Frank Merriwell's Triumph Part 34

"Why, you're real amusing!" said d.i.c.k. "Ha! ha! ha! Oh! ha! ha! ha! Some one has a door to pay for. There is a joke on somebody here."

"Who are you?" demanded Morgan.

d.i.c.k took a step nearer, his dark eyes fixing on the man's face.

"Who am I? I will tell you who I am. I am Frank Merriwell's brother."

"His brother? I have heard of you."

"Not for the last time, Macklyn Morgan; nor have you heard of Frank for the last time. Your plot will fizzle. Your infamous schemes will fail.

You know what the plotting of your partner, Milton Sukes, brought him to. Look out, Mr. Morgan--look out for yourself!"

"Don't you dare threaten me, you impudent young whelp!" raged Morgan.

"You will find, sir, that I dare tell you just what you are. Your money and your power do not alarm me in the least. You're an unscrupulous scoundrel! You have trumped up a charge against my brother. He will fool you, and he will show you up, just as he did Milton Sukes. Where is Sukes now? Look out, Macklyn Morgan!"

Although usually able to command his pa.s.sions and appear cold as ice, the words of this fearless, dark-eyed lad were too much for Morgan, and he lifted his clinched fist.

Quick as thought, his wrist was seized by Buckhart, who growled in his ear:

"If you ever hit my pard, you will take a trip instanter to join Milton Sukes down below!"

Then he thrust Morgan aside. In the meantime the officers had been searching the room. They opened the closet, looked under the bed, and inspected every place where a person could hide.

"You're mistaken," said one of them. "Your man is not here."

"He must be!" a.s.serted Morgan. "I know it!"

"You can see for yourself he is not here."

"Then where is he?"

As this question fell from Morgan's lips there was a clatter of hoofs outside. Morgan himself glanced from the window and quickly uttered a cry of baffled rage.

"There he is now!" he shouted. "There he goes on a horse! He is getting away! After him!"

"And may the Old Nick give you the luck you deserve!" laughed d.i.c.k.

CHAPTER XV.

A DESPERATE SITUATION.

Morning in the Enchanted Valley. Bart Hodge was standing in front of a newly constructed cabin. His ear was turned to listen for sounds of labor from the lower end of the valley, where a crew of men was supposed to be at work building other cabins. The valley was strangely still.

"They're not working," muttered Hodge, a dark frown on his face. "They have quit. What will this day bring? Oh, if Frank were only here!"

Finally, as he stood there, to his ears from far down the valley came a faint sound of hoa.r.s.e voices singing.

"I know the meaning of that!" he declared. "They're drinking. At last Bland has given them the liquor. They're getting ready for their work."

He turned back into the cabin, the door of which stood open. From a peg on the wall he took down a Winchester rifle and carefully examined it, making sure the magazine was filled and the weapon in perfect working order. He also looked over a brace of revolvers, which he carried ready for use.

Tossing the rifle in the hollow of his left arm, he left the cabin and turned toward the end of the valley where the men were engaged. He observed some caution in approaching that portion of the valley. At last he reached a point amid some bowlders from which he could look down into a slight hollow, where stood some half-constructed cabins upon which the men had been working.

Not one of them was at work now. They were lying around carelessly, or sitting in such shade as they could find, smoking and drinking. Several bottles were being pa.s.sed from hand to hand. Already two or three of them seemed much under the influence of liquor, and one bowlegged fellow greatly amused the others by an irregular, unsteady dance, during which he kicked out first with one foot and then with the other, like a skirt dancer. At intervals some of them sang a melancholy sort of song.

"The miserable dogs!" grated Bart. "They're ready to defy me now and carry out their treacherous plans."

A tall man, with a black mustache and imperial, stepped among the others, saying a word now and then and seeming to be their leader.

"You're the one, Texas Bland!" whispered Hodge. "You have led them into this!"

As he thought of this his fingers suddenly gripped the rifle, and he longed to lean over the bowlder before him, steady his aim, and send a bullet through Texas Bland. Bart was unaware that two men were approaching until they were close upon him. This compelled him, if he wished to escape observation, to draw back somewhat, and he did so. He did not crouch or make any great effort at hiding, for such a thing he disdained to do. He was not observed, however, although the men stopped within a short distance.

"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.