Frank Merriwell's Triumph Part 62

d.i.c.k hesitated, but seemed to succ.u.mb. Through his head a wild scheme had flashed. It bewildered him for a moment, but quickly his mind cleared and he began to write. He did so, however, with the utmost slowness, as if the task was a difficult and painful one. Spotted Dan was surprised to see the boy give in so quickly. He had fancied d.i.c.k would have obstinately refused until compelled to obey.

"Don't put in a thing but just what I tells yer to," commanded the masked man. "If yer does, youngster, you has ter write another letter, for we won't deliver this one any at all. If you wants to get free, you has good sense and obeys all peaceful-like."

"All right," muttered d.i.c.k, as he slowly labored over the beginning of the message to Frank.

"Why, seems ter me this yer boy's eddication has been a heap neglected,"

said Dillon. "He finds it a whole lot hard to write."

The masked man resumed his position where he could read what was being written. Somehow it didn't seem to please him, for of a sudden he seized the sheet of paper and tore it up.

"Why for do you ramble around that yere way?" he demanded. "You puts it down plain and brief, with no preliminaries. Understand that?"

Then he produced another sheet of paper and laid it upon the box.

Immediately d.i.c.k flung down the pen and lay back on the bunk.

"You go to Halifax!" he exclaimed, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "I will write it just as I want to, or I won't write it at all."

The man instantly whipped out a long, wicked-looking knife.

"Then I slits your oozle!" he snarled.

"Slit away!" defiantly retorted the boy.

Spotted Dan broke into a hoa.r.s.e laughter.

"What did I tell yer!" he cried. "I certain knowed how it would be."

The masked man seized d.i.c.k and held the knife menacingly before his eyes.

"Will you do as I tell you?" he hissed.

"I will do as I choose," retorted the nervy lad. "I don't propose to write anything save what you order, but I will write it in my own way.

If I can't, then I won't write at all."

The man hesitated, then straightened up.

"Well, you sure has sand, or you're the biggest fool for a kid I ever saw," he declared. "Go ahead and write her out, and then I'll examine her and see that she's all right."

So once more d.i.c.k took the pencil and began to write. He preserved the same deliberate slowness in constructing the early portion of the missive, but finally began to write faster and faster, and finished it with a rush, signing his name.

"Well, the kid's eddication seems to be all right, arter all," observed Mat, as he admiringly watched the boy speedily scribble the last sentence. "Mebbe he is out of practice some, to begin with, and so he writes slow till he gits his hand in."

The masked man took the letter and carefully read it over.

"Why were you so particular to say, 'No house shelters me?'" he asked.

"That yere is dead crooked. Is you trying to fool your brother up some?"

d.i.c.k actually laughed.

"I put that in just to help you out, gentlemen," he declared. "You have been so very kind to me I should hate to see anything happen to you."

The masked man wondered vaguely if the boy was mocking them, but decided almost immediately that he had really frightened d.i.c.k to such an extent that the young captive had put those words in to show his willingness to hold to the demands made upon him.

"Well, this will do," nodded the wearer of the mask, folding the paper and thrusting it into his pocket. "Now, pards, just keep the boy all ca'm and quiet, and mebbe his brother comes to his senses and settles the deal, arter which we evaporates and leaves them to meet up with each other and rejoice."

Then he strode out of the room, and his three companions followed, closing the door and leaving d.i.c.k once more to gloom and solitude.

CHAPTER XXVII.

COMPLETE TRIUMPH.

Frank found the letter thrust under the door of his room at the hotel in Prescott. He was reading it over and over when Brad Buckhart, wearing a long, doleful face, came into the room.

"You don't find no trace whatever of my pard, do you, Frank?" he asked.

"I have a letter from him here," said Frank.

"What?" shouted the Texan, electrified by Merry's words. "A letter from him?"

"Yes."

"Why should he write a letter? Why didn't he come himself, instead of doing that?"

"Well, from what he says in the letter, I fancy it is impossible for him to come," said Merry. "Here, Buckhart, read it and see what you make of it."

He handed the missive to Brad, who read it through, his excitement growing every moment. This is what the Texan read:

"Dear Frank: I now am held fast in hands that care little for my life. No house shelters me. I am not near Prescott. If you search, you will find wind and nothing more. Have had a hot mill with my captors, but to no use whatever. S.tay here I must. Brad will worry, so don't fail to show him this.

"The men who have me swear to mutilate and finally kill me unless you come to terms immediately. You are to settle with the man who has demanded from you your mines and has threatened you with arrest for murder. As soon as you make terms with him, I am to be set free. If you refuse to make terms, this man swears to chop me up by inches. To-morrow you will receive one of my thumbs; next day the other thumb. Then, if you still delay, an ear will follow, and its mate will be delivered to you twenty-four hours later. If you remain obstinate, I shall be killed.

"Your brother, d.i.c.k."

"Great horn spoon!" shouted Buckhart, flouris.h.i.+ng the missive in the air. "Great jumping tarantulas! This certain is a whole lot tough! Why, Frank, what are you going to do about it? You've got to rescue him, or else give in to old Morgan, for they will chop him up if you don't."

"How am I going to rescue him," said Merry, "when I don't know where to find him?"

Brad now stood quite still, with his hands on his hips, a look of perplexity and distress on his face.

"That's so, Frank," he muttered, shaking his head. "I am afraid they've got you."

"Do you notice anything peculiar about that letter?" questioned Merry.

"Peculiar? Why, I dunno. Somehow it don't sound just like d.i.c.k, though I'll swear it's his writing. I know his writing."