Frank told them of the death of Preston March, and, later, when Professor Scotch and Barney had been found by Rocks and brought into the party, all visited the spot where the Hermit of Yellowstone Park lay buried beneath tons of earth.
At the mouth of the cave Foster Fairfax caused a cross to be erected, bearing the name of the unfortunate man, the date of his birth and of his death.
Frank remained in the park till he succeeded in photographing some "real wild buffalo," and then he was well satisfied to move on to other fields of adventure.
Half Hand was shot while trying to get away with a stolen horse about a year later.
When the time came to part from Frank, little Fay was almost heart-broken. She clung to him, sobbing:
"Is you doin' to leave me? I don't want you to! You know I is your Fairy."
"You will ever be my Fairy," said the boy, with deep feeling. "Your mamma has promised me your picture, and I shall keep it with me ever. Some time by and by, dear, I will come back to you again."
And he kissed her farewell.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXV.
A PECULIAR GIRL.
The remainder of the stop in Yellowstone Park proved a delightful time.
"I wish I could sthay wid ye, Frankie, me b'y," said Barney, one day.
"Stay with me? What do you mean?" asked Frank.
"Oi have news from home. Oi must go back to Fardale to rasume me studies."
"I'll be sorry to lose you Barney." And Frank spoke the truth, for he loved his Irish chum a good deal.
Just then Professor Scotch burst in on the pair, telegram in hand.
"I must return East at once," he cried. "A relative of mine has died and I must settle up his affairs."
"Two at once!" ejaculated Frank. "Then I'll be left to continue my travels alone."
"Not for long, my boy," answered the professor. "I will soon return to see that you fall into no more danger."
Two days later found Frank alone, the professor and Barney have taken the eastbound train the evening before. Frank proceeded to Ogden, Utah, where he spent three days in sight-seeing.
But he was anxious to go farther West, and one fine day found him a passenger on the Pacific Express, bound for San Francisco.
Every seat in the parlor cars was taken, as Frank discovered, on endeavoring to obtain one. Then he decided that any kind of a seat would do, but nearly every one was occupied.
As he passed through the train, he noticed a girl of seventeen or eighteen who seemed to be sitting alone. She was reading, and, as Frank came along, she dropped the book in her lap, looked up, and smiled.
Frank touched his hat, paused, and asked:
"Is this seat taken, miss?"
"No, sir."
"Would you object——"
He paused significantly, smiling back at her.
"Not at all," was her immediate reply, as she drew a bit nearer the window, and he sat down.
The book in the girl's lap was a noted one of detective tales. Frank caught his breath in astonishment as he noted this.
"Queer literature for such a girl to be perusing," was his mental observation.
He cast a sly glance at her. She was looking out of the window, but the side of her face was toward him. Frank noted that she had a beautiful profile, and that there was a most innocent and winsome expression about her mouth. Her hair was golden and her eyes were blue.
There was a refinement and delicacy about the girl which impressed Frank favorably.
Still, he wondered that a girl like her should be reading a book of detective tales. She was the sort of a girl he would have expected to see perusing love stories of the "Bertha M. Clay" class.
He longed to get into conversation with her, and yet, for all of the smile with which she had seemed to greet him, something held him back and told him it was not wise to be too forward.
At last she resumed reading again. She did not read long. With a faint, scornful laugh, she dropped the book in her lap.
Frank fancied he saw an opportunity to "break the ice."
"You do not seem to like those stories," he observed.
"They are very amusing, and utterly improbable and impossible," she said.
The boy laughed.
"Then you fancy the author overdrew his hero?" he asked.
"To be sure he did. There is no detective living who can do such astonishing things as this one is credited with. No such detective ever lived."
"Possibly not."
"Surely not. You cannot make me believe that a detective could come in here, look me over, and then tell everything about me almost to my name and the hour of my birth. Rubbish!"
Frank's wonder at the girl was on the increase. She did not talk much like the ordinary girl of seventeen.
"If you dislike the stories so much how does it happen you are reading them?"
"Oh, I do not dislike them. I confess that I found them very amusing, but I am beginning to weary of them."
"I consider it remarkable that you attempted reading them."
"Why?"
"Young ladies like you seldom care for this kind of literature."
"Oh, I see. I presume not. They are too sentimental—soft, some call it. Well, I am not sentimental."
"Perhaps not."
She lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips a bit.
"You say that as if you do not believe me. Never mind. It makes no difference whether you believe me or not."
She did not seem offended, and still she gave him to understand that what he thought was of little consequence to her.
"Well," laughed Frank, "I have never yet met a girl who did not declare she was bound to be an old maid, and those are the very ones who get married first."
"And you think, because of that, that I must be sentimental, as I have said that I am not, do you?"
"Oh, well—you see—I—I——"
She interrupted him with a merry laugh.
"Do not be afraid to answer. I don't mind. We are strangers, and why should I be offended?"
"It is true we are strangers," said Frank; "and, as we may be seatmates for some time to come, I will offer my card."
He drew out a cardcase and gave her a delicate bit of cardboard, with his name engraved upon it.
"Frank Merriwell," she read. "Why, that is a splendid name, and it seems to fit you so well! I like you all the better for your name."
"Whew!" thought Frank. "That is point-blank, and still she says she is not sentimental. She may not be, but she is decidedly complimentary on short acquaintance."
Aloud, he said:
"I am happy there is something about me that you admire, if it is no more than my name."
She smiled, looking at him in a big-eyed, innocent way.
"Why, I didn't say that was all. I have not known you long enough to tell. I am no gifted detective, and I cannot read your character at a glance."
"Well, supposing we say the detective was a freak or a myth, and relegate him to the background."
"That goes," she said.
Then she clapped her hand over her mouth, with a little exclamation of dismay, quickly exclaiming:
"That is dreadful! I completely forgot myself! You see, I have been away to school, and I caught on to some slang there, and I find I can't shake it, although mamma doesn't like to have me make such breaks."
She paused, a look of the utmost dismay coming to her face, as if she just realized what she had been saying.
It was with the utmost difficulty Frank restrained his laughter. At the same time he felt his liking and admiration for the strange girl growing swiftly. The little slip into slang seemed to add to her innocence, especially when followed by such utter dismay.
"I am bound to do it occasionally," she said, after a few moments. "I can't seem to get out of the habit, although I have tried. I trust you will pardon me."
"Certainly."
"Thank you. I'll keep this card. I have none of my own with me. My name is Isa Is
ban."
Somehow, that name was a shock to Frank. He could not have told why, to save his life, but there was something unpleasant about it. It did not seem to fit the girl at all.
However, this feeling soon passed, and they were chatting freely in a short time. Their conversation drifted from topic to topic, and Frank was delighted to find his fair companion wondrously well informed on subjects such as are given little attention by most young girls. She could even talk politics rationally, and she rather worsted Frank on a tariff discussion.
"You are beyond my comprehension," he declared, admiringly. "Where you ever learned so much is more than I can understand."
"Do you fancy that young men are the only ones who know things? If you do, you are sure to find there are others—— Oh, dear! there I go again."
Having become so well acquainted, Frank asked if she were bound for San Francisco, and, to his disappointment, she informed him that Carson City was her destination.
The conductor came through the train for tickets. Frank had his ready, and the girl began searching for hers, but had not found it when the conductor came along.
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, and Frank was about to offer to aid her, if she needed a loan, when she opened her purse and took out several bills, every one of them new and crisp, and of large denominations.
"The smallest I have is fifty dollars," she said. "Papa gave me large bills, as he said they would not be so bulky."
"I can't change a bill of that size," said the conductor.
"I can," put in Frank, immediately producing his pocketbook. "I will break it for you."
So he took the new bank-note, and gave her two twenties, a five and five ones for it, enabling her to pay her fare without difficulty.
The conductor gave the girl a rebate ticket and passed on.
"Thank you so much!" she said to Frank. "I believe I may have trouble in getting those large bills broken. Would you mind giving me small bills for another fifty?"
Frank did not mind, and he gave them.
Thereby hangs a tale.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXVI.
FRIENDS AND FOES.
The Pacific Express drew into Reno on time, and Frank Merriwell was about to bid adieu to the beautiful girl whom he had first met the day before.
"I shall not soon forget this pleasant journey," he said, sincerely. "Your company has made it very agreeable, Miss—Isban."
Somehow, he stumbled over that name, to which he had taken such a strong dislike.
"Thank you," she said, and he half fancied her lip quivered a bit. "You have been very kind, Mr. Merriwell."
Frank's heart fluttered a bit; the train was drawing into the station; the boy leaned toward her, his eyes shining, a flush in his cheeks.
"And now we are to say good-by, without the least probability of ever seeing each other again," he said, his voice not quite steady.
She turned away for a moment, and then, as she turned back, she swiftly said:
"It is possible we may never see each other again, but you have given me your home address, and you say any letter I may send will be forwarded to you. You may hear from me—some time."
"I may—but if you would promise to write——"
"I have told you I cannot promise that."
"And you will not give me your address?"
"I cannot for reasons known to myself. Do not ask me."
"Miss Isban, I believe you are in trouble—some things you have told me have led me to believe so. If you need a friend at any time, let me hear from you."
She gave him her hand, looked straight into his eyes, and said:
"I will."
The brakeman thrust open the door and shouted:
"Reno. Change here for Carson, Virginia City, Candelaria and Keeler."
The train came to a dead stop.
Frank escorted Isa from the car, carrying her traveling bag, which he gave to her when the station platform was reached.
"Remember!" he breathed in her ear.
Her hand touched his, she smiled into his eyes, whispering:
"I will! Good-by."
He lifted his hat, as she turned away.
At that moment a youth came hurrying forward, lifted his hat, his face radiant, and accosted Isa:
"Vida," he said, "I am here. You did not come when you said, but I have been watching for you."
Frank staggered back.
"Cæsar's ghost!" he palpitated. "Is it possible, or do my eyes deceive me? Can that be Bart Hodge, my schoolmate, chum, and comrade of Fardale? As I live, I believe it is! And he knows Miss Isban! What's the matter? She does not seem to know him!"
The girl had drawn back, with an expression of alarm.
"I think you have made a mistake, sir," she said, rather haughtily.
"A mistake!" gasped the handsome youth, astonished and dismayed. "Why, you know me! There is no mistake."
"But there is. I do not know you."
"Vida, you say that? Why, I am——"
"An impertinent young scoundrel!"
Smack!—an open hand struck Bart Hodge on the cheek, sending him reeling. The blow was delivered by a large man, with a heavy black mustache and the manner and appearance of a "gentleman rowdy." His clothes were flashy, and he "sported" several large diamonds.
Frank was not the boy to stand idle and see a friend struck. Without a word he made a leap for the big man. His fist was clinched, his arm shot out, and his knuckles took the fellow under the left ear.
It was a beautiful knock-down blow. The man measured his length on the platform in an instant.
"All aboard!"
The train was about to start, the conductor was giving the signal.
"Let it go," said Frank, quietly. "It is possible I had better stay here and see this matter through. Bart may need me."
The train began to move.
With a cry of dismay, the girl had knelt beside the fallen man.
A bit dazed, Bart Hodge had faced around in time to see Frank strike that telling blow. Bart stared, almost doubting the evidence of his eyes.
"Great guns!" he gasped.
Then he sprang forward, his hand outstretched, shouting:
"Frank Merriwell!"
"Bart Hodge!"
They shook hands, both laughing forth their delight.
"You are a sight for sore eyes, old man!" cried Bart.
"You're another!" flung back Frank.
The man with the black mustache pushed away the girl and sat up, staring, in a dazed way, at the two boys.
"Who struck me?" he asked.
"I believe I had that pleasure," smiled Frank.
"You? Did you knock me down? Why, you're a kid! I can kill you with one blow!"
He got upon his feet, his face dark as a thundercloud.
The girl caught him by the arm, crying, in distress:
"Don't Paul—don't harm him! He has been kind to me on the train. I beg you not to hurt him!"
This seemed to anger the man still more.
"Kind to you, eh?" he snarled. "And the other one tried to flirt with you. I will——"
His hand went round to his hip, and there was a mad, deadly gleam in his eyes. He looked murderous.
Neither of the boys made a move to draw a weapon.
"I wouldn't do it," said Frank, coolly. "I know this section of the country is called 'the wild and woolly West,' but it is not sufficiently wild and woolly to overlook a cold-blooded murder. If you take a fancy to shoot two boys you will be pretty sure to get yourself beautifully hanged."
"Oh, I won't shoot!" growled the man, his hand dropping away from his hip. "But I will——"
"Easy, there!" came sharply from the lips of a police officer. "Somebody is going to get yanked here."
He forced his way through the crowd that had formed a circle about the principal actors on the scene.
"Who is talking about shooting here?" he demanded. "Where is the man who carries concealed weapons?"
"Come
away, Paul," whispered the girl, pulling at the man's arm.
"All right," he muttered—"all right, but there are other days. Those young whelps had better keep out of my way."
"Disperse, here!" ordered the officer, commandingly, flourishing his stick. "Be lively about it, too."
The crowd began to disperse.
The big man turned away, and the girl took his arm. Bart Hodge took a step after them, but Frank caught hold of his arm, saying, sharply:
"Easy, old boy! Let her go."
"But——"
"Are you looking for further trouble right here?"
"No, but——"
"Then mind me."
"I suppose I'll have to, as you always were the boss. But I know that girl, and she refused to recognize me."
"Well, what do you think you can do about it?"
"I was going to demand an explanation, and——"
"You would have received it—from the man who accompanies her."
Frank drew Bart away, but the latter still grumbled.
"If you understood it—if you knew, Frank. Why, I have chased across the continent to meet her, and then to have her cut me dead! It is terrible!"
Frank smiled.
"I should fancy it would seem a bit hard," he confessed. "But you may have made a mistake."
"Not much!"
"Still, it is possible you did, Bart—it is probable."
"Probable! Get out! I——"
"Wait a minute. It happens that I am slightly acquainted with the young lady."
"You? She never mentioned you to me."
"Still, I am slightly acquainted with her," smiled Frank, who knew well enough why she had never mentioned him. "I heard you call her Vida, and——"
"That is her name—Vida Melburn."
"It's just as I thought—you have mistaken this girl for some one else. The name of this young lady is Isa Isban."
"Impossible!"
"It is the truth. I traveled with her from Ogden, and she left me a moment before you observed her. Now, I know what I am talking about, and you are twisted, old boy."
Bart smote his hands together, his dark eyes glowing.
"I will not believe it yet; but, if it is true, there are two girls in the world who look exactly alike."
Frank Merriwell's Bravery Page 19