Frank Merriwell's Bravery

by Standish, Burt L

  But twenty hands seemed reaching to clutch the lad and drag him away. The sheriff saw that he would not be able to retain his prisoner if he remained where he was.

  "Inter ther station, boy!" came from the giant sheriff's lips. "It's yer only chance ter git clear o' this yar gang!"

  "Howly shmoke!" cried a familiar voice just behind the handcuffed youth. "Pwhat are they doin' wid yez, Frankie, me b'y?"

  "Yes," quavered another voice, likewise familiar, "what is this crazy mob trying to do? This is something appalling!"

  "Barney! Professor!" cried the boy, joyously. "Now I can prove that I am what I claim to be!"

  "I've got him!"

  A big ruffian roared the words, as he fastened both hands upon the manacled lad, and tried to drag him into the midst of the swaying mob.

  "Thin take thot, ye spalpane!" shouted the Irish boy, who had appeared in company with a little, red-whiskered man at the door of the station.

  Out shot the hard fist of the young Irishman, and—smack!—it struck the man fairly in the left eye, knocking him backward into the arms of the one just behind him.

  "It's toime ye got out av thot, me b'y," said Barney Mulloy, as he grasped the imperiled youth by the collar, and drew him into the waiting-room of the station.

  "That's right, that's right!" fluttered the little man, who was Professor Scotch. "Let's hurry out by the back door, the way we came in. We were detained, so we did not arrive in time for the train, but we came as quickly as we could."

  "And arrived just in time," said Frank. "I am in a most appalling position."

  "Well, well!" fluttered the professor. "You can explain that later on. Let's get away from here."

  "Look!"

  Frank held up his hands, and, for the first time, his friends saw the irons on his wrists. They cried out in amazement.

  "Pwhat th' ould b'y is th' m'anin' av thot?" demanded Barney Mulloy, in the most profound astonishment.

  "It means that I have been arrested; that's all."

  "Pwhat fer?"

  "Robbing, shooting, murdering."

  "G'wan wid yez!"

  "This is no time to joke, Frank," said Professor Scotch, reprovingly. "Are you never able to restrain your propensity for making sport?"

  "This is a sorry joke, professor. I am giving you the straight truth."

  "But—but it is impossible—I declare it is!"

  "It is the truth."

  "Who arristed yez?" asked Barney, as if still doubtful that Frank really meant what he was saying.

  "A private detective, known as Burchel Jones. He surrendered me to the sheriff of Canadian County, Hank Kildare. That's his voice you can hear above the howling. He is trying to beat the mob back, so he can get me to the jail before I am lynched."

  "Before you are lynched!" gurgled the little professor, in a dazed way. "What have you done that they should want to lynch you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Pwhat do they think ye have done?" asked Barney.

  "I presume you have heard of Black Harry?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, they say I am that very interesting young gentleman."

  Small man though he was, Professor Scotch had a deep, hoarse voice, and he now let out a roar of disgust that drowned the stentorian tones of Hank Kildare.

  "This is the most outrageous thing I ever heard of!" fumed the professor, in a rage. "Somebody shall suffer for it! You Black Harry! Why, it is ridiculous!"

  Barney Mulloy seemed to regard it as extremely funny, for he laughed outright.

  "Thot bates th' worruld!" he cried. "But it's dead aisy ye kin prove ye're not Black Harry at all, at all!"

  "I don't know about that. I have been identified."

  "Pwhat's thot?"

  "I have been recognized by a person who has seen Black Harry's face."

  "Who is that fool person?" demanded Scotch, furiously. "Show me to him, and let me give him a piece of my mind!"

  "There is the person."

  Frank pointed straight at Lona Dawson, who was regarding him with horrified eyes from a distant corner of the waiting-room.

  "Thot girrul?"

  "The young lady?"

  "Yes."

  "Who is she?"

  "Miss Dawson, daughter of Robert Dawson, the banker, whom Black Harry shot during the train hold-up last night. Dawson tore the mask from the young robber's face, and she saw it. A few moments ago she declared that I was the wretch who shot her father."

  The girl heard his words, and she started forward, panting fiercely:

  "You are! You are! I will swear to it with my dying breath! I saw your face plainly last night, and I can never forget it. You are the murderous ruffian from whose face my father tore the mask!"

  Professor Scotch was fairly staggered, but he quickly recovered, and swiftly said:

  "My dear young lady, I assure you that you have made the greatest mistake of your life. I know this boy—I am his guardian. It is not possible that he is Black Harry, for——"

  "Were you with him last night?"

  "No. We were——"

  "Don't talk to me, then! Black Harry or not, he shot my father!"

  "But—but—why, he would not do such a thing!"

  "He did!"

  It seemed that nothing could shake her belief.

  "Av yez plaze, miss," said Barney, lifting his hat, and bowing politely, "it's thot same b'y Oi have known a long toime. Oi went ter school with thot lad, an' a whoiter b'y nivver drew a breath. He'd foight fer ye till he died, av he didn't git killed, an' it's nivver would he shoot anybody at all, at all, onless it wur in silf-definse. Oi give ye me wurrud thot is th' truth, th' whole truth, an' nothing but th' truth."

  The girl was unmoved.

  "I have sworn to avenge my poor father!" she declared. "He shall not escape!"

  "It is useless to talk here," said Frank. "She believes she is right, and her mind will not be changed till she sees the real Black Harry at my side. It must be that the fellow is my double, and so my life will be in peril till he is captured, and meets his just deserts. From this time on for me it is a fight for life and honor."

  * * *

  CHAPTER V.

  HURRIED TO JAIL.

  At this moment another wild roar rose outside the station, telling that something had again aroused the mob:

  Hank Kildare was in the doorway, blocking it with his gigantic form, his long-barreled revolvers holding the crowd at bay, while he hoarsely cried:

  "You galoots know me! Ef yer crowd me, some o' yer will take his everlastin' dose o' lead!"

  They dared not crowd him. He could hold them back at that point, but there were other ways of reaching the interior of the waiting-room, where the prisoner was.

  "Ther back door!" howled a voice. "We kin git at him thet way!"

  "Hear that?" fluttered Professor Scotch. "They're coming, Frank! We must get out before they get in that way! Quick!"

  He caught hold of the boy, and started to urge him toward the rear door; but Lona Dawson placed herself squarely in their path, flinging up one hand.

  "Stop!" she cried, her eyes flashing. "You cannot pass! You shall not escape!"

  A look of admiration came into Frank's eyes, for she was very beautiful at that moment.

  "As you will," he bowed, gallantly. "I may get my neck stretched by remaining, but your wish is law."

  "Well, I like that!" roared the professor, in a manner that plainly indicated he did not like it.

  "Av ye choose ter make a fool av yersilf, Frank, it's not yer friends thot will see ye do it in this case!" cried Barney.

  The Irish lad grasped Frank by one arm, while the professor clutched the other, and they were about to rush him toward the door, for all of any opposition, when the door flew open with a bang, and a man pitched headlong into the room. This person carried a bundle, which burst open as he struck the floor, scattering its contents in all directions.

  "Moses in der pulrushes!" exclaimed the nasal voice of Solomon Rosenbum, a
nd the Jew sat up in the midst of the wreck. "Dat vas vat I call comin' in lifely, vid der accent on der lifely!"

  "The dure!" shouted Barney. "They're coming round to get in thot way!"

  The frightened station agent thrust his head out of an inner office, and said:

  "The door can be braced. The brace is just behind it."

  Not a moment was to be lost, for the mob was at the very door, and would be pouring into the station in a moment. Barney sprang for the heavy brace, but he would have been too late if it had not been for the singular Jew.

  Solomon leaped to his feet, sprang for the door, and planted his foot with terrific force in the stomach of the first man who was trying to enter, hurling that individual back against those immediately behind.

  "Good-tay!" cried the Jew. "Uf I don'd see you some more, vat vos der tifference!"

  Slam! The door went to solidly. Bang! The bar went against it, being held in position by heavy cleats on both door and floor.

  "Holdt der vort!" rasped Solomon, with great satisfaction. "Dot was very well tone. I didn't vant dose beople comin' und drampin' all ofer mine goots. Id vould haf ruint me."

  The mob beat against the door, howling with baffled rage.

  "Thot wur a narrow escape, Frankie, me b'y!" said Barney.

  "That's what it was," admitted Frank, who realized that his chance for life would have been less than one in a thousand if the crowd had burst into the room.

  "Vell, I don'd sharge nodding vor dat, uf you puy a goot pill uf goots vrom me," said the Jew.

  "The window!" came from Professor Scotch. "They are about to come through the window!"

  Crash! Jingle! Jangle! The window was smashed, and the mob was seen swarming toward it.

  Suddenly, Solomon Rosenbum sprang toward the opening, a revolver in his hand.

  "Holdt on, mine friendts!" he cried, waving the weapon. "Uf anypody dried to get in py dis vindow, he vill ged shot, vid der accent on der shot!"

  "Begobs, thot is roight!" shouted Barney Mulloy, as he suddenly produced a "gun," and took his place at Solomon's side. "Kape off, me jools, av ye want ter kape whole skins!"

  The mob hesitated. Thus it had been baffled at every turn, and the mad heat of the moment was beginning to subside. Still, it could be aroused again in a twinkling.

  Hank Kildare alone could not have protected his prisoner from the crowd, but he had done all one man could possibly do. Now, of a sudden, he retreated into the station, closing and bolting the door.

  "That," he said, with a breath of satisfaction, "so fur, everything is all right. An' now it is ter see ef——"

  He was interrupted by pistol shots outside, and bullets began whistling in at the broken window.

  With an exclamation of anger, the fearless sheriff flung his massive body into the window, roaring:

  "Hold up thar, you critters! Don't you know anything a tall? Thar is ladies in hyar, an' yer might shoot 'em ef yer keep flingin' lead round so promiscuous like!"

  "We want Black Harry!" yelled a voice.

  "Wa-al, ye'll hev ter want!" returned the sheriff. "You galoots know me purty well, an' ye know I ain't in ther habit o' talkin' crooked. I tells yer right yar an' now thet ye can't hev Black Harry. I offered ther reward fer ther critter, an' I'm goin' ter hold him, you bet! He'll be lodged in jail, ur Canadian County will be minus a sheriff!"

  It was plain that his words impressed them, but they were reluctant to give over the hope of lynching the boy prisoner.

  "Look yere, Kildare," said a thin, wiry, iron-jawed man, who wore a huge sombrero and leather breeches, "I'm Bill Buckhorn, o' 'Rapahoe, an' thet's a place whar we don't 'low no critter like this yere Black Harry ter go waltzin' round more then sixteen brief second by ther clock. We ketches such cusses, an' then we takes 'em out an' shows 'em how ter do a jog on empty air. Over in 'Rapahoe we allows thet thar is ther way ter dispose o' sech cases, and I'm ready ter show you people o' Elreno ther purtiest way ter tie a runnin' knot in a hemp necktie. Whatever is ther use o' foolin' around an' dallyin' with ther law when it's right easy ter git rid o' critters like this yere Black Harry without no trouble a tall, an' make things lively in ther town at ther same time? Pass him out, sheriff, an' I'll agree not ter do ye ary bit o' damage!"

  "Wa-al, you are kind!" returned Kildare, contemptuously. "You're mighty kind, an' I allows thet I 'preciates it. I reckons you galoots over in thet forsaken, 'way-back, never-heard-of hole called 'Rapahoe sets yerselves up fer a law unto ther rest o' Oklahoma an' all other parts o' creation! You allows thar don't nobody else but you critters know what is right an' proper, an' so you has ther cheek ter come over hyar an' tell us what ter do! You even offers ter show me how ter tie a runnin' knot in a rope, an' I will admit thet I've tied more knots o' thet kind then you ever heard of! Take my advice, my gentle stranger frum 'Rapahoe, an' go get right off ther earth, afore something happens ter yer which yer won't like none whatever!"

  This bit of sarcasm was appreciated by the assembled citizens of Elreno, and they raised a howl at Bill Buckhorn, scores of voices hurling derisive epithets at the lank stranger.

  Buckhorn grew intensely angry, and he howled:

  "You galoots make me sick! You're short on fer hawse sense, an' thet's plain enough!"

  "Take a tumble!"

  "Puckachee!"

  "All right! All right!" cried the man from 'Rapahoe, waving his hands, each of which clutched a huge revolver. "You kin run yer blamed old town ter suit yerselves, an' I allows thet Black Harry fools yer all an' gits erway! I hopes he does, an' I draws out o' this yere game right now."

  He thrust his revolvers into leather holsters made to receive them, and strode away, forcing a passage through the crowd, and pretending not to hear the derisive epithets hurled at him.

  Hank Kildare smiled, with grim satisfaction.

  "Thet wuz ther best thing could hev happened," he muttered. "It took their 'tention erway fer a minute, an' now it's likely I kin talk them inter reason."

  He tried it, without delay. He urged them to disperse, promising that Black Harry should be lodged in Elreno jail, and properly tried for his life.

  "This yar lynchin' is bad business," concluded the sheriff. "I will allow thet I hev taken a hand in more than one lynchin' party, but I'm derned 'shamed o' it. Law is law, an' no gang o' human critters has a right ter take ther law in their han's. I hev swore never ter let one o' my prisoners be lynched, ef I kin help it, an' I'll set 'em free, an' furnish 'em with guns ter fight fer their lives, afore I'll see 'em strung up by a mob. At ther same time, I'd ruther be shot then forced ter do such a thing."

  Kildare was so well known that every one who heard him felt sure he was not "talking wind," that being something he never did.

  There was muttering in the crowd. The worst passions of the mob had been aroused, and now it hated to be robbed of its prey.

  "Hank Kildare means whatever he says," declared more than one. "He'll fight ter hold Black Harry."

  Some cursed Kildare, and that aroused the anger of the sheriff's friends, so it seemed at one time as if the mob would fall into a pitched battle among themselves.

  "Let 'em fight," muttered the giant, who still held the broken window. "Ef they git at it, I'll find some way ter slip 'em and put my man inter ther jail."

  But they did not fight. Kildare called on them to disperse, and a few went away; but a great crowd lingered in sullen silence outside the station, waiting and watching.

  "They want ter git another look at Black Harry," muttered the sheriff, knitting his brows. "Ef they do thet, they're likely ter break loose again, like a lot o' wild tigers. How kin I make 'em disperse, so I kin kerry him ter ther jail?"

  "I will appeal to them," said a musical voice at his elbow.

  He turned, and saw Lona Dawson there.

  "You?"

  "Yes. It is possible they will listen to me."

  "They mought. I'd clean forgot you wuz hyar. Go ahead an' try yer luck, little one."

  He stepped a
side, and she appeared in the window. The moment she was seen, all muttering ceased in the crowd, and every one gave her attention.

  "Gentlemen," she began, speaking clearly and loud enough for all to hear, "you must confess that I have as much interest as any one here in seeing this youthful ruffian brought to justice. I do not wish to see him lynched, but I wish him to receive such punishment as the law may give him."

  "Ther law is slow!" cried a voice.

  "An' it often fails!" came from another direction.

  "In this case there is no reason why it should fail, for there is proof enough to convict Black Harry. It will not fail."

  "He may escape from jail."

  "That is not likely. Now, for my sake, I ask you all to disperse—to allow the officers to take Black Harry to jail. If you do not disperse, I shall remain here, and I will protect the prisoner with my own body and my life, for I am determined that he shall be legally tried and properly punished."

  There was a moment of silence, and then a voice shouted:

  "Thar's stuff fer yer, pards! Ther leetle gal has clean grit, an' I'm fer doin' as she asks. Who's with me?"

  "I am!" a hundred voices seemed to roar.

  "Then come on. Good-by, leetle gal; we're goin'."

  Every head was bared, and the crowd began to disperse with swiftness, so that, in a very few minutes, all had departed.

  Then came the deputy sheriffs, with horses, and arrangements for conveying the prisoner to the jail were swiftly completed.

  Frank had advised the professor and Barney not to be too outspoken, for fear they might also be arrested. He advised them to keep quiet, but to work for him to the best of their ability, and lose no time.

  A handshake, a hurried parting, and the boy was borne away to jail.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI.

  SOLOMON SHOWS HIS NERVE.

  The jail at Elreno was a wooden building, hastily constructed in the feverish days of the early boom, with many weak points and few strong ones.

  Not for long were prisoners confined there, as "justice" in the new Territory moved swiftly, and an arrest was quickly followed by a trial.