Frank went down, hand under hand, as he did not dare slide at first, knowing that his hands would be torn and bleeding, and that he must lose his hold before the bottom was reached. With the twist about his leg to aid him, he managed to sustain himself and his living burden very well.
The girl whispered in his ear:
"Courage! You are the noblest fellow I ever saw—the greatest hero in the whole wide world!"
He made no reply, for his teeth were set, and he was mentally praying for strength and time.
Down they went—down, down. And then, when nearly half the distance had been covered, a shout came from above.
"Here they are! Ten thousand fiends! They shall not get away alive!"
It was the voice of Black Harry himself.
"Oh, for a little more time!" panted Frank.
But no more time was to be given him. He heard the voice of the boy outlaw crying:
"Look up here, Frank Merriwell—look up! I have a little trick to show you."
Frank looked upward, and he saw Black Harry leaning far out of the window. A knife glittered in the hand of the young desperado.
"I am going to cut the rope!" came down to the ears of the boy and girl. "Poor fools! Did you think to escape me! You will go down to your death in the creek!"
Frank clung with one hand to the rope, although the strain was terrible. With his other hand he drew one of the revolvers from his pocket, lifted it, took aim, fired.
The weapon spoke just as Black Harry slashed at the rope.
There was a shriek of pain, a human body shot out from the window, and, as it went whirling downward, the rope parted!
Then down shot Frank and Lona to fall into the stream. They struck where the water was quite deep, and they were unharmed, although the girl was unconscious when our hero bore her to solid ground.
As for Black Harry, he struck where some jagged rocks reared their heads from the water, and he lay there, in a huddled heap, and dead, forever past harming any living creature.
And yet, as was afterward discovered by examination, he had not been touched by the bullet which Frank had fired up at him. He had been startled by the shot, had lost his balance, and had fallen to his death.
Frank was trying to restore Lona to consciousness when he heard the rattle of rifle and revolver shots, the sound coming down faintly from above. Following it there was wild and continued cheering, and still more shooting.
"It sounds like a battle," thought the boy. "I believe the outlaws have been attacked."
He was right. For all that he fancied he had thrown his pursuers from the trail, Black Harry had been tracked to Cade's Canyon. The guard was captured while the assault on the hut was taking place, and then Hank Kildare, at the head of the trailers, swept down on the astonished braves.
The battle was short and sharp, and but few of the outlaws escaped. Some were killed, and some were captured.
One of the captured ruffians told them where to find Black Harry, Frank and the kidnaped girl.
Lariats were tied together, and a line was made long enough to reach the bottom of the chasm.
Lona Dawson was drawn up first, and then Frank tied the rope about the body of his double, permitting them to draw him to the top of the bluff. Frank came up last, and he found the men from Elreno in a rather dazed condition.
"Is thar two Black Harrys?" asked one, staring at the dead boy, and then at his living counterpart.
"Moses in der pulrushes!" groaned Solomon Rosenbum, who was on hand. "There vas only von, und he vas deat, vid der accent on der deat. Dat leds me oudt, und I don'd vas aple to take him pack East vor murter."
"Take him back East for murder?" questioned a man. "What do you mean by that."
"I mean that he is wanted in the East, and I have been tracking him for the last two months," said the supposed Jew, suddenly speaking without a trace of accent.
"Who are you?"
"I am Burchel Jones, a detective."
"Burchel Jones! Impossible! Jones was the fellow who arrested this boy for Black Harry."
"That fellow was not Burchel Jones; he is an impostor, and he was working for the reward offered for Black Harry's capture. If he is in Elreno when we get back there, I shall have a little settlement with him."
Then Lona Dawson, who had recovered, told them how bravely Frank had fought for her, and the boy suddenly found himself regarded as a hero by the very ones who had been fierce to lynch him a short time before.
"Hurro!" cried Barney Mulloy, who was on hand. "Oi knew ye'd come out at th' top av th' hape in th' ind, Frankie, be b'y!"
And the delighted Irish boy gave his friend a "bear's hug."
It was a triumphant party that returned to Elreno. Lona Dawson was restored to her wounded father, the body of Black Harry was placed on exhibition, and Frank was cheered and stared at by admiring eyes wherever he went.
The bogus detective heard what had happened in time to leave the place and avoid meeting the real Burchel Jones.
Robert Dawson did not die from his wound. He recovered in time, but, as he lay on his bed, with his daughter restored to him, he held out a hand to Frank, who had been summoned to that room, saying, fervently:
"God bless you, young man! My daughter has told me everything. You shall be rewarded by anything it is in my power to give you."
Frank laughed, his face flushing, as he gallantly returned:
"Mr. Dawson, I have already been rewarded by the pleasure it gave me to be of service to your daughter in a time of peril."
A week later Frank and his friends continued their journey westward, where fresh adventures awaited them.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
A THRILLING RESCUE.
"No, sir!" roared Professor Scotch, banging his clinched fist down on a rough wooden table that stood in the only "hotel" of the town of Blake, Utah. "I say no, and that settles it!"
"But," urged Frank, who sat opposite the little professor at the table, "wait till I tell you——"
"You have told me enough, sir! I do not want to hear any more!"
Barney, who sat near, could restrain his merriment no longer.
"Begobs!" he cried; "th' profissor is on his ear this toime, Frankie, me b'y. He manes business."
"That's exactly what I do!" came explosively from the little man's lips. "It is my turn now. You boys have been having your own way right along, and you have done nothing but run into scrape after scrape. It is amazing the troubles you have been into and the dangers you have passed through. Several times you have placed me in deadly peril, and but for my coolness, my remarkable nerve, my extremely level head, I must have been killed or gone insane long ago."
Both boys laughed.
"Allow me to compliment you on your remarkable nerve, professor," chuckled Frank. "You are bold as a lion—nit."
The final expressive word was spoken in an "aside," but the professor heard it, as Frank had intended he should.
"Laugh, laugh, laugh!" shouted the little man, in a hoarse tone of voice. "The time has passed when you can have fun with me; I decline to permit you to have fun with me. I have decided to assert myself, and right here is where I do it."
"Ye do thot, don't yez, profissor!" cried the Irish lad, in a way that made the little man squirm.
"You can bet I do! Judging by the past, any one would think Frank my guardian. They'd never dream I was his. He has gone where he pleased, and done as he pleased. Look where he has dragged me! Where is this forsaken hole on the face of the earth? It's somewhere in Utah."
"Blake is very easily located," said Frank, glibly. "Any schoolboy will tell you it is in Eastern Utah, on the line of the Grand Western Railway, at the point where the railroad crosses Green River. You are a little rusty on such things, professor, and so you fancy everybody else is as much a back number as yourself."
"Back number!" howled the little man, leaping into the air and dashing his hat to the floor. "That is more than I can endure. You have passed the l
imit."
Neither of the boys had ever before seen him so far forget his dignity without greater provocation, and they were not a little surprised.
"Steady, professor," laughed Frank. "Don't fly off the handle."
"Howld onter yersilf, profissor," chuckled Barney. "Av ye don't, ye may get broken."
"This is terrible!" cried the professor, his face crimson with anger. "Frank Merriwell, you are an ungrateful, reckless, heartless young rascal!"
"Oh, professor!"
Frank seemed deeply touched. He grew sober in a moment, out came his handkerchief, he carried it to his eyes, and he began to sob in a pitiful way.
Behind the handkerchief the mischievous lad was laughing still.
The professor rushed about the room a moment, and then he stopped, staring at Frank and beginning to look distressed.
"That I—should—ev-ev-ever live—to—see—this sad—hour!" sobbed the boy, with the handkerchief to his eyes. "That I should be called ungrateful and heartless by a man I have loved and honored like—like a—a sister! If my poor uncle had not died——"
"Goodness knows you cannot feel worse about that than I do!" came from the little man's lips. "I suppose he fancied he was doing me a favor when he appointed me your guardian and directed that I should accompany you as your tutor in your travels over the world. Your tutor indeed! Why, you insist on giving me points and information about every place we visit. You do exactly as you please, and it is a wonder that either of us is alive to-day. You have dragged us through the most deadly perils, and now that I object when you want to go ranting away into a wild and unexplored region of Southern Utah, where you say there dwells the last remnant of the murderous and terrible Danites, you—you—you——"
"What have I done?" sobbed Frank.
"Why, you've—you've said——"
"What?"
"I don't remember now; but I'd give seventeen million dollars if Asher Merriwell, your uncle, was living and had to travel around with you!"
"Now my heart is broken!" came mournfully from behind that handkerchief.
That was more than Scotch could stand. He edged nearer Frank, who fell face downward on the table, still laughing, but pretending to quiver with sobs.
"There, there, there!" fluttered the little man, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Don't feel so bad about it."
"I—I can't help it."
"Oh, I didn't mean anything—really I didn't. I'll take it back, and——"
"Your cruel words have pierced my tender heart as the spear of the fisherman pierceth the unwary flounder."
"I was too hasty—altogether too hasty."
"That does not heal the bleeding wound."
"Oh, well, say—I'll do most anything to——"
"Will you permit me to go on this expedition?"
"No, never!" cried the little man. "There is a limit, and that is too much."
"But you have not heard the story of this Walter Clyde, to whom I owe my very life," said Frank, pretending to dry his eyes with the handkerchief.
"You owe what?" shouted the professor, astonished. "How do you owe him so much?"
"Well, sir," spoke the boy, "it was like this: I had fallen into the hands of a band of murderous ruffians, and——"
"When did this occur?"
"At about half past six. Please do not interrupt me again. These ruffians, after relieving me of my valuables and wearing apparel, so that I was clad in nothing but a loose-fitting suit of air, proceeded, with fiendish design, to tie me to the railroad track."
"Terrible!" gasped Scotch, his face pale and horrified. "But where did this take place?"
"Directly on the line of the railroad. Will you be good enough not to interrupt! I was helpless in their power, and I could do nothing to save myself. I begged them to spare me, but they laughed at my entreaties."
"The wretches!" roared the little professor. "Ah! Er! Excuse me for breaking in."
"Having tied me firmly across the polished rails," continued Frank, growing dramatic in his method of relating the yarn, "they told me the express would be along in fifteen minutes, and then they left me to my fate."
"The dastardly scoun—— Beg pardon! Go on! go on!"
"I tried to wrench myself free, but it was impossible; they had tied the knots well, and I began to believe I was doomed. The rail sang beneath my head, and I knew the express was approaching at terrible speed."
"This is too much—too much!" groaned the little man, flopping down on a chair. "It actually overcomes me!"
"I fully expected the express would come over me," the boy went on. "I gave up hope. Looking along the track, I saw the engine swoop into view round a curve in the road. Down upon me with the speed of the wind it swept."
No sound but a groan came from the lips of Professor Scotch.
"Staring with horrified eyes and benumbed senses at the engine, I heard it shriek a wild note of warning. I had been seen! But the train was on a down grade, and it could not stop in time. I was doomed just the same."
The professor was ready to fall off his chair.
"Then," cried Frank, dramatically, "out along the side of the engine crept a boy, who carried something in his hand. That boy was Walter Clyde, to whom I owe my very life. The something he carried in his hand was a lasso, and with that he saved me."
"How—how could he do it?" palpitated the professor. "You were tied to the track!"
"Yes, but Walter Clyde is an ingenious fellow, and he saw how to get around that difficulty."
"But how—how?"
"Well, close beside the railroad was the stump of a great tree that had been cut down. I saw him point at it, and above the roar of the train I heard him shriek for me to lift my head and look at it."
"Yes, yes! Go on!"
"I saw him whirling the lasso-noose about his head, making ready for the cast, having first hitched the other ends to the cow-catcher of the locomotive."
"Well, well?"
"I lifted my head as high as possible, and I saw the noose shoot through the air. Excuse me while I shudder a few seconds!"
"Did he drag you from the track in time?" shouted the professor. "Did the noose fall over your head?"
"No," answered Frank; "but it fell over that stump, and, when the express reached the end of the lariat, having come so near that the nose of the pilot brushed my hair, the lariat brought up. It was a good stout rope, and it yanked that engine off the track in a second, and piled the entire train in the ditch. I was saved—saved by a brave boy, and only forty of the passengers on the train were killed."
Professor Scotch gasped for breath and sank from his chair to the floor.
* * *
CHAPTER XIV.
WALTER CLYDE'S STORY.
Barney Mulloy had been holding on to keep from shouting with laughter, and now he exploded.
"Ha! ha! ha!" he roared. "Pwhat do yez think av thot, profissor? Thot wur th' narrowest escape ivver hearrud av, ur Oi'm a loier!"
"Send for the undertaker!" came in a hollow groan from the lips of the professor.
"You do not seem to feel well?" said Frank, hastening to the man's assistance. "What is the trouble?"
"If I die of heart failure you will be responsible!" fiercely grated Scotch.
"Doie!" cried Barney. "Whoy, ye'll live ter pick daisies on yer own grave, profissor."
"This is terrible!" faintly rumbled the little man, as he regained his chair, and began to mop cold perspiration from his face with a handkerchief.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," cried Frank.
The door opened, and a boy about seventeen years of age entered the room. He was a slender, delicate-appearing fellow, but he had a good face and steady eyes.
"Hurrah!" cried Frank. "Here is my preserver! Professor Scotch, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Walter Clyde."
The professor held out a limp hand to the boy, saying:
"Excuse me if I do not rise. Frank just robbed me of strength by telling h
ow you saved his life by derailing an express train and killing forty passengers."
Clyde was quick to catch on. A faint look of astonishment was followed by a smile, and he said:
"Mr. Merriwell is mistaken."
"Ha!" cried the professor. "Then you denounce the whole story as false?"
"I said Mr. Merriwell was mistaken—but thirty-nine passengers were killed," said the newcomer, who had caught the end of Frank's yarn.
The professor came near having a fit, and Barney Mulloy held onto his sides, convulsed with merriment.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Clyde," said Frank. "I may have stretched the yarn a trifle."
"Just a trifle!" muttered the professor.
"If I had used giant-powder instead of dynamite in blowing up the track," said Clyde, "it is possible there might have been a smaller loss of life."
"But you did not blow up the track at all," hastily put in Frank. "You yanked the train off the rails with a lasso."
"So I did! I was thinking of another case. In this instance, if I had not stood so far from the railroad——"
"But you were on the pilot of the engine."
"Was I? So I was. Excuse me if I do not attempt any further explanations."
Then the three boys laughed heartily, and the professor was forced to join in at last.
Having restored Scotch to good nature, Frank requested Walter Clyde to tell his story. Clyde's face clouded a little, and he slowly said:
"I will tell it briefly. Years ago, when I was a very small child, my father left his home in the East to make a trip to California. Business called him out there, and, on his way, he entered this Territory. He never reached California.
"My father had a deadly enemy—a man who had sworn to kill him some day. That man's name was Uric Dugan. Father had been instrumental in sending him to prison for robbery, but he had escaped, fled to the West, and, it was said, joined the Mormons.
"Fate led Uric Dugan and my father to meet in Utah. What happened then is known to Dugan alone. Months passed, and mother heard no word from father. She grew thin and pale and desperate. At length, a letter came to her. It was from Uric Dugan.
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