Burt Standish - Frank Merriwell's Triumph - or, The Disappearance of Felicia

“It makes little difference,” he said. “One is likely to be as dangerous as the other.”

“We will camp here ourselves,” decided Merry.

The animals were relieved of their packs, and they busied themselves in erecting a tent and making ready for the night. Little Abe was set to gathering wood with which to build a fire. Darkness came on ere they had completed their tasks, but they finished by the light of the fire, which crackled and gleamed beside the flowing stream.

Wiley had shown himself to be something of a cook, and on him fell the task of preparing supper. He soon had the coffeepot steaming on a bed of coals, and the aroma made them all ravenous. He made up a batter of corn meal and cooked it in a pan over the fire. This, together with the coffee and their dried beef, satisfied their hunger, and all partook heartily.

“Now,” said Wiley, as he stretched himself on the ground, “if some one had a perfecto which he could lend me, I would be supinely content. As it is, I shall have to be satisfied with a soothing pipe.”

He filled his pipe, lighted it, and lay puffing contentedly. Bart and Merry were talking of what the morrow might bring forth, when suddenly Worthington uttered a sharp hiss and held up his hand. Then, to the surprise of all, from some unknown point, seemingly above them, a voice burst forth in song. It was the voice of a man, and the narrow gorge echoed with the weird melody. Not one of them could tell whence the singing came.

These were the words of the song as given by that mysterious singer. They were ominous and full of warning.

“That certainly is a soulful little ditty,” observed Wiley. “It is so hilariously funny and laughable, don’t you know.”

Frank kicked aside the blazing brands of the fire with his foot and stamped them out, plunging the place into darkness.

“That’s right,” muttered Hodge. “They might pick us off any time by the firelight.”

A hollow, blood-chilling groan sounded near at hand, and Wiley nearly collapsed from sudden fright. The groan, however, came from the lips of Worthington, who was standing straight and silent as a tree, his arms stretched above his head in a singular manner.

“The stars are going to fall!” he declared, in a sibilant whisper that was strangely piercing. “Save yourselves! Hold them off! Hold them off! If they strike you, you will be destroyed!”

“Say, Worth, old bughouse!” exclaimed Wiley, slapping the deranged man on the shoulder; “don’t ever let out another geezly groan like that! Why, my heart rose up and kicked my hair just about a foot into the air. I thought all the ghosts, and spooks, and things of the unseen world had broken loose at one break. You ought to take something for that. You need a tonic. I would recommend Lizzie Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound.”

“Keep still, can’t you!” exclaimed Hodge, in a low tone. “If we hear that voice again, I’d like to locate the point from whence it comes.”

“Oh, I will keep still if you will guarantee to muzzle Worth here,” assured the sailor.

The deranged man was silent now, and they all seemed to be listening with eager intentness.

“Why doesn’t he sing some more, Merry?” whispered Bart.

After some moments, the mysterious voice was heard again. It seemed to come from the air above them, and they distinctly heard it call a name:

“Frank!”

Merry stood perfectly still, but, in spite of himself, Bart Hodge gave a start of astonishment.

“Frank Merriwell!”

Again the voice called.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” panted Hodge in Merry’s ear. “Whoever it is, he knows you! He is calling your name. What do you think of that?”

“That’s not so very strange, Bart.”

“Why not?”

“Since we came into the valley, either you, or Wiley, or Abe have spoken my name so this unknown party overheard it.”

“Frank Merriwell!” distinctly spoke the mysterious voice; “come to me! You must come! You can’t escape! You buried me in the shadow of Chaves Pass! My bones lie there still; but my spirit is here calling to you!”

“Booh!” said Wiley. “I’ve had more or less dealings with spirits in my time, but never with just this kind. Now, ardent spirits and spritis fermenti are congenial things; but a spooky spirit is not in my line.”

“I tell you to keep still,” whispered Hodge once more.

“I am dumb as a clam,” asserted the sailor.

“Do you hear me, Frank Merriwell?” again called the mysterious voice. “I am the ghost of Benson Clark. I have returned here to guard my mine. Human hands shall never desecrate it. If you seek farther for it, you are doomed – doomed!”

At this point Worthington broke into a shriek of maniacal laughter.

“Go back to your grave!” he yelled. “No plotting there! No violence – nothing but rest!”

“Now, I tell you what, mates,” broke in Cap’n Wiley protestingly; “between spook voices and this maniac, I am on the verge of nervous prostration. If I had a bottle of Doctor Brown’s nervura, I’d drink the whole thing at one gulp.”

Having shouted the words quoted, Worthington crouched on the ground and covered his face with his hands.

“What do you think about it now?” whispered Bart in Frank’s ear. “Whoever it is, he knows about Benson Clark and his claim. He knows you buried Clark. How do you explain that?”

“I can see only one explanation,” answered Frank, in a low tone. “This man has been near enough at some time when we were speaking of Clark to overhear our words.”

“This man,” muttered Wiley. “Why, jigger it all! it claims to be an ethereal and vapid spook.”

“Don’t be a fool, Wiley!” growled Hodge. “You know as well as we do that it is not a spook.”

“You relieve me greatly by your assurance,” said the sailor. “I have never seen a spook, but once, after a protracted visit on Easy Street, I saw other things just as bad. I don’t think my nerves have gained their equilibrium.”

“What will we do about this business, Merry?” asked Hodge.

“I don’t propose to be driven away from here by any such childish trick,” answered Frank grimly. “We will not build another fire to-night, for I don’t care to take the chances of being picked off by any one shooting at us from the dark. However, we will stay right here and show this party that he cannot frighten us in such a silly manner.”

“That’s the talk!” nodded Hodge. “I am with you.”

“Don’t forget me,” interjected the sailor.

“You!” exclaimed Frank sharply. “How can we depend on a fellow who sleeps at his post when on guard?”

“It’s ever thus my little failings have counted against me!” sighed Wiley. “Those things have caused me to be vastly misunderstood. Well, it can’t be helped. If I am not permitted to take my turn of standing guard to-night, I must suffer and sleep in silence.”

Having said this in an injured and doleful manner, he retreated to the tent and flung himself on the ground.

Frank and Bart sat down near the tent, and listened and waited a long time, thinking it possible they might hear that voice once more. The silence remained undisturbed, however, save for the gurgle of the little brook which ran near at hand.

Night passed without anything further to disturb or annoy them. The morning came bright and peaceful, and the sun shone pleasantly into the Enchanted Valley. Wiley turned out at an early hour, built the fire, and prepared the breakfast.