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

“You certain will have to explain what you are driving at,” growled Shawmut.

“Don’t you know?”

“None whatever.”

“I fear you are still seeking to deceive me.”

“Not a bit of it,” averred Henry. “Whatever was yer talking about, Wiley?”

“Why, last eve, after we had partaken of our repast and were disporting ourselves in comfort on the bosom of mother earth, there came through the atmosphere above us a singing voice which sang a sweet song all about dead men and such things. Afterward the voice warned us to hoist anchor, set sail, and get out of this port. It claimed to be the voice of Benson Clark, the man who first found the mine here, and who was afterward shot full of holes by some amusement-seeking redskins. I surely fancied you were concerned in that little joke, mates.”

Both the ruffians shook their heads.

“We has nothing to do with it,” denied Shawmut.

“Well, now it is indeed a deep, dark mystery,” observed the sailor. “Do you suppose, mates, that the spook of Benson Clark is lingering in this vicinity?”

“We takes no stock in spooks,” asserted Henry.

“And thus you show your deep logical sense,” slowly nodded the sailor. “I congratulate you; but the mystery of that voice is unsolved, and it continues to perplex me.”

The listening man high up on the embankment was also perplexed. If Shawmut and Henry knew nothing of the mysterious warning voice, the enigma was still unsolved. As he thought of this matter, Merry soon decided that these ruffians had spoken the truth in denying all knowledge of the affair. These men talked in the rough dialect of their kind. The unseen singer had not used that dialect; and, therefore, the mystery of the valley remained a mystery still.

Frank continued to watch and listen.

“It’s no spook we’re worried about,” declared Henry. “If we dispose of this yere Merriwell, we will be all right. With you ter help us, Wiley, we oughter do the trick.”

“Sure, sure,” agreed the sailor.

“Thar is three of us,” said Shawmut, “and that certain makes us more than a match for them. The kid and the crazy galoot don’t count. We has only Merriwell and Hodge to buck against.”

“They are quite enough, mates – quite enough,” put in the sailor. “We will have to get up early in the morning to get ahead of them.”

“This yere Merriwell certain is no tenderfoot,” agreed Shawmut.

Wiley arose and slapped the speaker on the shoulder in a friendly, familiar manner.

“Now you’re talking,” he nodded. “He is a bad man with a record longer than your arm. I have dealt with hundreds of them, however; and I think my colossal brain will be more than a match for him. Did you ever hear how I got the best of Bat Masterson? It’s a thrilling tale. Listen and I will unfold it to you. You know Bat was the real thing. Beyond question, he was the worst bad man that ever perambulated the border. Yet I humbled him to his knees and made him beg for mercy. That was some several years ago. At that time – ”

Wiley was fairly launched on one of his yarns, but at that moment Frank Merriwell heard a slight movement and attempted to turn quickly, when he was given a thrust by a powerful pair of hands, which hurled him forward from the embankment and sent him whirling down toward the tent below.

Frank struck on the tent, which served to break his fall somewhat, but he was temporarily stunned. When he recovered, he found himself bound hand and foot and his three captors surveying him by the light of the fire.

“Well, wouldn’t it jar you!” exclaimed the sailor. “It was almost too easy. Why, mates, he must ’a’ been up there listening to our innocent conversation, and somehow he lost his hold and took a tumble.”

Shawmut laughed hoarsely.

“It was a mighty bad tumble for him,” he said. “He falls right into our paws, and we has him foul. Now we’re all right. Talk about luck; this is it!”

Kip Henry shook his wounded and bandaged hand before Frank’s eyes.

“You did that, hang you!” he snarled. “Now you gits paid fer it!”

As the ruffian uttered these words he placed a hand on his revolver and seemed on the point of shooting the helpless captive.

“Wait a minute, mate,” urged Wiley. “Let’s not be too hasty. There are three of us here, and I have a sagacious opinion that any one of us will take morbid pleasure in putting Mr. Merriwell out of his misery. I propose that we draw lots to see who will do the little job.”

“You seem mighty anxious to take a hand at it!” growled Henry.

“I wish to prove my readiness to stand by you through thick and thin,” asserted the sailor. “In this way I shall win your absolute confidence. Should it fall on me to do this unpleasant task, you will see the job most scientifically done.”

As he made this assertion Wiley laughed in a manner that seemed wholly heartless and brutal.

“I didn’t think it of you, cap’n!” exclaimed Frank.

“That’s all right,” returned the sailor brazenly. “I’m a solicitor of fortune; I am out for the dust. These gents here have assured me that I shall have a third interest in the mine when it is located. Every bird feathers its own nest. I have a chance to feather mine, and I don’t propose to lose the opportunity. If the task devolves upon me to transport you to the shining shore, rest easy in the assurance that I’ll do a scientific job. I will provide you in short order with a pair of wings.”

“That’s the talk!” chuckled Shawmut. “How does we settle who does it?”

“Have you a pack of cards?” inquired Wiley.

“Sartin,” said Shawmut, fishing in his pocket and producing a greasy pack. “We has ’em.”

“Then I propose that we cut. The one who gets the lowest does the trick.”

That was agreed to, and a moment later the cards had been shuffled and placed on a flat stone near the fire. Henry cut first and exposed a king.

“That lets you out,” said the sailor. “I can beat that. Come ahead, Mate Shawmut.”

Shawmut cut and turned up a trey.

“I reckon I’m the one,” he said.

Then Wiley cut the cards and held up in the firelight a deuce!

Both Henry and Shawmut uttered exclamations.

“Well, you has your wish,” said the latter. “Now it’s up to you to go ahead with the business.”

Wiley actually smiled.

“Let me take your popgun, mate,” he said, extending his hand toward Henry. “Mine is a little too small to do the trick properly.”

Henry handed over his pistol.

Wiley examined it critically, finally shaking his head.

“It’s a mighty poor gun for a man of your standing to carry, mate,” he asserted. “Perhaps you have a better one, Shawmut? Let me see.”

Shawmut also gave up his pistol.

Having a revolver in each hand, Cap’n Wiley cocked them both.

“They seem to be in good working order,” he said. “I should fancy either of them would kill a man quicker than he could wink his eye.”

“You bet your boots!” said Henry.

“That being the case,” observed Wiley, “I will now proceed to business.”

Then, to the surprise of the two ruffians, he leveled the pistols straight at them.

“Now, you double-and-twisted yeller dogs!” he cried, “if you so much as wiggle your little finger, I will perforate both of you! I have the pleasure to inform you that I am a fancy pistol shot, and I think I can soak you with about six bullets each before you can say skat.”

The astounded ruffians were taken completely by surprise.

“What in blazes does you mean?” snarled Shawmut.

“I mean business,” declared the sailor. “Did you low-born whelps think that Cap’n Wiley would go back on his old side pard, Frank Merriwell? If you fancied such a thing for the fraction of a momentous moment, you deceived yourselves most erroneously. Now you keep still where you are, for I give you my sworn statement that I will shoot at the first move either of you make.”