CHAPTER XI.JUAN DELORES.
They left the big ruffian lying there in the darkness of the timber. Little Felicia was placed on the back of the mustang, beside which Frank walked, while Bart led the way along the path.
Having passed from the dark timber, they came out near the pretty little lake, which was reflecting the golden glory of the lingering sunset, flung up against the mountain-bordered sky. The crimson and amber and purple were fading from the heavens as the somber wing of night spread over the world.
“There are the Black Woods,” said the little girl, as she indicated a thick mass of trees near the head of the valley. “My home is in there.”
By the dying light Frank made out that she was very pretty, with dark hair and eyes. She had a sweet voice.
“Felicia,” he thought, as they made their way toward the woods. “The name seems to fit her. It seems strange to find such a child here.”
Merry was restraining the impatience that beset him, for now he felt that he was near the end of his long search. He had no doubt that the Good Strangerspoken of by the child was his father, who had died there in that wild but beautiful spot—died as he had lived, strangely.
There was a mystery to be unfolded, and Frank was determined to clear it up, if possible.
“Up there,” said Felicia, with a gesture, “is the place where my mama and the Good Stranger are buried.”
Frank was near the grave of his father, he believed. It was too late to visit it then; besides, Merry felt that it was his duty to take the child home without delay. Felicia had explained that her father was away at the time when the men came upon her and carried her away, having left some hours before, saying he would return ere nightfall, and warning her to stay close to her cabin home.
As they approached the Black Woods they could discern the dark opening where the trail entered. There the track was plain beneath their feet. But when they were yet a little distance from the woods a stern voice cried from the darkness of the shadows:
“Halt, dere!”
Bart stopped, his hand flying to the butt of his revolver. His rifle, swinging from the saddle of his mustang, had been lost when the escaping ruffian rode madly away on the beast.
“Don’t try to draw da gun!” came the voice fromthe woods. “Shoot mighty quick if you do! Up with da hands!”
“It’s papa!” exclaimed little Felicia. “Papa! papa!”
Bart shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands.
“T’other one put up da hands,” came the voice.
“We are friends,” declared Frank quietly. “We have just saved your child from the hands of ruffians.”
“Put up da hands!” ordered the voice, and there was a clicking that seemed to tell of a rifle being cocked. “I’ll shoot if you don’t!”
Merry stood up boldly, facing the point from which the voice came, fearlessly saying:
“If you shoot, you will fire on those who have saved your child, which will prove you a dastard. I refuse to be held up road-agent style, and shall not lift my hands. Fire if you will!”
Silence for a moment, and then, quick as thought, the child leaned over and put her arms about Merry’s neck, crying:
“Don’t, papa—don’t! He beat the big, bad man who was carrying me away!”
Another silence, and then the voice called:
“Felicia!”
“Papa!”
“Get off dat horse and come here quick-a!”
She seemed to hesitate, and then she tightened her arms about Frank’s neck, murmuring in his ear:
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll not let my papa hurt you.”
A second later she had slipped to the ground and was running toward the dark woods, into which she disappeared.
Frank and Bart stood waiting what was to follow. The sound of murmuring voices came from amid the grim old trees, and the child was heard relating to her father the story of her thrilling and exciting adventures. But it seemed that the man meditated upon the proper course to pursue, for she was forced to plead with him in behalf of Frank and Bart.
“They are good, papa—I know they are,” they heard her declare. “The one who fought so hard for me with the great, big, bad man is just as kind and gentle.”
After a time the man came forth from the darkness, leading the child by the hand, while he carried his rifle in his other hand. He seemed to be keenly on the alert, as if he did not trust the strangers, for all of the words of his child.
“I have to t’ank you,” he said, with an accent, “for what you have done. My little Felicia, she tell me. She is all I have left now. When I come on my way home and hear da shooting, my heart it jump like a frog into my mouth-a. I run home quick as I can, and call, call, call for her. She do not answer. Den I t’ink somet’ing have happen to her, and I start to rundis way fast. When I come here to da edge of da woods I see you coming dis way, and I stop. You bring my little Felicia back-a to me, and I t’ank you.”
The child seemed to look at her father in surprise, as if she were not accustomed to hearing him speak thus freely.
“We are happy to be of service to you and little Felicia, Mr. Delores,” said Merry quietly.
The man was seen to start a bit, while he gripped his rifle still harder.
“You know my name?” he said, a bit harshly.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We have come far to find you.”
This seemed to put him more than ever on his guard.
“What do you want?”
“The story is rather long,” said Merry. “There is no chance for us to get out of this valley to-night. Take us to your home and I will tell you everything. I do not think you will regret it.”
“Why should I do dat? You are strangers.”
“That is true, but you knew Charles Merriwell.”
Frank looked straight and hard at the man as he uttered the words, but, to his surprise, the father oflittle Felicia did not betray emotion of any sort—or the darkness hid his betrayal.
“Charles Merriwell?” he said. “Who you mean?”
“The Good Stranger, who lies buried over yonder.”
“What you know ’bout him?”
“He was my father.”
Little Felicia gave a cry, but the man simply said:
“How you prove dat?”
“I can prove it. I am Frank Merriwell, well known in New Haven, where I have been at college. This is my friend Bart Hodge, who will tell you whatever you wish to know about me.”
“But I know not’ing of him. Dat be no proof. Have you de word?”
“The word?”
“Dat’s what I ask.”
Frank was forced to confess that he did not know what Juan Delores meant by “the word.”
“Den you be not Frank Merriwell!” positively declared the man.
“I do not know what you mean by ‘the word.’” Merry said, “but I assure you that you are wrong about me not being Frank Merriwell.”
“He would come with da word.”
“Then you have been expecting him?”
“I no say so.”
“But you have the same as said so. There has been a failure of the plans, Mr. Delores, and that is why I do not come with the word you expect. I will explain everything to you if you will give me a chance.”
“Why should I trust-a you?”
“Your daughter, safe at your side, answers that question.”
“Follow me,” said Juan Delores, turning about.
Frank had won, and he followed, Bart striding along at his side, saying nothing, but thinking a great deal. They entered the Black Woods by the dark trail, which it was now difficult to follow, proceeding till they came to a cabin in the very midst of the growth. No light gleamed from the cabin, but Delores said:
“Dis my home. Felicia, you take da stranger in da house and make da light. I take da horse. I come prit’ quick.”
Frank surrendered the mustang to the man, and then they followed little Felicia into the cabin, wondering why the home had been built in the midst of that gloomy growth of trees.
The child found matches and lighted an oil-lamp which stood on a table in the living-room—the room they had entered. The light showed them a comfortably, even tastily, furnished room, much to their surprise. It was small, but the walls were tinted blue, the floor carpeted, and the furniture was good. Therewere handsome paintings on the walls, while at the two windows were lace curtains. A handsome piano stood in one corner of the room, opposite an open fireplace of stone.
Both Bart and Frank were surprised, and they exchanged glances which told each other their feelings.
By the light of the lamp, Merry saw that little Felicia was pretty, indeed, with a dark, oval face, and snowy white teeth.
“Let me take your hats,” she said, smiling at them. “Sit down. Papa will be right in.”
They sat down, and Merry, finding a guitar, soon occupied himself. Having tightened the strings and put the instrument in tune, he strummed lightly upon it, singing a soft little song to the girl, who came and stood near, her hands clasped, looking at him earnestly.
While Merry was singing, Juan Delores came to the door and paused a moment. He looked in and beheld the spectacle. It reassured him and banished his fears. When he came in he closed and bolted the door.
“I see you make yorse’f at home,” he said. “Good!”
He was a man with a Spanish face and deep, dark eyes. His face was not exactly handsome, and yet about it there was something fascinating. He had a mustache and imperial, which had once been coal-black, but were now heavily mixed with gray.
Delores had studied Merriwell’s face as he stood outside the door, and what he saw seemed to restore his confidence. Surely, this frank-appearing youth who was singing to Felicia could not be very bad.
But, when he looked at Bart, Delores was not so sure, for the face of Hodge was not one so easily read.
Felicia clapped her hands.
“Oh, that’s a fine song!” she cried.
“You like music, do you?”
“Oh, yes, I do! I can sing.”
“I shall be delighted to hear you sing.”
“Mama taught me,” said the little girl soberly. “She used to sing such sweet songs.”
Juan Delores had very little to say, though he lingered a while and listened to their talk. At last he said:
“I see you all right, young gentlemen. I go get da supper. Mebbe you be hungry?”
“Well,” smiled Frank, “to confess the truth, I am ravenous.”
“And I’m rather empty myself,” acknowledged Bart dryly.
“I have not much fine food,” said Delores; “but I t’ink I have somet’ing to fill you on.”
“That’s what we’re looking for, Mr. Delores,” saidMerry. “You’ll not be troubled by our fastidiousness.”
“Can I help you, papa?” asked little Felicia.
“No; you stay and make da gentlemen company.”
Then, having stood quite still and looked at Merry, the queer man suddenly held out his hand, exclaiming:
“I t’ank you, sir, for save my little girl. I love her. She is all I have left since her mother go ’way forever.”
Frank was touched.
“Don’t mention it, Delores,” he said, as he took the offered hand. “Her cry of distress appealed to me, and I was ready to fight to the death for her.”
“I know da men who were carryin’ her off,” said Felicia’s father, his eyes flashing. “Da come here an’ make da threat when da no find what da want. I go to look for dem, but I did not t’ink da get dis side of me. I t’ink my Felicia be safe.”
Then he stooped and put his arms lovingly about the little girl, whom he kissed with great tenderness.
“You knew the men?” said Merry. “What did they want?”
“Somet’ing da never get,” answered Delores. “Da big one be Gunnison Bill, da worst dog in da State!”
“That’s the one I had the fight with,” nodded Merry.
“With him? Why, he much bigger dan you!”
“Somewhat.”
“How you fight him?”
“Hand to hand. He pulled a knife on me, but I got him by the wrist and forced him to drop it.”
Delores seemed unable to believe this.
“Why, you very young!” he said. “You almost boy. Gunnison Bill, he is giant.”
“Mr. Merriwell is an athlete,” put in Hodge. “He is the champion all-round athlete of Yale—or was.”
“Mr. Merriwell!” said Delores, again looking searchingly at Frank. “Why you call him dat?”
“Because it is his name, even though you, for some unknown reason, seem to think contrary.”
Juan Delores shook his head.
“It is very queer,” he said. “If he be Frank Merriwell, he should bring da word.”
“I think I know what you mean by that,” said Merry. “‘The word’ is something my father told you I would be able to give when I appeared. I will explain after supper why I am unable to give the word. I believe I can satisfy you, sir.”
“I hope you do dat; but never till you give da word am I to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Dat I shall not tell.”
“It is plain that you are bound not to betray yourtrust, Mr. Delores, whatever it is. I admire you because you are faithful.”
“An’ I admire you because you whip da Gunnison Bill. How you do it I cannot guess.”
“Oh, papa, he did fight so hard, and I was so afraid!” exclaimed Felicia. “Once I thought sure the bad man would kill him right before me, but I prayed to the Lord.”
“Did you pray?” breathed Frank, drawing her to his knee. “Bless you, sweet little Felicia! Perhaps it was your prayer that saved my life!”
“Do you think so?”
“It may be. Who knows?”
“Quien sabe,” said Juan Delores. “But it was not Gunnison Bill dat be most dangerous. It was da odder. I know him—I know Anton Mescal!”
“Anton Mescal?” shouted Frank, leaping to his feet and clutching the man’s arm. “Good heavens! do you mean to tell me that the man with Gunnison Bill was Anton Mescal?”
“Dat his name. He come here an’ try to bluff me two days ago. I laugh at him. He swear he make me laugh some odder way. He try to keep his word.”
“Anton Mescal!” repeated Merry, in deep emotion. “And it was too dark for me to recognize the wretch who stole the message from me! Oh, if I had grappled with him, instead of Gunnison Bill!”
“Oh, if I had bored him with a bullet!” grated Hodge, who was even more excited than Merry.
“You know him?” questioned Delores.
“Know him?” said Frank. “I never saw the scoundrel but once in my life, but on that occasion he snatched from my hands the dying message sent me by my father, who, I believe, is buried in this valley.”
Delores could not help being impressed by the words and manner of the two young men.
“Dat why Anton Mescal come here an’ make him demand,” he said. “But he never succeed. Da boy is safe.”