Kitabı oku: «Frank Merriwell's Backers: or, The Pride of His Friends», sayfa 8
CHAPTER XVI.
FRANK DETECTS TREACHERY
Needless to say Frank did not send Pablo away. He did not tell the boy of the warning found on the door. Instead, he called the Mexican lad and said:
"Pablo, I want you to watch Tracy closely for me. Will you?"
"Señor Frank can be sure I weel," said the boy.
"If possible, I want you to get some of Tracy's handwriting and bring it to me."
"Eet I will do, señor."
"But look out for him. He's dangerous. Don't let him catch you playing the spy."
"I tak' de great care 'bout that."
Before noon the Mexican boy came hurrying to Merry, his big dark eyes glowing. He caught hold of Frank's hand and gave it an excited pressure.
"I haf eet!" he said.
"What is it you have?"
"Some of hees writeeng. He do eet in de mine offeese when he think no one watch heem. I see heem through window. He put eet in lettare, stick eet up, put in pocket, then drop um. I know; I watch; I pick eet up. Here eet ees!"
He thrust into Merry's hand a soiled, sealed and undirected envelope.
"Eet ees inside," said Pablo, all aquiver.
"Come in here," said Frank, leading the way into the cabin.
Bart and Jack were watching Ephraim Gallup at a distance from the cabin, the Yankee youth being engaged in a brave attempt to ride a small, bucking bronco.
When they were inside the cabin, Frank closed and fastened the door. Making a hasty examination of the envelope, he quickly lighted a small alcohol-lamp beneath a tiny brass tea-kettle, which he partly filled with water.
In a very few moments steam was pouring from the nozle of the kettle. Holding the envelope in this, Merry quickly steamed open the flap, taking from it a sheet of paper.
Pablo's eyes seemed to grow larger than ever as he watched. Frank unfolded the paper and read:
"I have decided to except terms, and to-night will be the time for you to come down on the mine. The whisky will be yoused to get the men drunk, jest as you perposed, and I'll hev them all filled up by ten o'clock. Wate tell you hear three shots right togather, then charge and you'll take the mine, havin' only Merywel and his tenderfeet backers to fight, and them I will hav fastened into their cabin. J."
Merry whistled over this, showing no small amount of surprise.
"Ees de writin' what you expec'?" asked Pablo anxiously.
"It's somewhat more than I expected," said Frank. "By Jove! there will be doings here to-night."
He quickly decided on the course he would pursue. Carefully drying the flap of the envelope, he placed some fresh mucilage on it, thrust the message into it, and resealed it carefully.
"See here, Pablo," he said quickly, "if you can do it, I want you to take this and drop it just where you found it, so that Tracy will be pretty sure to recover it. I do not wish him to know that it has been picked up. Do your best. If you can't do it, come and tell me."
"I do eet," assured Pablo, as he took the envelope, concealed it beneath his jacket, and slipped from the cabin.
Frank had been given something to think about.
"So Tracy has turned traitor," he meditated. "He has decided to betray the mine into the hands of Cimarron Bill's gang. It was his writing on the notice pinned on the door, not Bill's. That notice was a fake, and it made him angry because it didn't work out as he planned. Bill got at him through Hop Anson, who must have been in Bill's employ all along. Well, to-night is the time I give those ruffians their final setback. Another repulse will discourage them. They would have descended on the place while I was in their power if they had fancied there was any chance that I might escape with my life."
Pretty soon he walked out, with his hands in his pockets, and joined his friends, laughing heartily over Gallup's trials, and seeming undisturbed by any worry.
Later he entered the mine and found that Tracy was not about. Nor could he discover anything of Pablo. The afternoon was far spent when the Mexican boy suddenly appeared before Frank.
"Hello, Pablo!" said Merry. "What's the word?"
"I followe heem," whispered Pablo excitedly. "I haf drop de letter where he find eet when he look for eet. Then he find time to go 'way. I followe. I see heem take letter to place in rocks long distance down vallee. He hide eet there. Pablo let heem go; stay watch letter. He haf hoss hid some piece off. He geet to hoss, geet on heem, ride off."
"That's all?"
"Dhat ees all."
"Well, you have done well, Pablo," said Merry. "I'll not forget it."
Pablo again grasped Frank's hand, which he kissed.
"You freen' to Pablo," he said. "You goode to heem. He not forget."
"Tell no one what you have seen and done."
"You look out for Beel."
"You may be sure I'll do that, Pablo. When Bill comes here, he'll receive a warm reception."
That night after supper, as the miners sat about the long table in the low, open room, smoking their pipes and cigarettes and enjoying the grateful coolness of the evening, Jim Tracy, the foreman, came into the room and cried:
"Well, boys, you've been working right hard to open up this yere old mine, an' I appreciates it, if the young man what owns the property don't. It's a long distance to town, an' ye can't all git off together to have a leetle blow, so I has brought ye some good whisky, and I perposes that you all takes a drink on me."
Saying which, he produced two big quart bottles and held them above his head, so the lamplight fell upon them.
Instantly two shots sounded through the place, and the bottles were smashed in the foreman's hands by a pair of bullets, the glass flying and the liquor spattering over him.
In through the doorway at the opposite end of the room stepped Frank Merriwell, a pistol in each hand.
"Keep your hands up and empty, Jim Tracy!" he said, in a commanding tone. "It will be unhealthy for you if you lower them!"
Behind Frank were Bart, Jack, and Ephraim, with Pablo hovering like a shadow still farther in the rear.
Tracy was astounded.
"What in blazes does this mean!" he snarled, but he kept his hands up, as Frank had ordered.
"It means that I am onto your game to drug these boys and betray us all. Steady! If you try to get a weapon I shall drop you! You know I can shoot a little. Just tie him up, fellows."
"With the greatest pleasure," chirped Jack Ready, as he waltzed lightly forward, accompanied by Hodge and Gallup.
In spite of the protests of Tracy, they bound him hand and foot, so that he could barely wiggle.
The miners had been amazed, but they believed Merry when he told them of Tracy's plot to betray the mine.
"He would have drugged you all," said Frank. "Then, when Bill's gang charged on the mine, it's likely many of you would have been killed. But what did he care about that. Now we'll fool Cimarron Bill and teach him a lesson."
He explained his plan to them, and they readily agreed. So it happened that, a little later, the miners began to sing and shout and pretend to be riotously merry. This they kept up until it seemed as if they were engaged in a fearful carousal. Then the noises began to die out and grow less.
It was past ten o'clock when dead silence seemed to rest on the camp. Frank Merriwell stepped to the door, lifted his hand and fired three shots into the air.
Five minutes later the sound of galloping horses coming up the valley was distinctly heard.
"Here they come!" breathed Frank. "All ready for them!"
Right up to the mine-buildings charged the horsemen. They were dismounting when Frank's challenge rang out sharp and clear:
"Hold, Cimarron Bill! Stop where you are! Stop, or we fire!"
The outlaws uttered a yell and charged, firing the first shots.
Then Merry gave the command, and the armed and waiting miners fired on the raiders. It was a withering volley, and must have astounded the ruffians.
Bill, however, had come this time determined to succeed, and he called on his men to break down the doors. As they were hammering at the front doors, Frank led some of the men out by the back way and charged round the buildings.
The encounter that took place was brief and sanguine. The miners were encouraged by Hodge, Ready, and Gallup, who fought with savage fury, and the raiders began to waver.
Suddenly a tall figure came rushing into the thick of the fight and confronted Frank.
It was Tracy, who had been released from his bonds by a sympathetic miner.
"Yah!" he snarled, having heard Merry's voice and recognized him. "So it's you! I've found you! Take that!"
He pitched forward a revolver and fired pointblank at Frank.
At that very instant, with a cry, Pablo, the Mexican boy, leaped in front of Merry.
Struck by the bullet intended for Frank, the little fellow tossed up his arms and fell backward into Merriwell's clasp. At the same instant somebody shot Jim Tracy through the brain.
As Merriwell lowered the death-stricken boy, the raiders, completely baffled, gave over the attack and took to flight, leaving half their number behind, stretched upon the ground.
"Are you hurt – badly?" asked Frank, as one of the boy's arms dropped limply over his neck and seemed to cling there.
For a moment there was no answer. Then came the faintly whispered words:
"I – theenk – I – am – keeled – Señor Merriwell."
"Oh, no, Gonchita!" said Frank earnestly; "not as bad as that! It cannot be!"
"You know me," was the surprised whisper. "How you know I am Gonchita?"
"Oh, I discovered it the other day – I found you had your hair tied up beneath your hat. Here, men – somebody bring a light! Be lively about it!"
"All right, sir," said one of the men. "Have one directly."
"No use, Señor Merriwell," came weakly from the lips of the disguised girl. "I shall be dead in a minute. Ay-de mi! Poor Gonchita! You theenk she ees veree bad girl? Beel he say he weel marree her. He get me to fool you, señor. Then you are so veree brave! Señor Frank, I theenk you are de han'someest, de braveest man I evere know. I run away from Beel. I wear de boyee's clothes an' come here. Dat ees all. Now I haf to die."
"Perhaps not, Gonchita," said Merry, with infinite pity for the unfortunate girl. "We'll see what can be done for you."
She managed to press one of his hands to her lips.
"So goode – so han'some!" she whispered. "Good-by, señor! Eet ees ovare."
Then one of the men came out with a lighted lantern; but before the light fell on the face of the wounded girl Frank knew he was holding a corpse in his arms.
Among the dead was found Hop Anson. Jim Tracy lay where he had fallen immediately after the shot which ended the life of poor Gonchita.
Such of the ruffians who were wounded were cared for as well as possible. The dead were buried there in the valley.
Cimarron Bill's band was completely broken up.
On his next visit to town Merry had a marble slab cut for the grave of the Mexican girl, which was located at a distance from those of the outlaws.
On the slab were chiseled these words: "Poor Gonchita!"
CHAPTER XVII.
THE WAR-WHOOP OF OLD ELI
The afternoon sun lay scorching hot upon the arid plain. Heat waves moved in the air like the billows of a phantom sea. To the west were barren mountain-peaks and the nearer foot-hills; to the east the unbroken plain lay level to the horizon.
Behind the body of his dead horse lay a sorely wounded man, with his dog crouching close at his side. The dog's dry tongue lolled from the animal's mouth; at times the poor creature whined and sought to lick the hand of its master; anon he growled fiercely, the hair bristling on his neck, and started up in a savage manner.
"Down, Boxer, down!" the man would order, in a voice ever growing weaker. "You can't help. The red devils will get you with a bullet. Down, sir!"
At which the dog would sink back, whine again and draw his filelike tongue along the hand or cheek of his master.
"Heavens!" muttered the man. "For a swallow of water. I'd give the last ounce in the saddle-bags if I could finish one or two more of those murderous curs before I cash in!"
His almost nerveless hands grasped the barrel of his rifle, and he looked away toward the spot where six horsemen had drawn up in a little cluster just beyond bullet-reach.
They were Indians, mounted on tough ponies, and some of them armed with modern weapons. Two or three carried lances, on which the glaring sun glinted.
They had hunted him down; they had killed the horse beneath him and wounded him unto death. The bullet was through his body, and the sands of life were ebbing fast. He had reached the end of his trail, and the red fiends out there on the baking plain knew they had only to wait a while and then ride forward unmolested and strip off his scalp. Yet, being far from their reservation, the savages were impatient at the delay. Their hearts were vengeful within them, for in the chase he had slain two of their number.
One of them, an impetuous young buck, was for making haste in finishing the paleface. He motioned toward the declining sun and suggested that the wounded man might try to crawl away with the coming of darkness. Besides, they had far to go, and it was a waste of time to wait for the paleface to die. Likely he was so far gone that he could not shoot to defend himself, and there would be little trouble in getting near enough to despatch him.
The impetuous spirit of this savage prevailed, and soon the redskins began riding around and around man and horse and dog, spreading out into a circle with great gaps and slowly closing in, now and then uttering a challenging yell. As they closed in they flung themselves over upon the sides of their ponies opposite the wounded man, so that their horses seemed riderless. Occasionally a shot was fired from beneath the neck of a racing pony.
The dying man gathered himself a little and watched them. A puff of white smoke leaped out before a pony and was quickly left behind to dissolve and fade in the heated air. A bullet threw up a bit of dust within three feet of the white man. The dog bristled and growled. Another bullet clipped a stalk from a cactus plant five feet away.
"They're within shooting distance," whispered the doomed wretch. "Wonder if I've got nerve enough to drop a pony."
He rested his rifle on the body of the dead horse and waited. Out on the plain the racing ponies began to swim in a haze. He could see them indistinctly, and he brushed a hand across his eyes.
"I'm going fast, Boxer," he muttered to the dog. "My sight is failing! I'm burning inside! And I know you're choking yourself, poor dog! It's a hard way to pipe out."
The dog whined sympathetically and pressed closer. A bullet whistled past the head of the man. He tightened his grip on his rifle, sought to take aim, and finally fired.
His bullet went wide of the target he sought, and a yell of derision floated to his ears through the hot air.
"No use!" he muttered huskily. "I'm done for! It's the finish! They can close right in and wipe me out!"
The savages seemed to know it, and they were drawing nearer.
Of a sudden out from the depths of a long barranca, a mighty fissure in the plain, produced in former ages by a convulsion of nature, or marking the course of a river – out from one end that rose to the surface of the plain not far from the circling savages, came a horse and rider. As the rider rose into view he began shooting with a magazine rifle, and his first bullet caused a redskin to lose his hold and tumble end over end in the dirt, while the pony galloped on.
The following Indian stooped and seemed to catch up his wounded comrade as he swept past.
The lone horseman rode straight at them in a reckless manner, working his repeater.
A pony was wounded, another plunged forward into the dirt. In another moment the redskins wheeled and were in full flight, astounded and demoralized by the attack, two of the horses carrying double, while another left drops of blood upon the ground.
The daring paleface uttered a strange war-whoop of triumph: "Brekekek Co-ax, Co-ax, Yale!"
Never before had those Indians heard such a singular cry from the lips of a white man. It seemed to fill them with a mad desire to get away, to flee at top speed. It struck terror into their hearts, as many a time the same slogan has struck fear to the hearts of those battling against Old Eli on some athletic field. They urged their ponies forward, and away they went, scurrying into the distance, with bullets singing around them.
The man behind the dead horse lifted himself and strained his bedimmed eyes, seeing the youthful rider shoot past in pursuit of the savages. The dog rose, planting his forefeet on the horse's body, and barked madly.
When he was satisfied that the Indians were in full retreat, with little thought of turning or offering resistance, Frank Merriwell, for it was he who had dashed out of the barranca, drew up and turned about, galloping back toward the man he had dared so much to save.
But he had come too late.
As Merry rode near the dying man had fallen back beside his dead horse. Over him stood the dog, covered with dust, its eyes glaring redly, its teeth disclosed, ready to defend the body of its master. As Frank drew up the dog snarled fiercely.
Merry saw at a glance that the situation of the dog's master was serious in the extreme. He dismounted and stepped forward, leaving his horse, knowing well the animal would stand. As he approached the dog grew fiercer of aspect, and he saw the creature meant to leap straight at his throat.
"Good dog!" he said, stopping. "Fine dog! Come, sir – come! Ah-ha, fine fellow!"
But all his attempts to win the confidence of the dog were failures.
"The man is dying," he muttered. "Perhaps I might save him if I could get to him now. Must I shoot that dog? I hate to do it, for the creature seems very intelligent."
At this moment the man stirred a little and seemed to realize what was happening. He lifted his head a little and saw the dismounted horseman and the threatening dog.
"Down, Boxer; down, sir!" he commanded. "Be quiet!"
His voice rose scarcely above a whisper, but the dog reluctantly obeyed, still keeping his eyes on Frank, who now stepped up at once.
"You're badly wounded, sir," he said. "Let me see if I can do anything for you."
"Give me water – for the love of Heaven, water!" was the harshly whispered imploration.
In a twinkling Frank sprang to his horse and brought back a canteen that was well filled. This he held to the lips of the wretched man, while the crouching dog watched every move with his red eyes.
That water, warm though it was, brought back a little life to the sinking man.
"God bless you!" he murmured gratefully.
The dog whined.
"Can't you give Boxer a little?" asked the dog's master. "He's suffering as much as I am."
Frank quickly removed from his saddle-bags a deep tin plate, on which some of the water was poured, and this the dog greedily licked up, wagging his tail in thankfulness.
"Poor old Boxer!" sighed the doomed man.
"Now, sir," said the youth, "let me examine your wound and find out what I can do for you."
"No use," was the declaration. "I'm done for. It's through the lung, and I've bled enough to finish two men. The blood is all out of me."
But the young man insisted on looking and did what he could to check the flow of blood.
The doomed man shook his head a little.
"No use," he repeated. "I'm going now – I feel it. But you have done all you could for Old Bens, and you won't lose nothing by it. What's your name?"
"Frank Merriwell."
"Well, Pard Merriwell, you sure went for those red devils right hot. I allowed at first that you must have four or five friends with ye."
"I'm alone."
"And it was great grit for you to charge the red skunks that way. However did you happen to do it?"
"I saw what was going on from the high land to the west with the aid of a powerful glass. I knew they had a white man trapped here. I struck the barranca and managed to get down into it, so I was able to ride close without being seen and charge up from this end, where it rises to the level of the plain. That is all."
"It was nerve, young man, and plenty of it! My name is Benson Clark. I'm a miner. Been over in the Mazatzals. Struck it rich, young pard – struck it rich. There was no one but me and old Boxer, my dog. I took out a heap of dust, and I opine I located a quartz claim that certainly is worth a hundred thousand dollars, or I'm away off. Been a miner all my life. Grub-staked it from the Canadian line to Mexico. Have managed to live, but this is my first strike. No one staked me this time, so it's all mine. But see, pard, what black luck and those red devils have done for me! I'm finished, and I'll never live to enjoy a dollar of my wealth. Pretty tough, eh?"
"Pretty tough," admitted Frank Merriwell; "but brace up. Who can tell – "
"I can. Bens Clark is at the end of his trail. Young man, I want you to see me properly planted. You'll find enough in the saddle-bags here and in the belt around my waist to pay you for your trouble."
"I want no pay, sir."
"Well, I reckon you may as well have it, as I have neither kith nor kin in the wide world, and most of my friends have cashed in ahead of me, so I'm left all alone – me and Boxer."
The dying man lifted his hand with a great effort and caressed the dog. The animal whined and snuggled nearer, fixing his eyes on his master's face with an expression of devotion and anxiety that was quite touching to see.
"Good old Boxer!" sighed the man, with deep feeling. "You'll miss me, boy, and you're the only one in all the wide world. What will become of you, Boxer?"
Again the dog whined a little, touching the bloodless cheek of the man with its tongue.
"I'll do what I can for your dog, sir," said Frank Merriwell.
"What do you mean? Will you take Boxer and care for him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do it! You'll never be sorry. You'll find him the most faithful, devoted, and intelligent of dumb animals. Truly, he knows almost as much as a man – more than lots of men. It's a shame he can't talk! He knows what I say to him almost always. I've almost fancied he might be taught to talk; but that's ridiculous, I know. Take him, Frank Merriwell, treat him well, and you'll never regret it."
The dog seemed listening. He looked from one to the other in a peculiar manner, and then, as if realizing what had passed and that he was soon to part with his master forever, he uttered a whining howl that was doleful and pathetic.
"Poor old Boxer – good boy!" said Benson Clark. "I've got to go, boy."
The dog crept close, and the dying man weakly folded the animal in his arms.
Frank Merriwell turned away. The sunlight was so bright and strong on the plain that it seemed to cause him to brush a hand over his eyes. He stood looking far off for some moments, but was given a start by hearing a weak call from the man.
"I'm going!" breathed Clark huskily. "Here – in my pocket here you will find a rude chart that may lead you to my rich mines in the Mazatzals. Feel in my pocket for the leather case. That's it. Take it – keep it. It's yours. The mines are yours – if you can find them. Boxer is yours. Be good to him. Poor old Boxer!"
He closed his eyes and lay so still that Frank fancied the end had come. But it was not yet. After a little he slowly opened his eyes and looked at Merry. Immediately Frank knelt beside him, with uncovered head.
The dying man then looked at the dog.
"Boxer," he said faintly, "I'm going off on my long trail, and we'll never meet up again this side of the happy hunting-grounds. Good-by, old dog! This is your new master. Stick to him like glue, old boy. Fight for him – die for him, if you have to. I opine you understand what I mean."
A strange sound came from the throat of the dog – a sound that was almost like a human sob. If ever a dog sobbed that one did. Agony and sorrow was depicted in his attitude and the look in its red eyes.
The miner took the dog's paw and placed it in Frank Merriwell's hand, his body lying between them.
"I make you pards," said Benson Clark.
Then he whispered to Frank:
"Can't you pray? I've clean forgot all the prayers I ever knew. But I feel that I need a prayer said for me now, for I'm going up before the judgment bar. Pray, partner – pray to the Great Judge that He will be easy with me."
So Frank Merriwell prayed, and that prayer fell upon the heart of the dying man with such soothing balm that all fear and dread left him, and he passed into the great unknown with a peaceful smile on his weather-worn face.
