CHAPTER IV.THE PROSPECTORS.
The Mexican who had the temerity to attempt lassooing the Steam Man had little idea of the enormity of his task.
The lariat, thrown with great precision, settled down accurately over the Man’s head.
It reached his shoulders and there tightened.
At the moment, the Steam Man was going a thirty miles per hour gait. The effect was thrilling.
The greaser fancied that he could bring the Steam Man’s career to an end, even as he would that of a wild steer.
But he had reckoned without his host this time.
The Steam Man kept straight on. The Mexican threw his horse upon its haunches, and the next moment expected to see the Steam Man topple over.
But an astonished cowboy was the order of the hour.
The lariat tightened like a whip-cord. The little mustang’s forefeet were braced in the soft soil of the prairie.
For ten feet the mustang slid along as if on skates.
Then over on its side it went, the cowboy falling underneath.
The dead weight of the horse was pulled twenty-five feet, when the lariat snapped like a bit of thread.
The other greasers saw the act and were dismayed.
Not one of them ventured to throw a lariat after that.
Pomp and Barney nearly split their sides with laughter.
“Golly, but dat was jus’ too funny fo’ anyfing!” cried Pomp, hilariously. “Jes’ fink ob dat fool ob a greaser who ’spected he could pull de Steam Man over.”
Steam was now got up rapidly and the Man speedily left his pursuers far behind.
Across the plain at race-horse speed he went.
Soon the greasers were left out of sight in the rear.
It was certainly a narrow escape, and all had very good reasons to congratulate themselves on it.
The Steam Man kept on for a couple of hours at a fair rate of speed.
Then some high mountains began to loom up in front.
“I believe those are the Los Pueblos Mountains!” declared Frank, positively.
“Golly! dat am good!” cried Pomp.
“Bejabers, thin we ought to be nigh the inemies’ camp,” remarked Barney.
“Yes,” agreed Frank. “It is well for us to be on the lookout.”
The region about them was of the most bare and arid sort.
To the southward there extended a literal desert, seemingly as wild as the famed Steppes of Tartary.
Every few steps the bones of some dead animal and occasionally a man were encountered.
It was in fact a plain of death. No living thing adorned it, and it was probably in time of great drought that many travelers had lost their lives here.
The Steam Man picked its way across the plain.
Soon broad mesas of some fertility were encountered.
Then a river was encountered, which was fortunately not so deep but that it could be easily waded.
Once on the other side the Steam Man made its way through a rocky pass and then a surprise was accorded the travelers.
Down through the pass there came the rumble of wheels and the heavy cracking of a whip.
Then around a curve shot a heavy mountain stage with six horses attached.
The driver, a burly fellow, with his belt filled with pistols, pulled up the horses with a volley of oaths.
“Thunder an’ blazes!” he yelled. “Who in perdition are ye? What kind of a rig d’yer call that?” The Jehu sat on his box staring at the Steam Man like one out of his senses.
Upon the box was a miner in red shirt and top boots, and upon the top of the coach were half a dozen more.
Within the coach were a number of Mexicans, a flashily dressed sport and a type of the genus gambler.
“A stage line!” exclaimed Frank, in amazement. “And in this out of the way place. Who’d have dreamed it?” “Bejabers, we must be comin’ to some koind of a settlemint,” cried Barney.
The pass was barely wide enough at this point to let the coach and the Steam Man pass.
But the coach did not offer to move, and Frank saw the passengers pulling their revolvers.
He comprehended the situation at a glance, and cried:
“Hold on, friends! there’s no need of that. We are not road agents!”
“Oh, ye ain’t, eh?” thundered the burly Jehu. “Well, we’re powerful glad to hear that. But whar in thunder did ye git that bullgine, anyhow?”
The passengers now all crowded out of the coach.
They were consumed with curiosity to inspect this new wonder.
“Instead of a steam ingine!” cried one of the sports, “ye see, gentlemen, we now have a Steam Man.”
“A Steam Man!” gasped several. “Well, if that don’t beat me.”
With much wonderment they proceeded to examine the Steam Man.
Frank politely showed them the workings of the invention, and then, with some surprise, said:
“But how do we happen to find an American stage and American miners this side of the line?”
One of the sports gave a knowing wink and said:
“That’s all right—there’s a nice little claim over here that we’ve been up to see. We are from Saint’s Repose, jest over the line into the States. In course this is Mexican land, but if ther greasers don’t get onto us, we’ll git some of that Mexican gold over into the United States afore many days, you bet!”
Frank was astonished.
“Are we then very near the line?” he asked.
“Not more than fifty miles.”
This was most astounding information to Frank Reade, Jr.
He had already traveled a distance of full five hundred miles from Laredo.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed. “If I had known that I would have traveled all the way on United States territory.”
“Cert, stranger,” was the reply, when Frank informed them of his course, “but then, for all that, ye came direct enough. The line bends in here, ye know, and ye’ve come along a north-westerly course.”
“So it seems!” agreed Frank, “but are not these the Los Pueblos Mountains?”
“Cert.” “Well, how is it that you do not run across Miguel Costello and his gang?”
“Well, we have heerd tell of that chap a good deal. He hain’t ever attacked us, though we’ve been lookin’ for a scrimmage with him off an’ on.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Frank, in amazement. “I think it very singular then, for I understand that he is the terror of this region.”
“An’ so he is, stranger. But we ain’t goin’ to be bluffed out of our claim for a stack of greasers as high as Shasta.”
“That’s good pluck.”
“In course, but now ye’ve axed questions, stranger, s’posin’ we take our turn. I’m Sam Sharp, or better known as Silver Sam. Who in thunder are you?”
Frank was not a little amused at being addressed in this bluff manner, but he quietly responded:
“I am Frank Reade, Jr., and I am from the East.”
The sport turned around and indicated three of the others.
“That’s Bill Guernsey, our driver,” he said, referring to the Jehu; “this gent hyar,” indicating a bloated gambler-looking man with a prodigious diamond on his shirt front, “is Mister Jake Bolton; we call him Diamond Jake fer short. This gent,” indicating a tall, slender youth with a sleepy air, “is Mister Chris Blume, an’ he’s our civil an’ minin’ engineer. We’re goin’ to drive a shaft up there a mile or more an’ he’s goin’ to do the biz for us.”
“Gentlemen, I’m all very glad to meet you,” said Frank, politely.
“The same, stranger,” said Diamond Jake, advancing and shaking Frank’s hand.
The others all advanced and did the same.
Silver Sam, as the sport was called, did not trouble to introduce the laborers, as the red-shirted men might have been called.
They were a conglomeration of Mexicans, half breeds and toughs.
“Well, friend,” said Silver Sam, after the introduction was over, “what’s yer biz in these parts, might I ax?”
“Certainly,” replied Frank, “and perhaps you can give me some information to aid me?”
“Mebbe we can, stranger. We’ll be glad to do it if we can.” “Did you ever hear of a man about here called Harvey Montaine?”
Sharp exclamations went up and glances were exchanged.
“You can bet we have, stranger, and he’s a white man, too.” “Harvey is a gentleman,” said Frank.
“You bet he is. He was well liked in Saint’s Repose.” “Where is he now?”
Silver Sam cleared his throat and came nearer.
“Look here, stranger,” he said, earnestly, “are you lookin’ for Harvey?”
“I am.”
“Wall, I’m afraid ye’ll never be able to rescue him. He’s in the grip of that devil Costello.”
“Ah!” said Frank, grimly. “That is what I heard.”
“It’s true enough. You see, Costello pounced down on him when he was opening up his claim and massacred all his men. They may have killed Harvey, too, but Costello keeps advertisin’ for a ransom.”
“The scoundrel!” exclaimed Frank.
“I’m thinking he ain’ after that,” said Silver Sam, with conviction, “no more nor you an’ I are. It’s my ’pinyun he’s got sick of being road agent and thinks there’s a princely fortune in that mine.”
“Well, is there not?”
“There ain’t any doubt of it.”
“Well,” said Frank, slowly and with great determination, “I don’t mind telling you, friends, that I am in this region to spoil his game and to rescue Harvey Montaine. I mean to do it—or die!”
“We glory in your pluck, stranger,” cried Silver Sam, warmly. “We hope ye’ll succeed an’ we’ll help ye all we can.”
“I thank you.”
“One thing is sure. If Miguel Costello troubles us, we’ll make it warm for him. We don’t mean to give up our claim. But as he is twenty miles from here on another spur of the mountain-—-” Silver Sam did not finish his speech. A thrilling thing happened at that moment.
There was a wild, blood-curdling laugh far up the gorge, and the next moment the crack of rifles smote upon the air.
Two of the red-shirted miners upon the top of the coach fell dead.