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

“When they yelled they dropped their cutlasses and knives from their teeth, and the clang of steel upon the deck was almost deafening. It was a surprising sight to see the chinks diving here and there after the rats and trying to capture them. To them those rats were far more valuable than anything they had expected to find on board. For the time being they had wholly forgotten their real object in boarding us.

“Seeing the opening offered, at the precise psychological moment I seized a cutlass and fell upon them. With my first blow I severed a pirate’s head from his body. At the same time I shouted to my crew to follow my example. They caught up the weapons the pirates had dropped, and in less time than it takes to tell it that deck ran knee-deep in Chinese gore. Even after we had attacked them in that manner they seemed so excited over those rats that they continued to chase the fleeing rodents and paid little attention to us.

“If was not more than ten minutes before I finished the last wretch of them and stood looking around at that horrible spectacle. With my own hand I had slain forty-one of those pirates. We had wiped out the entire crew. Of course, I felt disappointed in having to lose the rats in that manner, but I decided that it should not be a loss, and straightway I began shaving the pigtails from the Chinamen’s heads. We cut them off and piled them up, after which we cast the bodies overboard and washed the deck clean.

“When I arrived in New York I made a deal with a manufacturer of hair mattresses and sold out that lot of pigtails for a handsome sum. It was one of the most successful voyages of my life. When Congress heard of the wonderful things I had done in destroying the pirates, it voted me a leather medal of honor. That’s the whole story, Mr. Merriwell. I was dreaming of that frightful encounter when you aroused me. Perhaps you may doubt the veracity of my narrative; but it is as true as anything I ever told you.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” laughed Frank. “It seems to me that the most of your wonderful adventures are things of dreams, cap’n. According to your tell, you should have been a rich man to-day. You have had chances enough.”

“That’s right,” nodded the sailor. “But my bountiful generosity has kept me poor. In order to get ahead in this world a fellow has to hustle. He can’t become a Rockefeller or a Morgan if he’s whole-souled and generous like me. I never did have any sympathy with chaps who complain that they had no chance. I fully agree with my friend, Sam Foss, who wrote some touching little lines which it would delight me to recite to you. Sam is the real thing when it comes to turning out poetry. He can oil up his machine and grind it out by the yard. Listen, and I will recite to you the touching stanzas in question.”

In his own inimitable manner Wiley began to recite, and this was the poem he delivered:

“That will about do for this morning,” laughed Frank. “We will have breakfast now.”

That day Frank set about a systematic search for some method of getting into the Enchanted Valley, as he had called it. Having broken camp and packed everything, with the entire party he set about circling the valley. It was slow and difficult work, for at points it became necessary that one or two of them should take the horses around by a détour, while the others followed the rim of the valley.

Midday had passed when at last Merry discovered a hidden cleft or fissure, like a huge crack in the rocky wall, which ran downward and seemed a possible means of reaching the valley. He had the horses brought to the head of this fissure before exploring it.

“At best, it is going to be a mighty difficult thing to get the horses down there,” said Bart.

“We may not be able to do it,” acknowledged Merry; “but I am greatly in hopes that we can get into the valley ourselves at last.”

When they had descended some distance, Frank found indications which convinced him that other parties had lately traversed that fissure. These signs were not very plain to Bart, but he relied on Merry’s judgment.

They finally reached a point from where they could see the bottom and look out into the valley.

“We can get down here ourselves, all right,” said Hodge. “What do you think about the horses?”

“It will be a ticklish job to bring them down,” acknowledged Merry; “but I am in for trying it.”

“If one of the beasts should lose his footing and take a tumble – ”

“We’d be out a horse, that’s all. We must look out that, in case such a thing happens, no one of us is carried down with the animal.”

They returned to the place where Wiley, Worthington, and little Abe were waiting. When Frank announced that they could get into the valley that way, the deranged man suddenly cried:

“There’s doom down there! Those who enter never return!”

“That fellow is a real cheerful chap!” said the sailor. “He has been making it pleasant for us while you were gone, with his joyful predictions of death and disaster.”

They gave little heed to Worthington. Making sure the packs were secure on the backs of the animals, they fully arranged their plans of descent and entered the fissure. More than an hour later they reached the valley below, having descended without the slightest mishap.

“Well, here we are,” smiled Merry. “We have found our way into the Enchanted Valley at last.”

“Never to return! Never to return!” croaked Worthington.

“It’s too late to do much exploring to-night, Merry,” said Hodge.

“It’s too late to do anything but find a good spot and pitch our tent.”

“Where had we better camp?”

After looking around, Merriwell suggested that they proceed toward the northern end of the valley, where there was timber.

“It’s up that way we saw smoke, Frank,” said Hodge.

“I know it.”

As they advanced toward the timber they came to a narrow gorge that cut for a short distance into the side of a mighty mountain. The stream which ran through the valley flowed from this gorge, and further investigation showed that it came from an opening in the mountainside itself. Beside this stream they found the dead embers of a camp fire.

“Who built it, Frank?” asked Bart, as Merry looked the ground over. “Was it Indians, do you think?”

Merriwell shook his head.

“No; it was built by white men.”

Hodge frowned.