Frank Merriwell's Triumph: or, The Disappearance of Felicia

“Well, what do yer think o’ this game, Dug?” said one of them, who was squat and sandy.

“I reckons the boss has it all his own way, Bight,” retorted the other, a leathery-faced chap with tobacco-stained beard.

“The boss!” exclaimed Bight. “Mebbe you tells me who is the boss?”

“Why, Bland, of course,” said Dug. “He is the boss.”

“Mebbe he is, and then – mebbe again,” returned the sandy one.

“Well, we takes our orders from him.”

“Sartin; but I reckons he takes his orders from some one else.”

Bight pulled out a bottle.

“Now,” he said, “he furnished plenty o’ this. My neck is getting dry. How is yourn, Dug?”

“Ready to squeak,” returned Dug, grasping the bottle his comrade extended.

When they had lowered its contents until very little was left, Bight observed:

“I s’pose Bland he’s going to chaw up this yere chap, Hodge?”

“Sure thing,” nodded Dug. “Pretty soon he calls Hodge down yere on a pretense o’ business or something, and then he kicks up a fuss with him. He has it all fixed for several of the boys to plug him as soon as the fuss starts. That settles his hash.”

The eyes of Bart Hodge gleamed savagely.

“I wonder how he gits onter it that anything’s up?” questioned Dug. “Mebbe that sneak, Colvin, tells him.”

“Mebbe so,” nodded Bight. “Anyhow, nobody trusts Colvin none, and I opines he’d been polished off here ef he’d stayed.”

“And he’ll sartin never git very fur,” declared Dug. “Them boys arter him will sure run him down and make buzzard bait o’ him.”

Hearing this, Hodge knew for the first time that there were men in pursuit of Colvin, his messenger, who had slipped out of the valley the previous night. Colvin had sworn, if he lived, to carry the message for Frank to the nearest telegraph station and send it. But he was pursued by ruffians who meant to slay him. It was doubtful if he reached a telegraph office. If he failed, of course Merriwell would remain uninformed as to the situation in the Enchanted Valley and would not hurry about returning there.

Even if Colvin succeeded, it might be too late. Bart believed it probable that Merry was in San Diego or that vicinity, and therefore it would take him some time to reach Prescott and travel by horse from Prescott to the valley. Long before he could make such a journey the mutineers would be able to accomplish their evil design.

“Who do you s’pose is back of this yere business, Dug?” said Bight. “You thinks Bland is not behind it, does yer?”

“Dead sartin. Bland he never does this fer hisself. He wouldn’t dare. It wouldn’t do him no good.”

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t hold this yere mine and work it. Somebody locates him, and he has to evaporate, for his record counts agin’ him. Howsomever, he can jump the mine for some other gent and git paid fer doing the trick, arter which he ambles into the distance and gently disappears. This is his little game, and I will bet on it.”

“I wonders some who the gent is behind it.”

“That’s nothing much ter us as long as we gits our coin.”

“Does we git it sure?”

“You bet I gits mine. Ef I don’t, there’ll be blazes a-roaring around yere.”

“Why, you don’t buck up agin’ Bland none?” half laughed the other. “You knows better than ter do that.”

“I don’t do it by my lonesome; but if I raises a holler there is others does the same thing. But I will git my dust, all right. Don’t you worry about that.”

At this point several of the men in the vicinity of the unfinished cabins set up a wild yell of laughter. One of their number had attempted to imitate the awkward motions of the former dancer and had fallen sprawling on his stomach. Immediately after this burst of laughter the men began to sing again.

“That oughter bring this yere Hodge over this way,” said Dug, with a hoarse laugh. “Ordinarily he comes a-whooping to see what is up, and he raises thunder. He sets himself up as a boss what is to be obeyed, and I reckons so far he has had the boys jumping when he gives orders.”

“If he comes over now,” observed Bight, “he gits his medicine in a hurry. I don’t care any about shooting him up, so I am for staying away from the rest of the bunch.”

“Oh! what ails yer?” growled Dug.

“It’s murder!” said Bight.

“Well, I opines you has cooked yer man afore this?”

“Ef I ever has,” retorted Bight, “it certain was in self-defense.”

“I reckon you’re something of a squealer, pard,” sneered Dug. “You wants to git your share o’ the dust without taking no part in the danger. You tells how you raises a roar if you don’t git your coin, but what does yer do to earn it?”

“Well, I fights some when I has to,” returned Bight, rather savagely. “Mebbe you talks too much to me, Dug, and you gits yourself into some trouble.”

Bight was ugly now, and his companion involuntarily retreated a step, for the squat chap had a reputation as a fighter.

“Go slow, pard!” exclaimed Dug. “I am not a-picking trouble with you.”

“All right, all right,” nodded Bight, “Only just be a little keerful – a little keerful. Don’t think just because a gent don’t keer about shooting another gent down promiscuous-like that he is soft and easy. There’s Texas Bland out yander. He has a reputation as a bad man. Well, partner, I picks no quarrels with him, but if he stomps on my tail he gets my claws.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed Dug, in astonishment. “You ain’t a-giving it ter me that you bucks up agin’ Bland, are yer?”

“I am a-giving it ter yer that I does in case I has to. I don’t propose any ter have ter do it. I jines in with this yer move because it seems popular with the gang, and I am none anxious ter work myself. This yere is a nice bunch o’ miners, now, ain’t it? Why, the gent what hires this outfit and brings it yere had a whole lot better stick to his sailoring business! He may know how to pick out seamen, but it’s right certain he makes a mess of it when it comes to engaging miners.”

“That’s right,” agreed Dug. “And he certain is the biggest liar it ever were my pleasure to harken unto. The way he can tell things to make a galoot’s eyes bug out is a whole lot remarkable. Whither he gits his lively imagination I cannot surmise. Let’s see, whatever was his name?”

“Wiley – Cap’n Wiley he calls himself.”

“Well, however does he happen to be hiring men for this yere mine? I don’t judge any that he is interested in it.”

“Not a whole lot. The mine is owned by a gent named Merriwell, and by this yere Hodge. Them two locates it.”

“Relocates it, you mean. I onderstand it were located original by another gent what is dead now. And I reckons some that it is through this other gent’s action that the man that is back o’ this yere jumping movement is going to stake his claim to the mine. I hears one o’ the boys say that if Bland ain’t back o’ the game, it sartin is a gent with heaps o’ money – one o’ them yere money kings we hears about.”

This conversation was of no simple interest to Hodge, for, although it did not reveal the instigator of the movement, it satisfied him that the plot did not originate among the men themselves. Some enemy of Frank Merriwell must be behind it all. As Sukes was dead, it was not easy for Bart to conjecture who this new enemy was.

After a few moments more the two ruffians finished the contents of the bottle and moved slowly away. This gave Hodge an opportunity to turn back toward his cabin, and he hastened to get away from that dangerous locality.

“It’s well for me that I suspected what was up,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “Under ordinary circumstances, failing to hear the men at work and hearing their singing and shouts, I should have hastened over and demanded to know the meaning of it. As a result they would have finished me in short order. Now I am prepared for them. But what can I do? What can I do alone?”

The situation seemed desperate and hopeless.

Another fellow in Bart’s position, and realizing his desperate peril, might have lost no time in getting out of the valley. Even though he happened to be a courageous person, his judgment might have led him to pursue such a course, for certainly it seemed a wild and hopeless plan to think of remaining there alone and contending against those ruffians.

Bart, however, was an obstinate chap and one in whom fear was an emotion seldom experienced. Not that he had always been fearless, for as a boy he had sometimes felt the thrill of terror; but his iron will had conquered, and time after time he had refused to submit to the approach of the slightest timidity, until at last fear seemed banished from his heart. Now, as he hastened back to the cabin, he revolved in his mind certain thoughts in regard to the situation; but not once did he entertain the idea of leaving the valley and abandoning it to those desperadoes.

“I will stay,” he muttered. “I will stay as long as I am able to shoot. While I live they will never gain full possession of the valley. Merry left me here to guard this property, and I will do it with my life. But for Wiley’s carelessness – ”

He stopped, suddenly struck by a startling suspicion.

“Was it carelessness?” he asked himself.

An instant later he was ashamed of the suspicion, for he remembered how on other occasions he had suspected Wiley, and each time had found himself wrong.

“No, no,” murmured Hodge; “it was simply a blunder, on Wiley’s part. He remembered Merriwell’s thirty, and thought he was doing the right thing in engaging men of similar calibre. The cap’n is on the level.”

Still troubled and perplexed by his thoughts, he grew, if possible, more fixed in his determination to defend the mines single-handed. He approached the cabin, the door of which was still standing open as he left it. Hurrying in, he stopped, suddenly turned to stone as he saw sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, a human being, who was calmly smoking a long pipe.

A moment later the muzzle of Bart’s revolver covered this figure, which, however, did not stir or lift a hand. Coming, as he did, from the bright light outside into the shadows within the cabin, Hodge failed at first to note more than that the smoker who sat thus was wrapped in an old blanket. After a moment or two, however, he finally saw that he was face to face with an aged, wrinkled, leathery-skinned Indian. The little sharp eyes of the old savage were fixed steadily on Bart’s face, and he betrayed not a symptom of alarm as Hodge brought the rifle to bear upon him. With stoical calmness he deliberately pulled at his pipe.

“What in thunder are you doing here?” demanded Hodge, in astonishment.

“Ugh!” was the only reply vouchsafed.

Somehow that grunt seemed familiar. Bart had heard it before, but it simply increased his amazement. Lowering the rifle, he stared wonderingly.

“Great Scott!” he breathed. “Is it possible? Are you old Joe?”

“Heap same,” was the curt answer.

In a twinkling Bart dropped the rifle on the table and strode forward to shake the hand of an old friend.

“Old Joe Crowfoot!” he shouted. “Where under the stars did you drop from?”

“Joe he come visit. How, how!”

“Why, you amazing old Nomad!” cried Bart, in delight. “You’re always turning up just when you’re wanted the most, and if ever you were wanted it is now.”

“Frank him not here?”

“No.”

“Joe he want see Frank.”

“If that’s the case, you will have to wait a while.”

“Strong Heart he better be here,” declared the aged redskin. “Heap lot o’ trouble pretty soon.”

“That’s right, Joe. But how do you know anything about it?”

“Joe he know. Him no fool. Him find out.”

Bart had extended his hand, and now he assisted the old man to his feet. Although old Joe tried to conceal the fact, he seemed rather stiff in his joints just then.

“What’s the matter, Crowfoot?” questioned Bart. “Rheumatism troubles you again?”

“Debble got old Joe in his bones,” indignantly returned the savage. “Old Joe him no good any more. Make old Joe mad when him think he no good.”

Under other circumstances the indignation of the redskin over his infirmities might have been somewhat amusing.

“But tell me – tell me how you came to be here at this time,” questioned Hodge. “We last saw you away up in Wyoming. You said then that you’d never travel south again.”

“Heap think so then. When winter he come Joe have debble ache in his bones plenty bad. Sabe?”

“And so the rheumatism and cold weather drove you south, eh?”

“One time,” said the redskin, drawing his blanket about his shoulders with an air of dignity, “Joe him face cold and never feel um. One time him no care how cold. One time he laugh at snow and ice. Then all him bones be good. Then old Joe a heap strong to hunt. Now it ain’t the same. Once Joe him hunt the grizzly bear for game; now he hunt poker.”

In spite of himself, Bart was forced to smile. He knew something of the skill of old Joe at the white man’s game of poker, and the thought of the old Indian who had once tracked the grizzly now turned to gambling was both amusing and remarkable.

“So that is what brought you south. You turned this way to escape the cold and to find at the same time the kind of game you were after?”

“Heap so,” nodded Crowfoot, as he produced from beneath his blanket a greasy pack of cards. “I came to play some. Mebbe I find um good players here.”

“I don’t know where, Joe,” said Hodge.

“Mebbe over yon,” suggested the Indian, waving his hand toward the southern end of the valley.

“See here, Joe,” said Bart, “those men down there are my enemies. They have betrayed me. There are valuable mines in this valley, and they belong to Frank Merriwell and myself. These ruffians mean to seize them. Even now they are ready to shoot me on sight, and intend to drop Frank when he appears.”

“Heap bad,” observed Joe, without betraying the slightest emotion.

“Bad!” cried Hodge. “I should say so!”

“Too many for you, Black Eyes,” asserted the redskin. “Mebbe you pull up stake and lope?”

“Not by a blamed sight!” grated Hodge. “I will stay here and defend these mines as long as I am able to lift a weapon.”

The Indian shook his head.

“Heap young, heap young,” he declared, as if speaking to himself. “Blood hot. Joe him know. Once him blood hot.”

“Well, you don’t suppose I’d let them drive me out, do you?” indignantly demanded Hodge. “You don’t think I’d betray Frank like that! He left me here in charge of the property, and here I will remain. I want you to stick by me, Joe.”

“Ugh!” grunted the old fellow noncommittally. “Mebbe not much difference to old Joe. I may croak pretty soon now. Mebbe only make it some quicker.”

“Perhaps that’s right,” said Hodge slowly. “I have no right to ask you to lose your life in helping me fight against overwhelming odds. It’s not your quarrel, Joe. You can do as you please.”

“Joe him think it over,” said the Indian. “No like to see Frank lose um mines, but him have plenty more.”

Bart turned away, not without a feeling of disappointment. As he did so, through the still open door he caught a glimpse of a man who was advancing toward the cabin. Instantly he strode toward the door, and his eyes rested on Texas Bland, who was several rods away.

“Oh, Mr. Hodge!” Bland called at once. “I want yer ter come over yon. The men has quit work, and they refuse to strike another stroke.”

Trying to repress and conceal his indignation, Bart asked, as if wholly unsuspicious of the real situation:

“What’s the matter, Bland?”

“I dunno,” lied the scoundrel. “I can’t make ’em work; perhaps you can, sir.”

Suddenly, almost without being aware of what was happening, Bart permitted his hot indignation to get the best of his judgment. Instantly, as he stepped out of the cabin, he blazed:

“You’re lying, Bland, and I know it! I am on to the whole dastardly game! You’re at the bottom of it, too! You have incited the men to mutiny. I know your plot, you treacherous whelp! I know you meant to get me over there for the purpose of assassinating me. The end of this business will be a rope for you, Bland. Go back and tell your dogs I am onto their game. Go back and bring them here. They will meet a hot reception!”

Texas Bland had been astonished, but now, quick as a flash, he whipped out a revolver for the purpose of taking a shot at Hodge, whose hands were empty. Rapid though he was in his movements, he was not quick enough, for within the cabin sounded the loud report of a rifle, and the bullet knocked Bland’s pistol from his hand, smashing two of his fingers.

CHAPTER XVI.

CROWFOOT MAKES MEDICINE

Although taken by surprise, the man looked at his benumbed and bleeding hand a moment, then pulled from his neck a handkerchief tied there and wrapped it around the mutilated member. By this time Hodge had his own pistol out, and Bland was covered.

“You’re lucky to get off with your life, you treacherous cur!” he cried. “Now make tracks, and hurry about it, too.”

“All right,” said the leader of the ruffians, still with amazing coolness. “But you pays dear for this hand – you and the gent inside who fires the shot.”

With that he turned his back and hastily strode away, the handkerchief already dripping with blood and leaving a red trail behind him.

Hodge watched until the hurrying man disappeared down the valley. Reentering the cabin, he found old Joe standing near the table on which still lay Bart’s Winchester. The Indian had refilled his pipe and was smoking again in his most imperturbable manner.

“Crowfoot,” said Hodge, with sincere gratitude, “I owe you my life. It’s lucky for me you fired just when you did. An instant more and Bland would have shot me down. How did you happen to be so quick with the shot?”

“Look um rifle over,” grunted the old man. “Pick um rifle up. When Black Eyes him go out, Joe think mebbe white man act crooked. Joe watch him white man. When white man tries to shoot, Joe him shoot.”

“You’re a jewel, Crowfoot!” declared Bart; “but this thing will bring trouble to the cabin in a hurry. As soon as Bland can have his hand cared for, he will lead those ruffians over here to wipe us out. Now is your chance to get away.”

“Oh, no great hurry,” returned Crowfoot. “Plenty time, plenty time.”

“On the contrary, there may be very little time. If you’re going, you had better go at once.”

“Plenty time,” persisted the old man placidly. “Joe too old to hurry. They no come right away. Mebbe Joe him look around a little.”

As the old fellow was leaving the cabin, Bart called:

“Here’s your own rifle, Joe, standing in the corner. Don’t you want to take it?”

“Leave him there now,” returned the redskin. “Take him bimeby.”

Outside the door, leaning against the wall, were a pick and spade. To Bart’s surprise, the old man picked these implements up and shouldered them; after which he found Bland’s revolver where it had fallen on being knocked from the man’s hand by the bullet, and took that along. Crowfoot turned northward toward a tangled wild thicket, into which Bart saw him disappear.

“Well, of all peculiar things for him to do!” muttered Hodge, completely puzzled. “What the dickens is he up to?”

This question bothered Bart not a little, and, after a time, having made sure none of the ruffians were yet approaching from the south, Bart caught up his rifle and ran swiftly toward the thicket. On entering the tangled underbrush, he soon came in sight of Crowfoot, who, although he must have heard the other approaching, paid no attention whatever. The defender of the mines paused in amazement as he noted the Indian’s occupation, for old Joe was busily at work, engaged with pick and shovel, digging in the ground.

“What in the name of all mysteries are you doing, Crowfoot?” asked Hodge, as he approached and stood nearer.

“Dig a little,” returned the old man, with something like a joking twinkle in his keen black eyes. “Mebbe get some exercise. Strong Heart him great on exercise. Crowfoot hear Strong Heart tell exercise much big thing.”

Now, Hodge knew well enough that the aged redskin was not expending so much energy and labor in mere exercise, and he lingered to watch a while longer. Pretty soon old Joe unearthed a long root that ran beneath the ground, which he immediately seized and dragged forth with considerable grunting. Hodge noted then that he had one or two similar roots lying near.

“Mebbe him be ’nuf,” observed Crowfoot, as he severed the last root unearthed and placed it with the others. “Think him be. Joe he get plenty exercise for to-day.”

Then, abandoning the pick and shovel where he had dropped them, the old man gathered up the roots and started to retrace his steps to the cabin. Still wondering at Crowfoot’s strange actions, Hodge followed.

The sunshine lay warm on the valley, which seemed deserted save for themselves.

“Man git hand hurt, him no hurry back much,” observed Crowfoot.

“Not yet,” said Hodge. “But he will come and bring his dogs with him soon enough.”

When the cabin was reached Crowfoot stood some moments looking at a little pile of wood lying in a corner near the open fireplace.

“You build a fire, Black Eyes,” he said. “Joe him cold – him cold.”

“Well, your blood must be getting thin,” declared Hodge. “You can bake out in the sun to-day if you want to.”

“No like sun bake,” was the retort. “Too slow; not right kind. Want fire bake.”

“Oh, all right,” said Bart, ready to humor the old man. “I will have a fire directly.”

To his surprise, while he was starting the fire, old Joe brought in more wood that had been gathered in a little pile outside and threw it down in the corner. Several times he came with an armful of wood, but finally, seemed satisfied.

“There’s a good hot fire for you, Joe,” said Hodge. “Now toast yourself, if you want to.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Indian. “You keep watch. Keep eye open wide. Mebbe bad palefaces come soon.”

Bart knew this was a good suggestion, and he proceeded to watch for the possible approach of the enemy. At the same time, he occasionally turned from the open doorway to observe what Crowfoot was about. The old Indian did not seem very anxious to warm himself at the fire. Instead of that, he took the roots he had dug and held them toward the fireplace, turning them over and over and warming them thoroughly, after which he beat off the particles of dirt that clung to them. While he was beating one of the roots by holding it toward the fire, he had the others arranged on the flat stones of the hearth quite near the blaze, where they also would receive warmth from the flames.

At last, his curiosity reaching a point where he could repress it no longer, Hodge again asked old Joe what he was doing.

For some minutes the Indian did not reply. Once or twice he grunted to himself, but finally said:

“Joe him make medicine. Sometime him big medicine maker.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Hodge. “You are making medicine for your rheumatism?”

“Ugh!” was the answer to this.

Bart was surprised and almost annoyed as the day dragged on and the ruffians failed to appear. It seemed remarkable that they should delay the attack so long; still, he was confident that it must come sooner or later. All through the day after securing his roots old Joe worked over them patiently by the fire. He dried them and turned them over and over. And, while he was handling one of them and turning it before the heat like a thing he was toasting, the others remained in a long mound of hot ashes. The patience of the Indian over such a trifling task was something to wonder at.

As night came on Crowfoot paused to say:

“Now, Black Eyes, keep sharp watch. Bad white men come to-night. Mebbe they try to ketch um sleeping.”

The first half of the night, however, passed without alarm. During these hours the old redskin continued to putter with his roots, which he carefully scraped with a keen knife. At midnight he buried them in the ashes, on which hot coals were heaped, and then directed Bart to lie down and sleep.

“Joe him watch now,” said the old fellow.

Trusting everything to the redskin, Hodge rolled himself in a blanket and slept soundly for two hours. He was awakened by Joe, who stirred him with a moccasin foot.

“Get up, Black Eyes,” said the old fellow, in a whisper. “Pretty soon we fight.”

“Those ruffians?” questioned Bart, as he leaped to his feet.

“They coming,” declared Crowfoot.

He was right. Bland and his desperadoes were creeping on the cabin, hoping to take its defenders by surprise. Crowfoot pointed them out, and when they were near enough, Hodge called from the window for them to halt. Realizing they were discovered, they sprang up and charged.