Frank at Don Carlos' Rancho

CHAPTER XII

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 —

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.

CHAPTER XIII

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

“Bars an’ buffaler! You keerless feller!” exclaimed the trapper, pulling out his knife and liberating Frank’s hands and feet. “I reckon you’ve seed fun enough fur one day, haint you? You’ll never come nigher to bein’ rubbed out nor you were a minit ago without goin’; I can tell you that. Now toddle. We aint out of danger yet, by no means.”

There was no time for greetings and congratulations. Scarcely had the trapper lifted Frank to his feet, when a clatter of hoofs was heard, and upon looking up the two friends saw a squad of Rancheros coming toward them at the top of their speed. Frank, without an instant’s hesitation, acted upon the trapper’s suggestion, and started for the woods; while Dick ran off in the opposite direction, loading his rifle as he went.

Frank, wearied with his former exertions, and aching in every limb from the effects of the rough treatment he had received at the hands of his enemies, was in no condition for a long run; but, even had he been in the best of trim, he could not have hoped to escape. The Rancheros were mounted, and they had thrown themselves between him and the woods. Still, he exerted himself to the utmost, and his speed, although greatly diminished, would have carried him ahead of every one of his enemies had they been on foot. But the swift horses quickly overtook him, and one of his pursuers, without in the least slackening his pace, galloped up beside him and seized him with both hands.

“You’re caught now,” said he, in a tone of great satisfaction, “and I am a poor herdsman no longer. I’m rich.”

The Ranchero did not attempt to lift Frank upon his horse, but held fast to his collar, and dragged him over the ground. He went at the top of his speed, and whenever Frank tried to regain his feet, so that he could run along beside his captor, the latter would touch his horse with his spurs, and the animal would spring forward so suddenly that Frank would be thrown back again. It was a most uncomfortable and painful situation to be in, but, strange as it may appear, Frank made no attempt at escape; indeed, he scarcely bestowed a thought upon himself. A scene which he had witnessed just after his enemy seized him, had deprived him of every particle of courage and strength. He had seen the friend who had stood by him through innumerable dangers strangled before his very eyes.

We said that, when Frank ran toward the woods, the trapper started off in the opposite direction. He had done this, hoping to draw the attention of the Mexicans to himself, and thus give Frank a chance for escape. He had succeeded in one part of his object, and failed in the other. Three of the Rancheros wheeled their horses and started in pursuit of him, while the others kept on after Frank. They had no desire to take the trapper alive, for the Don had not offered a reward of fifty thousand dollars for him; but they believed that he was quite as dangerous to them as Frank was, for he was acquainted with their secret. They had tried their best to shoot him when they met him in the woods, but Dick had escaped unhurt. Now they had caught him on the open prairie, where they could use their lassos, and they were determined that he should not return home to tell his friends what he knew about Don Carlos and his rancho. They charged toward the trapper with loud yells, discharging their pistols at him with one hand, and swinging their lariats around their heads with the other. One of their number rode to his death, for when Dick’s rifle cracked, the foremost Mexican threw up his arms, and fell heavily from his saddle; but before the trapper could turn to run, a lasso was thrown over his head, and he was pulled to the ground. A yell of defiance rang out on the air, and then the Ranchero wheeled his horse and galloped off, dragging his victim after him.