frank called to the monk, but only echoes answered him from the black interior of the mission.

“Here’s where you may get all the fight you want, Buckhart,” he said grimly. “Be ready for anything, boys.”

“I am a heap ready, you bet your boots!” answered the Texan, who had a pistol in his hand.

“Same here,” said Dick.

Frank struck a match on the cemented wall. A cold wind from the interior of the building came rushing through the open door and blew it out. It was like the breath of some dangerous, unseen monster hidden within the mission. Merry promptly struck another match. This time he shaded it with his hands and protected it until it sprang into a strong glow. Then, with his hands concaved behind it, he advanced through the doorway, throwing its light forward. Almost immediately an exclamation escaped his lips, for a few feet within, lying on the cold floor, he discovered a human form. As he bent over the figure, he saw to his dismay it was the monk from whose body the brown cloak had been stripped.

Then the match went out.

“Is he dead, Frank?” whispered Dick.

“I can’t tell,” answered Merry. “I didn’t get a fair look at him. We will know in a moment.”

He lighted another match and bent over the prostrate man. The light showed him the eyes of the monk fixed stonily on his face. It also showed him that a gag had been forced between the old man’s teeth and fastened there. The father was bound securely with a lariat.

“He is far from dead!” exclaimed Merry, in satisfaction. “Here, Dick, cut this rope and set him free. Get that gag out of his mouth, while I hold matches for you to do so.”

Soon the rope was cut, the gag removed, and together they lifted the old man to his feet. Frank then picked him up and carried him out into the open air.

“You seem to have met with misfortune, father,” he said. “I sincerely hope you are not harmed much.”

“My son,” quavered the agitated monk, “it is not my body that is harmed; it is my spirit. Against no living creature in all the world would I raise my hand. Why should any one seize me and choke me in such a manner? Much less, why should any who profess to be of the holy faith do such a thing?”

“They were frauds, father – frauds and rascals of the blackest dye.”

“But two of them came here to pray,” murmured the priest, as if he could not believe such a thing possible. “Have we not suffered indignities enough? Our lands have been taken from us and we have been stripped of everything.”

“They were infidels, father. You may be sure of that.”

“Infidels and impostors!” exclaimed the old man, with a slight show of spirit. “But I couldn’t think men who spoke the language of old Spain and who prayed to Heaven could be such base creatures.”

“What they certain deserve,” growled Buckhart, unable to repress his indignation longer, “is to be shot up a whole lot, and I’d sure like the job of doing it.”

“I don’t understand it – I cannot understand it!” muttered the monk. “It’s far beyond me to comprehend. Why did they set upon me, my son?” he questioned, his unsteady hand touching Frank’s arm. “Why did they seek to slay you?”

“Wait a minute, father, and I will explain,” said Merry.

He then told briefly of the abduction of Felicia and his pursuit of her captors. As he spoke, the aged listener betrayed some signs of excitement.

“My son, is all this true?” he solemnly questioned. “You are not one of our faith, yet your words ring true.”

“I swear it, father.”

“Then I have been twice deceived!” cried the old man, with surprising energy, shaking his hands in the empty air. “Yesterday there came here two men and a sweet-faced child. They told me they were taking her home. I believed them. With her they knelt at the shrine to pray. I blessed them, and they went on their way.”

“At last!” burst from Merry’s lips. “Now there’s no question. Now we know we’re on the right trail! Father, that little girl is a cousin of my half-brother here. He will tell you if I have spoken the truth.”

“Every word of it is true,” affirmed Dick, who spoke Spanish as fluently as Frank. “If you can tell us whither they were taking her, father, you may aid us greatly in our search for her.”

“Alas! it is not possible for me to tell you! I know that they were bound eastward. Beyond these mountains are the great San Bernardino plains, a mighty and trackless desert. Where they could go in that direction I cannot say.”

“Is it possible to cross the desert?” questioned Dick.

“It is a waste of burning sand. Who tries to cross it on foot or mounted is almost certain to leave his bones somewhere in that desert.”

“Then if they kept straight on – ”

“If they kept straight on,” said the old monk, “I fear greatly you will never again behold the child you seek.”

“They are not fools!” exclaimed Frank. “It is not likely they will try to cross the desert. The fact that they have taken so much trouble to endeavor to check pursuit here is proof they felt hard pushed. Is there no town, no human habitation beyond these mountains?”

“No town,” declared the father. “Straight over to the east you will come to the El Diablo Valley. It is deep and wild, and in it are some ruined buildings of stone and cement. Tradition says they were built long ago by Joaquin Murietta, a Californian outlaw, who waged war on all Americans. He expected to retreat there some day and defend himself against all assailants. At least, so the legend runs, although I much doubt if he built the castle which is now called Castle Hidalgo. Of late it has another occupant, who has taken the name of Joaquin – Black Joaquin he is called.”

“Well, this is somewhat interesting, too,” declared Merry. “Is this new Joaquin endeavoring to follow in the footsteps of his predecessor?”

“I believe there is a price upon his head.”

Merry turned to Dick with sudden conviction.

“Our trail leads to Castle Hidalgo,” he asserted. “I am satisfied of that. I am also satisfied that I have here encountered some of Black Joaquin’s satellites.”

“And I will wager something,” Dick added, “that we have one of them this minute, bound hand and foot, a short distance away.”

“That’s right,” said Frank, “and we may be able to squeeze a little information from him. Father, the man who has your cloak is outside the gate. Perhaps you may know him. Come and look at him.”

Together they left the yard and came to the spot where the man with the scar was supposed to be. On the ground lay the old monk’s cloak, but the man was gone. Undoubtedly he had been set free by some of his comrades.