"We must aid him!" cried Frank.
"Thot's right," agreed Barney.
"It's too late," declared Old Solitary.
"Too late—why?"
"Long before we can get down into the valley the boy will be killed or captured."
"And must we remain idle and witness the butchery? It is terrible! I feel that I must do something."
"An' Oi fale th' soame, Frankie, me b'y."
"Look again," directed the strange man of the mountains. "The boy has discovered his enemies. See—he has leaped behind some rocks! Graves is with him. The man is playing his part still. It must be that the boy has called on his enemies to halt. They are hiding. See there! one of them is preparing to shoot at the boy. Watch! The boy will be killed! No, he has changed his position. The man fired too late."
Frank and Barney were intensely excited as they watched what was taking place in the canyon. Clyde, after leaping to the shelter of the rocks, had changed his position just in time to save himself from being shot. One of the Danites took careful aim, a puff of smoke shot from the muzzle of his rifle, and, some time later, the report of the weapon reached the ears of the trio at the mouth of the cave.
But Providence must have watched over Walter Clyde then, for the boy moved a moment before the rifle sent forth its dead messenger, and he escaped the bullet.Whirling swiftly, he brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, and fired straight into the midst of the puff of smoke.
"Hurro!" shouted Barney.
"He nailed the wretch!" cried Frank, with satisfaction.
It was true, Clyde's bullet knocked the man over in a twinkling, and he lay writhing amid the rocks.
"He is a brave boy," muttered Old Solitary. "It is a pity he cannot escape! He is but one of hundreds of brave hearts butchered by the Danites."
There was a lull far across the canyon.
"What is coming now?" speculated Frank. "The Danites seem dazed."
"Look, and you shall see what is coming," said Old Solitary, his fingers again closing on our hero's arm. "You can see Clyde's companion, the treacherous Graves. Watch; ah! I knew it!"
Graves was seen to rise behind Clyde, uplift some weapon in his hand, and strike the boy prostrate.
Then, with a yell that faintly reached the ears of the watching three, the Danites scrambled over the rocks.
"The tragedy is over," said Old Solitary, solemnly. "The deadly work is done. Poor boy!"
"Poor boy!" echoed Frank.
"It's dearly th' spalpanes will pay fer this noight!" grated Barney Mulloy. "It's nivver a bit will Oi hesitate about stoppin' wan av th' divvils from b'rathin' av Oi get a chance."
"I do not think my conscience will trouble me much if I am forced to finish one of them," said Frank, huskily.
"They are beasts—human beasts!" declared Old Solitary. "It is not a sin to place such where they can do no harm to the rest of the world."
"Sin!" exclaimed Barney. "It's a deed av charity!"
The Danites were seen leaning over their victim. In afew moments they lifted Clyde to his feet, and then it was evident that the boy had not been slain outright, but had been stunned long enough for them to make him their captive.
"It were better if they had killed him quickly," said Old Solitary.
"I don't know about that," panted Frank. "Where there is life there is hope."
"All who enter this canyon may leave hope behind."
"Av they let th' poor lad live till to-night, we'll do our bist fer him," said Barney.
"That we will," nodded Frank.
Clyde seemed to have recovered, and now he was marched along in the midst of his captors, who moved straight toward the pocket where the homes of the Danites were located.
For all of their situation, Frank Merriwell had not given up hope. He was young, and he still believed that all evil things come to an evil end, and all good things eventually triumph. He had not grown cynical and pessimistic.
Drawing back into the mouth of the cave, the trio watched the Danites march across the canyon with their captive.
Graves was with the men, and he no longer pretended to be friendly to the boy. At last Clyde knew him for what he actually was.
At length the entire party passed from view on their way to the pocket.
Then Old Solitary led the boys back into the cave, where they ate breakfast, such as it was, and attempted to lay plans for the coming night.
It was a long, dreary, wretched day they spent in the cave. Many times they went to the opening where theycould look down into the Danite village. Once they saw Uric Dugan, and once they saw Miskel, his daughter.
But the day passed on, and, to their intense relief, they saw nothing to indicate that the captives were executed.
Night came at last.
The boys were eager to be astir. Their blood was throbbing hotly in their veins, and they felt capable of any deed of daring.
They looked to their weapons, making sure everything was ready for business, and then they followed Old Solitary from the cave.
The descent was slow and tedious, fraught with much peril, and long in the accomplishment. To the eager boys, it seemed that they would never get down.
The task was finally accomplished, and then they moved onward, with Old Solitary in the lead.
They had not gone far when a gasp of astonishment came from Frank's lips, and he clutched Barney, softly crying:
"Look up there! What do you make of that?"
Barney looked upward, as directed, and, high in the air, he saw a bright light that was swiftly settling toward the earth.
"It's a shooting shtar, begobs!" exclaimed the Irish lad.
"Not much!" broke from Frank. "That is no star. It looks like a light, with a reflector behind it."
"Well, who knows but thot's th' woay a shtar looks?"
"It is not a star," said Old Solitary; "but what it is I cannot say."
"I know!" cried Frank.
"What is it, then?"
"TheEagle."
"What is theEagle?"
"An air ship."
Old Solitary gave a muttered exclamation of incredulity.
"Impossible!"
"It is not impossible," asserted Frank. "It was in theEaglethat we came here from Blake."
"Thot's roight," agreed Barney.
Then in a few words Frank told the man of their trip from Blake, how Professor Scudmore had gone mad, and how they had captured the ship from the professor, who afterward escaped and got away with theEaglein the night.
The boy's apparent sincerity convinced Old Solitary that he spoke the truth, and by the time Frank had finished, the air ship had settled close to the earth. They could see its outlines through the darkness, and could see a man in the car.
TheEaglecame down gently, and the man stepped out.
"It was somewhere amid these mountains that I left those poor boys," he murmured. "There is not one chance in ten thousand that I shall ever find them again."
"You have stumbled on that one chance," said Frank, speaking distinctly, and advancing fearlessly toward the man.
"Eh!"
Professor Scudmore seemed on the point of leaping into the air ship and taking to flight, but he suddenly changed his mind.
"Can't get away quick enough to escape," he said. "Have let off enough gas so the ballast brought her down, and I could not throw out the rest of the ballast and get away. If enemies come, I am lost."
"We are not enemies," assured Frank. "We are the boys you left not many miles from here."
"It can't be possible!" cried the lank professor, in the greatest surprise and delight. "Then this is the work of Providence—it must be!"
His joy was almost boundless.
"I was mad at the time," he explained; "I must have been. Otherwise, I'd never done such a thing. I came to my sober senses after a time, and then I resolved to come back here, hoping to find you, but not expecting to."
"Begorra! ye done a great thrick thot toime!" put in Barney Mulloy. "Frankie, me b'y we'll get away in th''Agle, an' th' Danite thot catches us will have to have wings."
"That is right," said Frank. "This will provide a means of escape for us, if the professor will take us along."
"I am here to take you along," assured Scudmore.
"But we cannot go till we have done our best to rescue Professor Scotch and Walter Clyde."
"Roight, me lad."
They then explained to Scudmore what had happened to the professor and the boy.
"If my gas generator is all right, so I can inflate theEagleto its full extent, I shall be able to take four persons with me," said the tall professor. "While you are doing your best to rescue the captives, I will remain here and try to put the ship in condition to sail at short notice."
He seemed perfectly sane, and there was nothing to do but to trust him, and so this plan was agreed to by the boys.
Old Solitary kept in the background, saying nothing.
When everything was arranged, Frank and Barney left the professor, and once more followed the strange man of the canyon on their way to the village of the Danites.
They urged Old Solitary to lose no time, for they wereeager to do their best in the effort to save Professor Scotch and Walter Clyde and get away from the canyon.
It was not long before they drew near the pocket, and they advanced with great caution, although it was not thought absolutely necessary, as there was not one chance in a hundred that the Danites would expect them to make such an audacious attempt.
Deep in the canyon the shadows lay thick, which was to their advantage. They succeeded in entering the pocket without being challenged.
Lights twinkled from two or three windows. Somewhere in the village a beautiful but untrained voice was singing the chorus of a love song.
"That is Miskel," whispered Frank.
They lay in the darkness, watching and waiting.
Of a sudden an unexpected thing happened. The door of the very building into which Professor Scotch had been carried was flung wide open, allowing a broad bar of light to shine out. Then, out of this lighted doorway streamed a dozen men, and a bell began to clang in a doleful manner.
"What does it mean?" whispered Frank, wonderingly.
"It means that the tribunal of death has pronounced doom upon the captives," answered Old Solitary. "The session has just broken up, and the captives will be executed without delay."
"How do you know?"
"I have witnessed other executions here."
"Then no time is to be lost."
"What would you do?"
"I do not know—something, anything to save them!"
Old Solitary held Frank back.
"Do not throw your life away," he said. "Wait a while. See, they are lighting two bonfires, the piles of wood having been prepared in advance."
"What is that for?"
"That there may be plenty of light for the execution, which the entire camp will witness. See, a few moments ago the place seemed asleep, but now it is all astir with life."
"I see," groaned the wretched boy; "and it seems to me that there is very little chance for us to get in there and save Scotch and Clyde."
"Not one chance in a hundred. See those two posts in the full glare of light? Well, to those posts the captives are to be tied. It is plain that the tribunal have doomed them to death by shooting. What a farce!"
"That's right!" grated Frank; "it is a farce! As well might they have killed them in the first place. There was no chance for them to escape."
"Not the least."
"Look, Frankie," whispered Barney, "there comes th' poor profissor, an' Cloyde is clost behindt him."
The Danites were marching their captives out to execution!
In a very few moments the professor and the boy were tied to the death-posts.
Uric Dugan directed the movements of the Danites.
"Where is Miskel?" hoarsely breathed Frank. "Will she do nothing to prevent this?"
"She has done all she could," muttered Old Solitary. "It is probable she was not aware the tribunal was in progress. She will be prevented from interfering now."
And now six men, with rifles in their hands, formed a line in front of the prisoners.
Everything was done with startling swiftness.
Frank Merriwell was trembling with eagerness and excitement, and he appealed to Old Solitary:
"Are we to remain inactive and see this frightful deed? Are we to do nothing now that we are here?"
"We will do what we can," declared the strange man. "The time has come for Dugan's career to end! I feel that I must strike. He shall never give the fatal signal!"
The man lifted his old rifle, and the hammer clicked as he cocked it.
Dugan stepped forth to give the signal, and his harsh voice rang out distinctly:
"Ready!"
The firing squad lifted their rifles.
"Take aim!"
The fatal moment was at hand.
The butt of Old Solitary's rifle came to the man's shoulder. He was resting on one knee, and the weapon was held as steady as the hills. "One!" counted Dugan.
It was the last word he ever uttered, for a spout of flame leaped from the muzzle of Old Solitary's weapon, and the bullet sped on its fatal mission.
Without a cry or a groan, Dugan flung up his hands and plunged headlong upon his face.
There was a wild shriek, and the form of a girl rushed into the firelight. Down beside the fallen man she dropped, lifting his head and staring wildly into his face.
It was Miskel, but she could not save her wicked father, for the aim of Old Solitary had been accurate.
The Danites were thrown into the greatest confusion, and Frank Merriwell held back no longer.
"Come on, Barney!" he shouted.
"Oi'm wid yez!" assured the undaunted Irish lad.
Forward they rushed, each firing a shot as they did so, and adding to the dismay of the Danites.
Straight up to Professor Scotch ran Frank, and, with one slash of a sharp knife he had drawn, he released the man.
Barney did the same thing for Walter Clyde, and the two were set at liberty before the Danites realized what was happening. Then bullets began to whistle around them.
At that moment a wild, strange cry cut the night air, filling the hearts of the Danites with the utmost terror.
It was the war cry of the Navajoes!
A hundred dusky forms seemed to materialize from the darkness, and a hundred savage warriors, deadly enemies of the Danites, came charging into the camp.
Old Solitary had rushed to the side of Uric Dugan, into whose face he glared, as he cried:
"Look, Dugan, look! You robbed me of reason, of memory, of everything I held dear; but I have been avenged, for it was my hand that laid you low!"
"He is dead!" screamed Miskel, and she fainted on her father's body.
"Yes, he is dead!" said the avenger, in a half-regretful tone. "And he never knew who killed him."
Then he suddenly caught up the girl and rushed away into the darkness, with her flung over his shoulder.
How Frank and his companions escaped from that spot without falling before theDanitesor the savages they scarcely knew. A dozen times they fancied all was lost. They emptied their weapons, they struck down every one who blocked their way, and they finally succeeded in getting out of the pocket.
That they did so at all was due to the fact that the Navajoes, who had surprised and overcome the guard in the pass, believed they held the only exit from the canyon, which made it impossible for any one to get away, even though they might escape temporarily. If two or three were to escape for the time, the Indians felt that it was impossible for them to get away entirely.
But Professor Septemas Scudmore, with his air ship, was in the canyon, and the boys, half lugging the exhausted Professor Scotch, found him waiting for them, greatly alarmed and excited by the sounds of the battle.
"What does it mean?" cried the lank professor, as the party rushed up. "What is all that shooting and yelling?"
"There is no time to explain now," said Frank. "Get in, everybody, and let's get out of this infernal place as soon as we can! There is not a moment to lose."
"I am bewildered," declared Scudmore. "A moment ago an old man with white hair and beard rushed up to me, bearing a girl in his arms. She had fainted, and he thrust her into the car, telling me to wait for you, and take her away with us."
"It was Old Solitary, and the girl must be Miskel. Is she in the car now?"
"Yes."
"And the man?"
"He is gone."
"It was Old Solitary, sure enough, and he will be able to hide from the savages. We cannot wait for him."
"TheEaglewould not carry so many, even if we could wait. I have her inflated, and she is tied down. Get in, get in! We'll throw out every bit of ballast, and make the attempt to rise out of the canyon. It may be a failure, but I think it will succeed, if we can get high enough to strike the strong wind which is blowing above us. We can try."
They got into the car, and the bags of ballast were tossed overboard. Then the ropes were cut, and the air ship rose slowly with its heavy burden.
Four days later five persons were seated in a room in the town of Loa, which is located amid the mountains of Southern Utah. The five were Professors Scotch and Scudmore, and the three boys, Frank, Barney and Walter Clyde.
"Then you are determined to go back to Water Pocket Canyon and the place where the camp of theDaniteswas, are you, Clyde?" asked Frank.
"I shall not be satisfied till I do so," was the answer. "I must find Old Solitary, if he is living, for I believe he is my father."
"I have thought that such might be the case," said Frank. "In some way he has been wronged by Uric Dugan. He did not seem to know exactly how, but he was sure of it. It was only at times that he seemed deranged, but he did not remember much of his past."
"It would be most remarkable if he should turn out to be my father, whom I have believed dead all these years."
"It would be a miracle," declared Professor Scotch. "But do you know you can find Water Pocket Canyon again?"
"Yes, for I have Ben Barr to guide me. He will take me there."
"Well," said the little professor, "I wish you success, but I would not go back there for the worlds, and I absolutely refuse to let my boys go."
"I suppose we'll have to humor the professor in this instance," laughed Frank. "Our last escapade came near being fatal for all of us."
"You owe your salvation to Professor Septemas Scudmore," declared that individual, importantly. "But for his marvelous invention, theEagle, you would have fallen victims to untamed savages."
"Begorra, thot's roight!" nodded Barney. "Th''Agleis a great birrud."
"It is bound to make me famous the world over, and send my name ringing down the corridors of time."
"But what of poor Miskel?" asked Frank. "She is heartbroken over the death of her father. She knows nothing of the world at large, and——"
"Under the circumstances," said Walter, "I feel that it is my duty to see that she does not come to harm. As long as she wants it, she shall have a home with my folks, if she will accept."
"Be aisy, me b'y!" chuckled Barney, roguishly. "It's a swate purty face she has, an' Oi'm thinkin' ye're a bit shtuck on her."
"Oh, come!" protested Walter, blushing. "I have known her but four days, and——"
"Ye've made good progress, me lad. Oi notice thot you have done firrust-rate comfortin' her. It's an invoite to th' weddin' Oi warnt, an' Oi think Frankie would look foine as th' bist man."
"If the wedding ever takes place, you shall be invited."
The mystery of Old Solitary remains still, for he was never found; although Walter and Ben Barr did maketheir way into Water Pocket Canyon once more. The ruins of the Danite village were found, also human bones, picked clean by wolves and vultures. No living thing seemed to remain in the vicinity, and the silence and shadow of death hung over the place.
Old Solitary's cave was deserted. It is possible that, after all, the strange man fell a victim to the savages; but it is more likely that, being deranged, he was spared by them, and they made him a great medicine man among them. Perchance he is living with them to-day on the Navajo reservation.
"I think we are well out of that," said Frank, when it was all over. "I want no more of the murderous Danites."
"Humph, I told you to keep off," grunted Professor Scotch. "But you'll soon run into equal peril, I'll warrant."
"No, professor—only sight-seeing in the future."
"And where?"
"Yellowstone Park, the great National reservation."
"Hurro!" cried Barney. "Just the sphot Oi've been wantin' to see."
"Yes, I'd like to see the park myself," said the professor. "We'll be safe there."
But were they? Let us wait and see.
"Hurro!"
"What is it, Barney?"
"Boofaloes, Frankie!"
"Buffalo?"
"Sure, me b'y!"
"Where?"
Frank scrambled eagerly to the crest of the ridge on which his friend was perched.
They were in the heart of that picturesque wonderland about the head waters of the Yellowstone River, known as the National Park.
Frank had a camera slung at his back, and for three days he had been trying to get a "shot" with it at a buffalo, having been told there was a small herd of the nearly extinct creatures somewhere in that region.
Neither of the boys had the least desire to kill one of the animals, and a "shot" with the camera at close range would have satisfied them.
And now, in the grassy valley below them, at a distance of half a mile, they could see five of the animals they sought. The creatures were grazing, with the exception of the largest of the herd, which seemed to be standing on guard, now and then snuffing the wind.
The moment Frank saw them he clutched his companion, drawing him backward and down behind some bowlders.
"Pwhat's th' matther wid yez?" spluttered Barney, in surprise.
"If we expect to get near enough to photograph those creatures, we must get out of this right away."
"Whoy?"
"Did you observe the old fellow who is standing on guard? Peer out and you can see him. He is headed this way."
"Pwhat av thot? He can't see us, me b'y."
"He might not see us, but he is liable to smell us."
"At this distance? Go on wid yer foolin', Frankie!"
"I am not fooling; I am in earnest when I say he is liable to smell us. We are on the wrong side of that herd, if so few may be called a herd."
"Whoy on th' wrong soide?"
"We are to windward."
"Not doirectly."
"No, not directly. If we had been, those creatures would be scampering off already. Their sense of scent is remarkable."
"Is it a jolly ye're givin' us?"
"Not a bit of it, Barney; I am in earnest. Their power of sight is not particularly acute, but it is said that they 'can smell a man a mile.'"
"Thin how can we ivver induce th' bastes to sit fer their photygrafs?"
"We'll have to get on the other side of them, and creep up behind that small clump of timber."
"It will take an hour to get round there, me b'y."
"All of that; but I shall be well repaid if I can obtain a picture of some real wild buffalo. What a sight it must have been to behold one of those immense herds which once covered the plains 'from horizon to horizon,' as we are told. Now it is a known fact that there are less than fifty wild buffaloes in existence. A little more than fifteen years ago it was said that about three hundredthousand Indians subsisted almost entirely on the flesh of the buffalo."
"An' is thot roight?"
"It is right, Barney. The hide-hunter has destroyed the buffalo. The creatures were slaughtered by thousands, stripped of their hides, and their carcasses left to rot and make food for wolves and vultures."
"An' wur there no law to stop th' killin' av thim?"
"No. If there had been, it could not have been enforced on the great plains. The railroad, civilization, and the white man's lust for killing, which he calls sport, doomed the buffalo.
"But this is not getting a picture of 'real wild buffalo.' I have pictures of Golden Gate Pass, Fire Hole Basin, Union Geysers, and almost everything else but wild buffalo, and I have vowed I would not leave the park till I had one of the latter. Come on."
He backed from the crest of the ridge and down the slope, Barney following. In a few moments the boys could rise to their feet and make their way along.
Both were armed, for it was not known what danger they might encounter, and wild animals of all kinds were plentiful enough, from the beaver to the grizzly bear, thanks to the very effective policing of the park by two troops of United States Cavalry. Two regiments could not entirely prevent poaching, but two troops were very successful, and the boys had found sections of the American Wonderland exactly as primitive as when the lonely trapper Coulter made his famous journey through it.
Frank and Barney had taken care not to slaughter any of the game they saw, although they had been tempted by wild geese, which were so tame they would hardly get out of the way, and by deer and bears innumerable.
The lads believed in the laws which protected these creatures, and knew that this great game preserve andbreeding-ground, if not disturbed, must always give an overflow into Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho, which will make big game shooting there for years to come.
Frank led the way at a swift pace, keeping the ridge between them and the buffalo for a time, and then making use of other shelter.
It was nearly an hour before they came round to the windward side of the herd and began working in upon it.
All at once, with a low exclamation, Frank stopped, shifted his position quickly, and hissed:
"Down, Barney!"
"Pwhat is it, Frankie?"
"Be careful! Look there by the base of that bluff. Can you see them?"
"Oi see something moving. Pwhat is it?"
"Hunters, I reckon."
"Afther th' boofalo?"
"Yes. They are nearer than we are, and they will be taking a shot at the creatures in a minute. It's a shame! If the soldier-police were only here!"
"Nivver a bit do Oi loike th' oidea av seein' thim boofalo shot onliss Oi can do th' shootin'."
"No more do I, and I am not going to stand it! Come on, Barney. We'll get after those fellows. We may be able to stop them before they shoot, and then get a picture of the buffalo afterward. Lively now."
The boys sprang to their feet and went running toward the spot near the base of the bluff, where they had seen men moving. As they ran, they crouched low, holding their rifles at their sides, and taking great pains not to be seen by the buffalo. In fact, they paid so much attention to this that they did not note how near they were to the bluff, till they almost ran upon the very men they had seen moving there.
Then there was a shock and a surprise, for they found themselves face to face with a dozen Blackfeet Indians!
"Howly shmoke!" gurgled Barney, as he came to a sudden halt.
"Jupiter!" muttered Frank, also stopping quickly.
The Indians stared at them, and grunted:
"How, how! Ugh!"
One of them, a villainous-looking half-blood, spoke up:
"What white boys do? shoot buffalo?"
"No," answered Frank, promptly, "we are not here to shoot them, but we want to get a picture of them."
"Pic'ter? Hugah! No good!"
The half-blood was doubtful; he believed they had intended to shoot the buffalo, and his eyes glittered with greed as he noted the handsome rifles carried by the lads.
"Lemme looker gun," he said, stepping toward Frank, and holding out a hand, nearly one-half of which had been torn away by some accident.
Now Frank knew there would not be one chance in a thousand of getting back his rifle if he let the fellow have it, and so hedecisivelysaid:
"No, I will not let you look at it. Keep off! The soldiers will have you for killing game in this park if you do not make tracks back to your reservation."
"Ha! Soldiers fools! Half Hand not afraid of soldier. He watch up. They be way off there to north, ten, twenty, thirty mile. No soldiers round—nobody round. White boy lemme looker gun."
Again he advanced, his manner aggressive, and the boys realized they were in a decidedly perilous situation.
"Th' spalpane manes ter kape it av he gits his hand on it," whispered Barney. "It's murther he has in his oies."
Frank knew well enough that Barney was right, and he had no intention of relinquishing his hold on his rifle for a moment. He fell back a step, lifting the weapon in a suggestive manner, and Half Hand halted, scowling blackly and smiling craftily by turns.
"Hold up!" came sharply from the lips of the boy. "Keep your distance, or you will get damaged."
"Ha! White boy threaten Half Hand! Be careful! Half Hand good when him not threatened; heap bad when him threatened. White boys two; Injuns big lot more. White boys make Injuns mad, then where um be?"
"I have no desire to make you mad, but this is my rifle, and I mean to keep it."
"Half Hand want to look."
"You may look at a distance, but you can't lay a hand on it."
"White boy heap 'fraid. Give gun back pretty quick bimeby."
"I fancy it would be bimeby. No, you cannot take it, and that settles it."
"Mebbe Half Hand trade with boy."
"I do not wish to trade."
"Mebbe Half Hand give um heap good trade."
"Possibly, but that makes no difference."
"White boy fool!" snarled the half-blood. "If umdon't lemme take gun, Half Hand take it anyhow, and then white boy no git a thing for it."
This was quite enough to startle Frank, and he sharply declared:
"If you attempt to take this rifle, you will get a pill out of it in advance! That is straight business, Mr. Half Hand."
"Hurro!" cried Barney, his fighting blood beginning to rise. "Av it's foight ye want, ye red nagurs, jist wade roight inter us! We'll give ye all th' foight ye want, begobs!"
The Blackfeet jabbered among themselves a minute, and it was plain that they were not all of one mind. Some seemed to be for attacking the boys, while others opposed it. Half Hand hotly urged them on.
"Fall back," said Frank, speaking softly to the Irish lad. "Be ready for a rush. If they come, give it to them. I will take Half Hand myself. You take the fellow with the red feather. If they kill us, we'll have the satisfaction of getting two or three of them in advance."
The boy's voice was cool and steady, and his nerves seemed of iron. He glanced over his shoulder in search of some place of shelter, but could discover none near by, much to his disappointment.
Barney was also cool enough, although the hot blood was rushing swiftly through his veins. He was holding himself in check, in imitation of his friend and comrade.
In truth, the two lads were in a tight corner. It was plain that the Indian poachers were made up of rebellious Blackfeet, who could not be kept on the reservation, and their faces showed they were the very worst sort. Having been caught almost in the act of killing game within the park, and believing the two lads had no friends near by, the dusky villains might not hesitate at outright murder spurred on by their greed for plunder, lust for blood,and a desire to keep the boys from notifying the soldiers of the presence of Indians on forbidden ground.
Frank fully understood their peril, and he felt that they would be lucky indeed if they escaped with their lives.
He blamed himself for running into the trap in such a blind manner, and still he felt that he was not to blame. He had seen moving figures at a distance, and, as the Indians were keeping under cover, in order to creep upon the buffalo, he had no more than caught a glimpse of them. They were dressed in clothes they had obtained by trade or plunder from white men, and so, at a distance and under such circumstances, it was not remarkable that Frank had not noted they were savages.
In a few moments Half Hand seemed to bring the most of the Indians to his way of thinking, and he again turned on the boys.
"Good white boys," he croaked, craftily. "Don't be 'fraid of Injuns. Injuns won't hurt um."
"We are not afraid of you," returned Frank; "but you want to keep your distance, or you will get hurt by us."
"Thot's roight, begorra!" cried Barney, fingering his Winchester. "It's stoofed to th' muzzle, this ould shootin' iron is, wid grapeshot an' canister, an' av Oi leggo wid it, there won't be a red nagur av yez left on his pins."
"Injuns want to talk with white boys,"said the half-blood, edging nearer, inch by inch. "Injuns want to hold powwow."
"We are not at all anxious to hold a powwow with you. Stand where you are!"
Up came Frank's rifle a bit.
It was plain that the red ruffians meant to make an assault, and the moment was at hand. They were handling their weapons in a way that told how eager some of them were to shed the blood of the boys.
Barney, in his characteristic, devil-may-care manner, began to hum, "My Funeral's To-morrow." He seemed utterly unable to take matters seriously, however great the danger.
A moment before the rush and encounter must have taken place, all were startled to hear a merry, childish laugh, and a voice saying:
"I knowed I'd find tomebody tomewhere. I wants to tome down. Tate me down, please."
On the top of the bluff, forty feet above the heads of the Indians, stood a little girl, dressed in white. She had golden hair and blue eyes, and, on her lofty perch, she looked like a laughing fairy.
"Mother av Mowses!" gurgled Barney.
"A child!" exclaimed Frank, astonished. "Here!"
The Indians muttered and hesitated. Half Hand still urged them on, but it was plain that they believed there was a party of white persons near at hand, and they feared to attack the boys. The urging of the half-blood was in vain, and he was forced to give it up.
Then he turned fiercely on the boys, snarling:
"Good thing for you your friends come! They no come, we kill you and take your guns! Mebbe we see you 'gain some time bimeby."
Then the Indians turned and quickly scudded away, soon disappearing from view amid some pines.
Frank drew a breath of relief.
"That was a close shave," he muttered.
"Begorra! It was thot," nodded Barney. "Av it hadn't been fer th' litthle girrul, we'd lost our scoolps Oi belave."
"The little girl!" exclaimed Frank. "She appeared like a good fairy, and——"
"Dat's my name. Mamma talls me Fairy Fay."
She was still standing on the bluff, and she had heardFrank's words. Now she held out her arms to him, crying:
"Tome tate me down. I wants to tome down."
"Get back from the edge, dear," Frank quickly called. "You may fall. We will come up to you as soon as possible."
"Tome wight away."
"Yes, we will come right away."
"I's tired playing all alone—an' I's hundry," said the sweet little voice. "I's awsul hundry. You dot somet'ing dood to eat?"
"You shall have something to eat very soon, if you will keep back from the edge, so you'll not fall down," assured Frank.
He then directed Barney to remain there and watch her, cautioning her to keep back, while he found a way to reach the top of the bluff.
Frank hastened away, looking for some mode of getting there. In a short time, he found a place to ascend, and lost no time in doing so.
When he came panting to the top of the bluff, the little girl was waiting, having seated herself contentedly on a stone, where she could call down to Barney.
Seeing Frank, she held out her arms, crying:
"I's awsul glad you tome! I'll be your Fairy now."
"You have been my good fairy to-day, little one," he earnestly said, as he lifted her in his arms and kissed her cheek. "Without doubt you saved my life."
"Mamma says I's pritty dood Fairy all the time."
"I haven't a doubt of it."
"But I's awsul hundry now. I touldn't find mamma, and I walked and walked, and I falled down and tored my dress, and I dot tired and awsul hundry, and I cwyed some, and nen I 'membered mamma told me it wasn'tnice to cwy, and I walked again, and I heard somebody talkin', and I looked down and it was you."
She ended with a happy laugh, clasping her arms about his neck.
"Where is your mamma?"
"Oh, I don't know now," she answered, a little cloud coming to her face. "I touldn't find her. You tate me to her."
"You do not live near here?"
"We live in New Yort."
"New York?"
"Yeth, thir. Dat's a dreat bid place wif lots and lots of houses."
"Then you must be traveling with your mamma?"
"I's trafeling wizout her now. We has had jes' the longest wides on the cars. And we stopped in lots of places, but we didn't find papa."
"Then your papa is not with you?"
"Papa goed away long time ago, and that made mamma cwy. I seed her weadin' a letter and cwyin' awsul hard, and papa didn't tome bat some more. You know where to find my papa?"
"No, little one, I do not; but I will help you find your mother. What did you say your name is?"
"Fay. Tometimes mamma talls me Fairy."
"What is all your name—the rest of it besides Fay?"
"Why, jes' Fairy. I's awsul hundry. Dot a tookie?"
Finding himself unable to learn her full name from her lips, Frank started for the foot of the bluff, bearing her in his arms.
Barney was waiting, and he drew a breath of relief when Frank appeared with the child.
"Oi wur afraid th' litthle darlint would tumble off bafore ye could rache her," he said.
"But I tept wight away from the edge, same as you toldt me to," chirped Fay, cheerfully. "If I did tumbled, you tould catch me."
"Begorra! Oi wur ready to thry it, me swate."
"You never wanted to see me fall and hurt myself bad, did you?"
"Nivver a bit."
Frank told Barney how much he had been able to learn from her lips, and they were not long in deciding it would be folly for them to attempt to find Fay's mother.
"The guide is the one to do that," said Frank.
"Roight, me b'y. Ould Rocks knows ivery inch av th' parruk."
"Then we had better return to camp at once."
"Sure."
"But the buffalo—I had forgotten them. We have not obtained that picture."
"An' nivver a bit we will this doay, Frankie."
"Why not?"
"Th' boofalo have shkipped."
"Gone?"
"Thot's roight."
"Too bad!"
Frank felt that he must satisfy himself with his owneyes, and so he hastened to a spot that commanded a view of the place where the creatures had been feeding.
Sure enough, they were gone.
"That's hard luck!" he muttered. "Here we have been hanging a whole week in the park just to enable me to get a snap at some of the creatures, and we lost our only opportunity. Well, I suppose we should be satisfied to get off with our lives."
He knew this was true, and so there was reason to be thankful, instead of grumbling.
He returned to where Barney was talking to Fay. The child was anxiously watching Frank's movements.
"You ain't doin' away and leave me, is you?" she asked.
"No, dear."
"I was 'fraid so, and I's awsul hundry."
"An' wouldn't ye go wid me av Oi'd take ye where ye'd get plinty to ate?" asked the Irish lad.
"Him tome, too?" She held out her hands to Frank.
"An' wouldn't ye go av he didn't come?"
"I dess not," she said. "I like you pitty well; but I kinder like him better. Him goin' to find my mamma. I dess him dit me somefin to eat."
Frank caught her up in his arms.
"Yes, dear," he laughed, his heart swelling with a feeling that convinced him he would lay down his life in defense of her, if needs be. "I will find you something to eat as soon as possible, and I will take you to your mother."
"Dat's all wight. I ain't doin' to cwy. You don't like little dirls we'en they cwy, does you?"
"In your case, I do not think crying would change my feelings. Little girls have to cry sometimes."
"I dess dat's wight," said Fay, very soberly.
Frank surrendered his rifle to Barney, who insisted ontaking the camera also, and then, with the child in his arms, followed the Irish lad on the return tramp to camp.
It proved to be a long, tiresome trudge, and the sun was setting when the boys came in sight of a white tent that was pitched near a spring of cool water and a growth of pines down in a pretty valley.
Once or twice Fay had murmured that she was "so hundry," but when the camp was sighted, she was asleep in Frank's arms, her head of tangled golden curls lying on his shoulder.
A fire was blazing in front of the tent, sending a thin column of smoke straight up into the still air.
Near the fire, with a pipe in his mouth, was sitting a grizzled old man, whose appearance indicated that he was a veteran of the mountains and plains.
This was Roxy Jules, generally known as "Old Rocks." He was one of the professional guides who make a business of taking parties of tourists through the park and showing them its wonders.
Between two trees a hammock was strung, and another man, a little fellow with fiery-red hair and whiskers, was reclining. Gold-bowed spectacles were perched on his nose, and he was studying a book.
All at once Old Rocks gave a queer kind of a grunt. As it did not arouse the man in the hammock, he grunted again. That not proving effectual, he growled:
"Wa-al, I wonders whut kind o' game them yar kids hev struck now?"
"Eh?" exclaimed the little man. "Did you speak to me? My name is Scotch, as you very well know—Professor Horace Scotch."
"Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, with a sly grin, "I reckons I has heard them yar boys call yer Hot Scotch enough to know whut yer handle is."
"Those boys are very disrespectful—very! Theyshould be called to account. I object to such familiarity from others, sir—I distinctly object."
Old Rocks grunted derisively, having come to regard the timid little man with contempt, which was natural with him, as he looked with disfavor on all "tenderfeet."
That grunt stirred the blood of the quick-tempered little man, who sat up, snapping:
"I should think there was a pig somewhere round, by the sounds I hear!"
The guide grunted again.
"I detest pigs!" fumed Scotch. "They're always grunting."
"Thar's only one thing I dislike wuss'n pigs," observed Old Rocks, lazily.
"What is that, sir; what is that?"
"Hawgs," answered the guide, with his small, keen eyes fixed on the professor. "Of course, I don't mean to be personal, nor nawthing, an' I don't call no names; but ef you want ter know who I mean, you kin see whar I'm lookin'."
"This in an insult!" squealed the little man, snapping himself out of the hammock. "I'll discharge you at once, sir—at once!"
"All right. Just you pay me whut you owe me, an' I'll leave ye ter git out o' ther park ther best way ye derned kin. You'll hev a heap o' fun doin' it."
The professor blustered about, while Old Rocks sat and smoked, a patronizing smile on his leathery face.
Suddenly Scotch observed the approaching boys, and saw the child Frank carried in his arms.
"Goodness!" gurgled the little man, staring. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, you have jest woke up!" said the guide, continuing to pull at his black pipe. "I wuz tryin' to call your'tention to thet thar. Whut has ther boy found? An' whar did he find it?"
"You know quite as well as I. It is surprising—very much so!"
Frank and Barney came up, and explanations followed. Old Rocks pricked up his ears when Frank told of the Blackfeet, and how near they came to having a fight with the Indians.
"Is thet onery skunk in hyar again?" exclaimed the guide. "Why, he's wuss'n sin, is ole Half Hand. He'd ruther cut a throat than do anything else, an' ye're derned lucky ter git away. It wuzn't by yer own nerve ye done it, howsomever. Ef ther gal hedn't 'peared jest as she did, you'd both be food fer coyotes now."
"Two or three Indians, at least, would have kept us company," declared Frank.
Old Rocks grunted.
"Yah! I'll bet a hawse you wuz so derned scat ye shivered clean down ter yer toes. Ef ther red skunks hed made a run fer ye, ye'd drapped right down on yer marrerbones an' squealed."
A bit of warm color came to Frank's face, and he said:
"It is plain you have a very poor opinion of my courage."
Barney was angry, and he roared:
"Oi'd loike ter punch yer head fer yez, ye ould haythen! It's mesilf thot's got nerve enough fer thot!"
This awakened Fay, who looked about in a wondering manner with her big, blue eyes, and then half sobbed:
"Where is my mamma? I was jes' finkin' I was wiz her, and she was divin' me somefin' dood to eat. I's awful hundry!"
In the twinkling of an eye, Old Rocks changed his manner. His pipe disappeared, and he was on his feet, saying, softly:
"Don't you go to cryin', leetle gal. You shell have something to eat in abaout two shakes, an' I'll see thet you finds yer mother all right. Ye're a little angel, an' thet yar's jest what ye are!"
Straightway there was a bustle in the camp. Frank sat on the ground and entertained Fay, while Old Rocks prepared supper. The child was given some bread, and she proved that she was "awsul hundry" by the way she ate it.
There was not a person in the camp who was not hungry, and that supper was well relished.
Fay was questioned closely, but no one succeeded in obtaining much more information than Frank had already received.
When she had eaten till she was satisfied, Old Rocks tried to coax her to him, but she crept into Frank's arms and cuddled close to him, whispering:
"I likes you the bestest."
So Frank held her, and sang lullaby songs in a beautiful baritone voice, while the blue shadows settled over the valley and night came on. Long after she was sound asleep he held her and sang on, while the others listened.
Beyond the limits of the camp was a man who seemed enraptured by the songs, whose eyes were wet with tears, and whose heart was torn by the emotions which surged upward from his lonely soul.
At last little Fay was placed within the tent on the softest bed that could be prepared for her.
"In ther mornin'," said Old Rocks, "I'll hunt up her mamma."
The fire glowed pleasantly, being replenished now and then by Barney.
Professor Scotch occupied the hammock, Frank stretched himself at full length on the ground, and the guide sat with his back against a tree, still pulling away at the black pipe, his constant companion. He had smoked so much that his flesh seemed cured, like that of a ham.
At heart Old Rocks was tender as a child, but he had a way of spluttering and growling that made him seem grouty and cross-grained. He seemed to take real satisfaction in picking a quarrel with any one.
Professor Scotch was alarmed by the story Frank had told of the encounter with the Blackfeet, and he was for leaving that vicinity as soon as possible.
"Not till I get a photograph of real wild buffalo," said the boy, stiffly.
Old Rocks grunted derisively.
"I reckon you came as nigh it ter-day as ye will at all," he said. "You've clicked yer old machine at everything from one end o' ther park to t'other, an' I ain't seen nary picter yit."
"They have not been developed."
"Woosh! Whatever is thet?"
Frank explained, and the guide listened, with an expression of derision on his face.
"I'll allow you don't know northin' abaout takin' picters," drawled the man. "I hed my picter took up at Billings last winter, an' ther man as took it didn't hev ter go through no such fussin' as thet."
"How do you know?"
"Wa-al, I know."
"But how do you know?"
"I jest know, thet's how!"
Frank laughed.
"You are like some other people who know everything about anything they don't know anything about."
That was quite enough to start the old fellow, and he seemed ready to fight at the drop of the hat; but, at this moment, something happened to divert his attention.
Out of the darkness stalked a man, who calmly and deliberately advanced toward the party.
"Halt thar!" cried Old Rocks, catching up a rifle and covering the stranger.
The man did not pay the least attention to the command, but continued to advance.
"Halt, or I'll shoot!" shouted the guide.
Still the unknown refused to obey, and, to the bewilderment of Old Rocks, he walked straight up to the muzzle of the weapon, where he stopped, saying:
"I knew you wouldn't shoot. If you had, you could not have killed me. Nothing can kill me, because I have sought death everywhere, and I have not been able to find it. It is he who flees from death who finds it first."
Then he sat down.
"Wa-al, dern me!" gasped Old Rocks. "I dunno why I didn't soak yer; but thar wuz somethin' held me back."
"It was the hand of fate."
The man was dressed roughly, but he carried a handsome rifle. His wide-brimmed hat was slouched over his eyes, so the expression of his face could not have been seen very well, even if it had not been covered by a full brown beard. His hair was long and unkempt.
Having seated himself on the ground, he sat and stared into the fire for some moments before speaking again. Finally he turned a bit, saying:
"Who was singing here a short time ago?"
Frank explained that he had been singing, and the stranger said:
"I don't know why I should wish to take a look at you, for you caused me more misery than I have known for a year."
"Thot's a compliment fer ye're singing, Frankie!" chuckled Barney.
"I tried not to listen," said the stranger; "but I could not tear myself away. What right has a man without a home to listen to songs that fill his soul with memories of home and little ones!"
He bowed his face on his hands, and his body shook a bit, betraying that he was struggling to suppress his emotions.
After a moment, Old Rocks said:
"I reckons I knows yer now. You're the hermit."
The man did not stir or speak.
"Ain't yer the hermit?" asked the guide.
"Yes," was the bitter reply, "I am a man without a home or a name. Some have said that there is trouble with my brain, but they are wrong. I am not deranged. This is the first time in a year that I have sought the society of human beings, unless it was to trade for such things as I need to sustain life. It was those songs that brought me here. They seemed to act like a magnet, and I could not keep away."
Then he turned to Frank, and asked him to sing one of the lullabys over again.
For all of his peculiar manner, the man seemed sane enough, and the boy decided to humor him.
Frank sang, and the man sat and listened, his face still bowed on his hands. When the song was ended, and the last echo had died out along a distant line of bluffs, the man still sat thus.
Those who saw him were impressed. Beyond a doubt, this man had suffered some great affliction that had caused him to shun his fellows and become one "without a home or a name."
All at once, with a deep sigh, he rose. He was finely built, and, properly dressed and shaved, he must have been handsome.
"Thank you," he said, addressing Frank. "I will not trouble you longer. I am going now."
"Look yar," broke in Old Rocks, in his harsh way; "I wants ter warn you ag'in comin' round yere ther way you done a short time ago. It ain't healthy none whatever."
"What do you mean?"
"Jest this: I might take a fancy ter shoot fust an' talk it over arterward. I don't want ter shoot yer."
A strange, sad smile came to the man's face.
"You need not fear," he said. "If you were to shoot at me, you would not hit me."
The guide gave a snort.
"Whut's thet?" he cried. "I allow you hain't seen me shoot any to speak of, pard. I ain't in ther habit of missin'."
"That makes no difference. A man who seeks death cannot die. Fate would turn your bullet aside."
"Wa-al, I don't allow thet I wants ter try it, fer Fatemight not be quick enough. Jest you keep away, 'less you hollers out ter let us know when ye're comin'."
As the hermit turned away he happened to glance into the tent, the front of which was still open. The firelight shone in and fell on the face of the tired child, who was sleeping sweetly.
The man paused, staring at the face revealed by the flickering light. His hand was lifted to his head, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet, his face marked by a look of astonishment and pain.
Old Rocks, Professor Scotch, and the boys watched the hermit's every movement with breathless wonderment. They were impressed, they were held spellbound, they scarcely breathed.
For some moments the strange man stood there, and then, inch by inch, step by step, he advanced toward the tent. He seemed trying to hold back, yet there appeared to be some power dragging him toward the sleeping child.
Frank's first thought was that the man might harm Fay, but the look on the face of the hermit told that he had no such intention. Into the tent he crept, and he knelt beside the bed on which little Fay was sleeping, gazing longingly into her pretty face. A sob came from the depths of his broad breast, and, finally, he stooped and lightly kissed the child's cheek. As he did so, the little girl murmured in her dreams:
"Papa!"
The hermit sprang up, leaped away, and, with a low cry of intense pain, fled into the darkness.