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TABLE OF CONTENTS

“Noname’s” Latest and Best Stories are Published in This Library.

Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y., Post Office, October 5, 1892.

No. 14. {COMPLETE.} FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 & 36 North Moore Street, New York, {PRICE 5 CENTS.} Vol. I.

New York, December 24, 1892. Issued Weekly.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by FRANK TOUSEY, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

FRANK READE AND HIS STEAM HORSE.

By “NONAME.”

Away they flew like rockets over the hard and level ground, the breeze raising their hats as they dashed along. The Steam Man put forth mighty efforts, and made giant strides; but he couldn’t match the metal steed.

The subscription price of the Frank Reade Library by the year is $2.50: $1.25 per six months, post-paid. Address FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Box 2730.

Frank Reade and His Steam Horse.

By “NONAME.”

Author of “The Steam Man of the Plains,” “The Boy Balloonist,” etc., etc., etc.

[CHAPTER I.]
PUTTING THE “ANIMILE” TOGETHER.

“Musha, my God, an’ what do ye call it?”

Frank Reade looked up with a pleasant smile, as a brick-colored head was thrust into the half-open doorway of the wood-shed, where he was hard at work putting the several parts of his invention together.

“Call it!” said the sixteen-year-old genius, with a proud glance at his wonderful idea; “why, I call it a steam horse.”

“A harse, is it?”

“It is,” said Frank.

“Wid stale an’ iron legs, an’ a big copper belly on him?”

“You’re right.”

“An’ can he walk?”

“Yes, and run too.”

“Worra, worra, did yez iver hear the loikes o’ that?” cried the Irishman, throwing up his hands in astonishment. “Would ye have the nateness to allow me to sthep in for a whist, while I obsarve the construction of the conthrivance? I can philosophize, and so forth, but be the smoke o’ Kate Kelly’s pipe (be the same token, it was a rale black dudeen), this bates me philosophy, it do.”

“Who are you?” asked Frank.

“Patrick McSpalten’s my name. Will yez allow me in?”

“I suppose so,” said Frank, and into the wood-shed walked the Irishman.

He was a good-natured looking man of about thirty, pleasant-faced, well-dressed, and full of blarney.

“Arrah, it’s a jaynus ye are,” he said as he looked at Frank’s invention. “An’ do ye mane to tell me that you constructed that conthrivance all out of yer own head, me gossoon?”

“Oh, no,” grinned Frank. “I use quite a quantity of steel, iron and copper.”

“Oh, I didn’t mane that,” hastily said Patrick McSpalten. “I want to know if ye conthrived the masheen all alone?”

“You bet your bottom dollar I did,” said Frank. “I could make a metal casting of any animal and send it traveling with speed. This horse will probably travel at the rate of sixty miles an hour when under high pressure, and could keep going thirty-five or forty miles an hour for ten hours, with occasional ten minute stops to cool a hot joint.”

“Is that so?” ejaculated Patrick. “I can philosophize and so forth, but that bates me. Now, I moind that I was jist as much surprised whin I was tould about a Sthame Mon that thraveled over the counthry out west and——”

“What?” cried Frank Reade, surprise ringing in his voice. “The Steam Man was my invention.”

“Ye mane it?”

“Of course; I invented the old fellow and traveled over the west with him.”

“Honor bright now?” said McSpalten.

“Honor bright,” said Frank.

“Thin ye are the broth of a gossoon he was telling me about.”

“Who?”

“Me cousin.”

“What’s his name?”

“Barney Shea.”

“What!” cried the much-pleased boy, “is Barney Shea your cousin?”

“Av coorse he is. Me grandfeyther on me mother’s side was an O’Reilly, and Barney’s grandmother on his feyther’s side was a McSpalten, and didn’t they mate one foine summer’s marning, and all the lossies and lods——”

“Oh, hire a stump,” broke in Frank. “Never mind the old folks, but tell me about Barney. How is he?”

“Well and harety.”

“When did you see him last?”

“A month ago, when he said God speed to me on the quay at Dublin. Ah, he’s a great mon in the county now, is me cousin, Barney Shea. Frank Rade is yer name, for mony a toime has he tould me of yer diviltries with the red haythen out in the west.”

“Frank Reade is my name,” said the young inventor. “Is Barney coming back to this country, do you know?”

“Faith, I heerd him talkin’ about the matther, an’ saying that he moight take a pleasure trip to this land.”

“Do you know his address?”

“Do I, don’t I?” cried Pat. “Would yez be afther sinding a letther to the mon?”

“That’s the idea,” said Frank.

“For what?”

“To get him to come out here and travel with me.”

“And with that thing?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “He was the darndest cuss to fight that ever I laid my eyes on. He was always spoiling for a first class shake-up or knock-down, and he was the toughest boy in a rough hand-to-hand scrimmage that ever walloped his way through the West. I could depend on him when there was fighting for us to handle, and he was a mighty stanch friend to me. What’s his address?”

“Esquire Barney Shea, Clonakilty, County of Cork, Ireland.”

“All right,” said Frank, jotting it down in a book, “I’ve got it.”

“Whist now,” said Pat, “whin ye direct the letther, moind that yez don’t lave off the esquire.”

“I’ll moind,” said Frank.

“Now, will ye be afther havin’ the extrame nateness of showin’ me how in the name of the seven wondhers of the worruld ye mane to make that conthrivance thravel loike a harse?”

“Certainly,” said Frank, approaching the invention with a great deal of pardonable pride. “You can see very plainly that the machine is in every respect similar to a horse.”

“I moind that same.”

“Then I will begin with the information necessary to make you understand how the old thing works,” said Frank. “In the first place this copper belly is nothing more nor less than a well-tested, strongly-made boiler, occupying the greater part of the distance between the fore legs and hind ones; this gives room to the steam-chest proper and boiler, and they extend into the haunches. Understand?”

“Oh, yis, I can philosophize an’ so forth,” said McSpalten, sitting on a wooden bench and looking as wise as an owl.

“Then here, almost on the top of the horse’s haunches,” said Frank, “are the valves, by means of which I can at any time examine either the water or the steam, and regulate accordingly. Forward of this is the place where my fire burns, the door of the furnace being in the chest, as you can see. Flues running up through the animal’s head will allow the smoke to pass out of his ears, while similar pipes will carry the steam out of the horse’s nose.”

“Musha! musha! did yez iver hear the bate o’ that?” murmured Patrick.

“In the head,” continued Frank, “I have arranged a clock-work contrivance that will feed coils of magnesium wire as fast as it burns to the flame of a small lamp that is set between a polished reflector and the glass that forms each eye. I shall thus have a powerful light at night time, and on the level plains shall be able to see very clearly one mile ahead, if the night was just as black as a piece of coal.”

“Worra! worra!” gasped McSpalten. “Me head is turnin’ round. Go on, me gossoon.”

“Of course the power is applied by means of iron rods running down the hollow limbs, and having an upward, downward, and forward motion. By reversing steam I can make the horse back. Here, at the knees, I open these slides and rake out the cinders and ashes that fall from the fire in the horse’s chest. The animal’s hoofs are sharp shod, so there’s no danger of him slipping, either uphill or down.”

“An’ will ye be afther ridin’ on the back of that crayture?”

“Oh no,” smiled Frank, “I am making a wagon to ride in and carry my supplies for myself and the horse, and the animal will be harnessed to the truck, which will be constructed so as to stand the joltings of rapid travel. There, now, I guess you can understand the idea of the thing pretty well, can’t you?”

“Oh, yis, I can philosophize an’ so forth, an’ I have the ijee very foinely,” said Patrick McSpalten. “An’ now I’ll be afther goin’ to me cousin’s, the O’Flaherty family, hard by. It’s out wist I’m goin’ mesilf to-morrow, an’ I may mate you there some foine day. I’ll grow wid the counthry, an whin I make a fartune loike me Cousin Shea, then it’s back to swate Clonakilty I’ll go, an’ thin I’ll be Esquire McSpalten. Do yez moind that?”

“Success to you,” said Frank. “You’ll make it out, I guess.”

“Faith, I’ll thry,” said Patrick. “Will yez be afther havin’ the nateness to sind me respects to me Cousin Shea, and tell the mon that I hope to mate him in this land?”

“I will,” said Frank. “Take care of yourself, look out for sharpers, keep your weather eye skinned, and your hand on your wallet. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, me brave gossoon,” said the Irishman, grasping the boy’s slender hand in a farewell shake. “Ye can’t fail o’ making your mark, for ye can philosophize an’ so forth as well as mesilf; and I’ll wager the last bit o’ baccy for me pipe that you’ll raise the very divil wid yer Sthame Horse.”

[CHAPTER II.]
BARNEY IN IRELAND.

“Mrs. O’Doolahan.”

“Yes, Squire Shea.”

“How many more toimes am I to order you to kape that divilish dirty ould sow out o’ me schmoking room?”

“Be me sowl, sir, the litter went flying through forninst her, and the poor sow was only follerin’ when ye banged the dure agen her.”

“Thin moind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan, for I’m not to be thrifled wid in this style, I want ye to kape the pigs and childer out o’ me schmoking-room, or, be the bright buckles on me shoes, I’ll have to ingage some wan ilse to kape the house; to kape the house for me, and not the pigs, mind ye, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan.”

“I moind, squire.”

“Thin see that I don’t have to sphake again about the matter,” said Esquire Barney Shea, putting his thumbs under the arm-holes of his red silk vest and puffing out his chest in the most important manner; “and now I’m going to sthroll down to the town for an airin’, Mrs. O’Doolahan.”

“A pleasant walk to ye this foine summer’s marning, sir,” said Mrs. O’Doolahan, dropping him a courtesy; and then Barney walked off with a stately step toward the village, looking back at every few steps to glance with pride at the neat cottage, surrounded with many well-cultivated acres, which were all his own.

And this was the same Barney Shea who had roamed over the prairies of Western America, killing Indians and robbers, and reveling in rows and ructions.

He had come to this township of Clonakilty with a few thousands of dollars in shining gold, had purchased a house and land to the surprise of his envious neighbors, had been dubbed “Esquire,” in honor of his wealth, and was now living the quiet life of an Irish gentleman.

But he was growing tired of it.

It was very nice to be called “Squire” and receive the respectful homage of all the peasantry and the friendly hand of other squires—men whom he used to look up to in days gone by; but it wasn’t equal to a smashing, rip-tearing rumpus with a cut-throat band of murderous redskins and black-hearted white men.

He was growing rusty and out of practice for the want of use; and, as he thought as much of fighting as a woman does of eating, this humdrum life was not well calculated to suit him.

He walked leisurely into the town, and was saluted on all sides with respect.

When he entered the post-office several voices saluted him:

“The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Squire Shea.”

“Long life to ye, Squire Shea.”

“And there’s a letther for ye, Esquire Barney Shea,” said the postmaster, handing out a yellow envelope. “It’s from Ameriky.”

“Oh, aye,” mumbled Barney, with a wise look on his mug; “wan a’ me furrin’ correspondents, you moind.”

And then he sat down on the chair and broke the seal of the letter, while around him sat the staring and gaping countrymen, anxious to hear something from the far off land, and looking up with great admiration and respect to the man who had a foreign correspondent.

And this is the letter that made Barney Shea’s eyes sparkle:

“Friend Barney:—How are you Squire Shea? How does your lordship feel? I have met with your cousin, Patrick McSpalten, and he has told me all about your being one of the biggest men in your parts, but he also said that you talked about paying a visit to this land some time, and that’s why I write to you.

“Barney, my rip-snorter, you remember what I said I’d do, don’t you? I said that if it could be done I’d make a horse that should go by steam, and now, old boy, I tell you that I’ve done it.

“I’ve built my horse, and every part is perfect, and there’s no reason why I can’t go whistling over the plains like some rocket on a tear. Oh! what fun I’m going to have with the reds. You bet I’ll wake ’em up at the liveliest rate.

“Now Barney, I want you to come out here to my house in New York, and start with me for the West. My horse is all finished, and, by the time that you get here, I shall have the wagon ready to harness on the animal. Charley Gorse and his Steam Man will travel over the plains with us when we reach the West, and you can have full scope for your fighting tendencies among the reds and the rascally whites. Come out, if only to take a ride behind my Steam Horse, and I’ll promise to raise more rough and tumble rumpusses in one week on the plains than you’ll have in Ireland in a year.

“Ever your friend,

“Frank Reade.”

“Tare an’ ouns,” cried Barney, when he read the letter through, by dint of much study and patient spelling, “did yez iver hear the loikes o’ that now?”

And then, observing that they were all looking at him with surprise, he turned to them, and said:

“Whist, me lads; ye moind that powerful young jaynus I was talking about so often to yez?”

“The gossoon wid the mon that wint be sthame?” asked one.

“That same,” said Barney.

“We moind the lad,” they said.

“Thin moind this,” said Barney. “The young jaynus has been afther invintin’ a harse that goes be sthame.”

“A harse?”

“Do yez mane a rale horse, squire?”

“Musha, my Lord, are ye joking, squire?”

“Be the goat of St. Kevin’s cavern that’s the bate of all.”

And they held up their hands in the greatest wonder.

“I mane it,” said Barney. “It’s a harse, and av coorse it must be constructed of iron or sthale.”

“An’ goes be sthame?”

“It will that same,” said Barney. “Oh, I must go to Ameriky to take a jaunt at this wondherful Sthame Harse. Look ye, Michael McGarrahan.”

“Yis, Squire Shea,” said a young man, stepping forward with his hat between his fingers.

“I moind that ye’re a loikely soort o’ lad, Michael.”

“Yis, squire; thank ye, squire.”

“And be the same token that nate little colleen—what’s her name?”

“Kathleen O’Shaugnessy, yer honor,” said Michael; “that’s the wan yer honor must mane.”

“Aye, Kathleen smiles on ye, but ye’re too poor to go togither to the praste.”

“Yis, squire.”

“Thin I give yez both a foine chance to rise in the worruld, for I know that ye’re an honest couple and’ll not rob me whin I’m away. I’m going to lave Clonakilty.”

“Oh, squire.”

“Don’t go.”

“Musha, my God, phat’ll we do widout our pratees?”

“And the pigs at Michaelmas?”

“And the grain for me harse whin me feed runs out?”

“And the two chickens for coc’s-broth whin me wife’s sick?”

“Oh, Squire Shea, don’t yez go.”

And they all crowded around the good-hearted Barney.

He had stood between them and poverty a great many times since he became a squire, and they were not anxious to have him depart from them.

“Be aisy, boys, be aisy,” said Barney. “I’ll lave full instruction wid me agent here, Michael McGarrahan, to give aich of ye whatever I’ve given yez afore, so ye’ll not lose by me lavin yez. Michael shall marry his nate colleen, an’ take charge of me house and land; and I’ll be off to Ameriky with the first ship that laves afther Michael gits married, for I’ll sthay to dance at his weddin’, and thin I’ll be off. Now I must go home and write a letther to the jaynus, tellin’ the lad to look for me soon. Good-day.”

“Good-day, Squire Shea,” cried they all, and away walked Barney, with his head thrown back.

And then he sent the following letter to our hero:

“Frank, me brave gossoon:—It’s delighted wid ye intirely, I am. A Sthame Horse, you wondherful little divil, ye? Oh, ye’re a rale jaynus, and ye’ll make yer mark, as I tould Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan (she’s me housekeeper, do ye moind), and she allowed ye war a brave gossoon to invent such a conthrivance, and she not able to keep the sow and her nine small sows and pigs out o’ me schmokin’ room half the time; but of coorse I’ll come over and ride out west wid ye behind yer Sthame Horse, as I tould Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan, me housekeeper—bad luck to me, I tould ye that before, but the sow and litter jist hopped across the flure between me legs, and I want ye to moind that I’m ready and spoilin’ for a rale knock ’em down an’ pick ’em up shindy wid the—there’s the sow an’ the pigs agen, and they’ve upset me birdseye terbaccy, and I’ll thravel all round wid ye over the land, and I want to see Charley Goorse, and—there goes my pipe in the little pig’s mouth—so look for me on the first ship afther Michael McGarrahan gits married to Kathleen O’Shaugnessy, and I’m going to tell Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan to kape the pigs away, or I’ll stick the troublesome divils between the ribs, and I’m yer sincere friend, that be wid yer soon, to ride wid the Sthame Harse.

“Barney Shea.”

[CHAPTER III.]
THE RACE.

Six weeks after the incidents narrated in the previous chapter had taken place, our young genius was at work in his favorite shed, trying the strength of his wagon in all parts, when the rear door of his father’s house was thrown open and our Hibernian friend rushed down the walk yelling out at the top of a sound pair of lungs:

“Frank, me brave gossoon.”

“Barney!” gladly cried the boy, and then he deserted his work and sprang forward to meet his old friend.

“You dear old rollicking roarer,” he said, seizing Barney’s hand with a fervor that attested his liking for the big-hearted Irishman. “How are Mrs. O’Doolah—I beg her pardon, Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan and the pigs?”

“Well an’ hearty,” laughed Barney. “And how do I foind ye!”

“In the same condition as Mrs. O’Doolahan and the porkers,” smiled Frank.

“And up till your eyes in woruk?”

“Right,” said Frank. “I told you I could do it, and I’ve done it. Just walk into the workshop and look at my nag.”

“I will that,” said Barney; and into the wood-shed he and Frank tramped.

“Musha my God, but that’s nate!” muttered Shea, gazing with admiration and some wonder at the noble looking steed of metal that stood there. “An’ ye have the conthrivance all complate?”

“Every bit.”

“An’ can he travel?”

“Like a flash. I wouldn’t hesitate to go fifty miles an hour.”

“Howly smoke, fifty moiles in wan hour.”

“Yes, sir, on a good road.”

“An’ ye can manage the masheen?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frank, “nothing easier in the world. That strong leather rein that you see running to either side of his mouth will control his movements as quickly as they can be handled. And I can make the old nag turn just as easily. I’ll tell you how that’s done.”

“Go on,” said Barney.

“Were you ever lost?” asked Frank.

“In a pace o’ woods, is it yer mane, or the loiks o’ that?”

“Yes.”

“Mony’s the toime.”

“And could you walk straight ahead?”

“Divil the straight. I wint around in a big circle all the toime, an’ jist when I thought I wur coming out all right, what would I do but fetch up slap jist where I started from.”

“Exactly,” said Frank. “And don’t you know the reason?”

“Divil the wan do I knaw.”

“Well, sir,” said the genius, “it is because one leg is always weaker than the other with everybody, and if you shut your eyes so that you can’t see where you’re going you’ll travel right or left according to which leg is weaker, for the strong one is sure to swing around towards it in consequence of taking a longer and stronger step. Now, I have divided my power so that I can put it on one side, and therefore by pulling a little harder on the left rein than on the other I go to the right, thus having to steer reversedly.”

“I see,” said Barney; “an’ ye got that nate idea from yer own legs?”

“Exactly,” said Frank. “Now, just take a peep at my wagon.”

The vehicle was a very solidly constructed affair, much heavier than a live horse would have cared to travel before, but the limbs of the Steam Horse were powerful and tireless.

The wagon was all made in small but neatly fitting sections, and all the several joints were made of rubber, so that the very fastest time over a rough road need not subject the occupants of the affair to any very severe jolting, and this forethought on the part of the boy was warmly praised by the Irishman.

“Here at the back of the wagon,” said Frank, “I have my vats for holding water, and those long pipes you see here will run along to the shafts, then from a ring they curve up to the haunches, and supply water to my boiler. Here at the sides I intend to carry a supply of sea coal, while I can make it last, and when I run out I’ll use wood or anything I can get, for my furnace will consume anything, and all I want from it is heat, and turf will give me that. Then in the center will be placed that wonderful trunk of mine, and I have made clasps to hold it down. I’ve invented a whole lot of new infernal contrivances, and I intend to scare the redskins out of their seven senses on this trip.”

“Ye can do it,” confidently asserted his admiring friend; “ye have the jaynus.”

“I will make their hair rise,” said Frank.

“An’ is Goorse well?” asked Barney.

“First-class,” said Frank.

“He’s a broth of a boy,” said Shea. “Well, and whin do we sthart away for fighting and fiddlin’?”

“Oho,” laughed Frank, “and do you mean to say that you’ve brought your fiddle with you again?”

“Bedad an’ I have,” grinned Barney. “Where I go, goes me fiddle. I have no wife, nor no childer, and me dear old fiddle’s me only darlint.”

“Good enough,” said Frank. “Well, we’ll start just as soon as I can buy all of my supplies, which will take a day or two, and then hurrah for the West.”

“Hooroo!” cried Barney Shea.

On a bright, sunshiny morning in midsummer, a little steamboat puffed up to the dock at Clarksville, and was made fast to the pier.

A crowd of interested idlers stood on the wharf, and among them was a young man of medium height, but with broad and well-set shoulders, who stood well forward, looking eagerly at the passengers on the deck of the crowded steamship.

Suddenly he espied two familiar faces on the deck, and, rushing eagerly forward, he shouted:

“Frank! Barney!”

“Charley Goorse! Charley Goorse!” excitedly exclaimed Shea.

“Yes, that’s Charley Gorse,” said Frank, and, with Barney at his side, he leaped on the pier and dashed up to his stalwart Western cousin.

“Dear old boy,” cried Gorse, seizing him in a bearish hug, “you’re just as thin and boyish as ever.”

“An’ jist the same wonderful jaynus that he was afore, only jist the laste bit more so,” said Barney, as his hand was grasped by Charley’s. “How are ye?”

“Hunky dory,” said Charley. “How are Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan and the pigs?”

“What!” cried Barney, “did you know Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan an’ the pigs?”

Charley roared outright, and Frank laughed heartily.

“I wrote to him,” he said.

“Oh, I moind,” said Barney.

“Massa Charley,” said a voice at the elbow of the Western lad, “I’se here.”

Frank turned to look at the speaker, and he was forced to laugh again.

There stood the most comical figure he had ever seen.

A full-blooded negro, black as the blackest of Africans, stood there, with an immense grin on his charcoal mug.

He was not higher than four feet, his chest and shoulders were large and swelling, and from his enormously long body descended bandy legs of a little more than one foot in length, while his feet were the finest specimens in the heavy corn-crushed line that could have been met with.

His head was very large, rounded off as smoothly as a cocoanut, and covered with hair that curled so very tightly that he could not shut his mouth.

The last named feature was probably five inches wide, presenting the appearance, when the darkey was on a broad grin, of his head separating into two equal parts, one above and the other below the awful cavity that he displayed.

His teeth were large and as white as snow; his ears were like two small wind-mills attached to his head, while his nose was as broad and flat as a good old-fashioned Connecticut pancake, squatted right down on his face.

This extraordinary creature returned Frank’s glance with an inquiring glance from his little beady eyes, which were as bright and piercing as those of a rattlesnake.

“This,” said Charley Gorse, “is my servant and constant companion, Pomp. He is as faithful as a dog, is one of the biggest cards in the way of a rumpus, and can cut up more didoes than any performer you ever saw in a sawdust ring. He’s one of the most wonderful riders and whistlers in the West; can ride on his head or his ear, charm snakes and call birds with his whistle, throw knives, hit the bull’s eye generally, and always sleeps with one eye open. Pomp, tip these people your hash-grabbers.”

“Yes, Massa Charley,” groaned Pomp, thrusting forth a horny black paw, fully as large as Frank’s foot. “If dey’s your frens, dey’s my frens, and dis nigga’ll fight for ’em till he’s chawed clar to nuffin.”

Frank and Barney shook hands with the grinning darkey, and then the quartette walked away to Charley’s home, Frank first giving the directions for unloading and conveying his boxes.

An hour later the case containing the different sections of the steam horse and the wagon were brought to the house, and they all gathered around to see Frank unpack his new idea.

In a short time the horse was put together and attached to the wagon, and everything belonging to the cargo designed for the body of the vehicle carefully stowed away.

Then, while Frank was firing up, Charley Gorse went to his barn, and soon came back with the Steam Man, and the old giant glared down from his height upon the steam steed of the plains.

“The old man looks natural,” said Frank.

“First-class,” said Charley; “and I’ll match him to travel against your horse.”

“Bully for you,” said Frank. “Do you want to try it now?”

“I do,” said Charley. “Pomp, go and get our rifles and other things, and stow them in the wagon, for we may get out too far to reach home again to-night.”

In a short time everything was ready.

Pomp mounted by the side of Charley Gorse, and Barney Shea took his place alongside Frank Reade; the steam was let on carefully, and away went the horse and man through the village at a moderate pace, the people staring in open-mouthed amazement at the novel sight.

Then out upon the level plains they went and steam was crowded on.

[Away they flew] like rockets over the hard and level ground, the breeze raising their hats as they dashed along.

The horse took the load and maintained it, dashing along on a square, rapid trot, his legs fairly twinkling as he spurred the ground with his sharpened hoofs.

The Steam Man put forth mighty efforts, and made giant strides; but he couldn’t match the metal steed.

Onward they flew in a straight line over the plains.

Buffaloes dashed across their path and bounded madly away to either hand.

Troops of prairie dogs ran barking and snarling from their homes, and uttering frightened yells, scampered away as fast as their little legs could carry them.

Onward at fifty miles an hour!

The small shrubbery of the plains seemed to fairly fly past.

Although there was not a particle of breeze, they created so much wind by their great speed that Barney came near losing his hat from his head while in the wagon of the Steam Man, and grinning, clung on for dear life.

It was faster than he had ever ridden in his life.

Charley made a big spurt, and slowly closed the gap between him and the Steam Horse.

Frank looked at his gauge.

“Guess I can stand a few pounds more steam,” he said, and clapped it on.

As he did so the wheels of his truck hit against a big stone.

Up into the air went the wagon.

Flop went Barney Shea into the bottom of the truck, shouting:

“Oh, why did I lave Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan an’ the pigs!”

As the wagon went up Frank Reade made an involuntary clutch.

He didn’t care what he got hold of, so that he could hang on, for it wouldn’t have proved just the cheese to have gone flying head first out of that truck just then.

It happened that he clutched one of the driving reins as he felt himself rising in the air.

This big pull on one side caused an instantaneous increase of speed on one side of the horse, and away he wheeled, dashing off like a rocket at right angles from the course.

Down came Frank in a heap on top of Barney, and just then the truck landed on the ground and bumped along once more.

A terrible danger threatened Barney and our hero as they lay floundering in the body of the wagon.

The Steam Man, coming up at a smashing pace, had held steadily to his course, and was now plunging forward with immense strides.

The Steam Horse was darting along on a course that would bring him directly across the Steam Man’s track.

A collision seemed inevitable.

For these two steam coursers to collide meant death.

With a pale cheek Frank Reade peered over the seat and beheld the man rushing down upon him.

He seized the reins.

Charley Gorse beheld the danger at this moment, and a cry of horror pealed from his lips.

The horse and the man were converging toward one point.

There was not time to turn aside.

Only a desperate chance remained for Frank Reade to try.

He pulled hard and sharp on the reins, and threw the entire power of the machine into the iron limbs.

Like an immense bolt, the horse sprang forward, just as the man dashed close up to him, and the two vehicles scraped by with an ominous sound that made them all shudder over their narrow escape.

Then Frank wheeled again, moderated his speed, and ran on a parallel course with the man, and about half a mile from Gorse.

“The Steam Man does well,” muttered Frank, as he slowly increased his speed, “but this hour shall decide whether he can beat my Steam Horse. Now for the grand spurt.”

[CHAPTER IV.]
THE PRAIRIE LEAGUE.

Where two long spurs of a longer mountain range ran out upon the plains, grew a small patch of woods, springing up between the far-reaching arms of rocks.

Hidden from view in this little cluster of green trees, but approached by a blazed wagon road and well-worn footpath, was a large house, built in the roughest but most substantial style.

The walls were of hewn logs, two and three feet in thickness; the roof was surmounted with a thatching of straw, and the four sides of the two-story building were pierced with rifle apertures.

It looked more like an overgrown log-house or frontier fort than anything else.

In the rear of this dwelling was a substantially-built and commodious stable, looking as if it were capable of accommodating a large number of animals.

An air of perfect peace and quiet was brooding over the place, and it seemed fairly to be sleeping in the warmth of the summer afternoon; but for all that sharp eyes were ever peering from out the numerous holes in the front of the structure, and no one could have approached the place unobserved.

A horseman came riding slowly over the plains from the east.

He guided his jaded animal into the blazed roadway between the trees, and rode until within twenty feet of the house.

Here he stopped and sat motionless on his horse.

A moment later the front door of the house swung slowly open, and a tall, ruffianly-looking fellow came forth.

“What news, Jack?” asked the horseman.

“Nothing ’tickler, capen,” answered the fellow with surly respect. “Everything’s been movin’ at the old gait. How did you get along?”

“Made ten thousand dollars,” returned the other, as he dismounted from his horse. “How does that sound?”

“Bully,” said Jack, as he took the bridle-rein over his arm. “How much did you manage to shove off?”

“About fifteen thousand.”

“And fetched ten?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rippin’ good,” said Jack. “The boys’ll be proud of you.”

“I intend that they shall be,” said the man, as he walked away toward the house. “Give him a good rubbing down and plenty of feed, for I may need him.”

“All right,” said Jack, and led the weary animal to the stables.

As he took the horse into a stall he gave a soft whistle.

A lithe form sprang up from a heap of straw and stood erect.

It was a boy of perhaps fifteen, dwarfed so very much as to appear but a child; his bright eyes were intelligent and full of keen, knowing expression, and his agile movements told very plainly that his deformity did not make a cripple of him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Jack looked carefully around before making any reply.

“Has no one been here?” he said, speaking in a low tone.

“No one,” said the boy. “I have not been to sleep. We’re alone.”

“Do you know where Harry is now?” asked the man.

“About,” said the boy.

“You think you could find him, Pedro?”

“Yes.”

“Then go for your pony and ride to him just as lively as possible.”

“What shall I say?” asked Pedro.

“Tell him that the captain has come back, and that the rest will probably be here by the morning, or to-morrow afternoon. Say that the wagons will have thousands of dollars in, but that they will all be well guarded, and he had better let them alone; but I think he can rake the ranche if he comes.”

“All right.”

“Can you remember all?”

“Oh, yes,” said Pedro, his bright eyes sparkling with confidence. “Oh, wouldn’t I like to lead him here. He saved my life, and I’d die for Harry.”

“Then away,” said Jack, and with a hop, skip and a jump the boy was out of the stable, and in a moment was lost to view in the woods.

“Now there’ll be fun,” quoth Jack.

When the horseman entered the house, he was met by an old woman, who bowed to him in the most obsequious manner.

“Glad to see you, cap,” said this hag, who was as wrinkled, bent, ugly and repulsive as any witch. “Have some dinner?”

“Yes,” said the captain. “Dish me up the best you’ve got, with a bottle of wine and a box of cigars.”

This being a good chance to tell the reader who and what this captain was, and what he looked like, the author will avail himself of the opportunity to describe him.

Captain Jerry Prime was probably about five and thirty years of age, light, compact in build, and not bad looking.

He was gentlemanly-looking, and had an air of good breeding about him, which, taken in connection with his attire, would no doubt have been a passport to him almost anywhere, and yet for all that he was one of the worst rascals west of the Hudson.

He was the leader and principal worker in a gang of counterfeiters that was stocking the country with bogus money; and so well had his operations been conducted, that so far he had eluded all attempts on the part of the government to trace the “queer” to its place of issue.

To cover his business, he set up and run in a fair, square and legitimate style, a prairie express.

Of course the drivers were all men of his gang; but all the express work given into their hands was conducted in such an excellent and satisfactory manner, that the prairie express route had grown into favor very rapidly.

Not even the shrewd detectives of the great secret service seemed to suspect the fact that a well-conducted express business concealed the operations of a gang of counterfeiters.

Captain Prime regaled himself with a very substantial dinner, drank half a bottle of wine, smoked some very good imported cigars, and was then about to drop off to sleep when the clatter of iron shod hoofs on the plains a few rods away broke into his doze.

He started from his seat and walked to a small barred window that looked out upon the open space into which the blazed roadway led.

A horseman was cantering up the path at an easy gait.

Captain Prime looked at him keenly, and a puzzled expression crossed his face.

“Not one of my boys,” he said. “I wonder who he can be? He must have known of this place, for it’s almost impossible to discover it from the plains.”

The horseman rode up to within a dozen yards of the house.

Then he pulled rein, and placing his hand to his mouth, shouted:

“Halloo!”

No answer was returned to him.

The horseman waited for a moment, and then he shouted again:

“Halloo, Captain Prime.”

“The devil,” quoth Prime. “He knows me, or my name, whoever he is. I guess I’ll order him in.”

He touched a bell, and in a moment the tall stableman appeared in the room.

“Jack,” said the captain, “take a good look at that fellow.”

The stableman peered through the barred window.

“Good,” he muttered softly to himself. “He is just the man for the work. I would trust my life to his nerve and bravery.”

“Know him?” asked the captain, as the horseman again shouted aloud for some one to come out.

“Never saw him before,” said Jack. “What will you do?”

“Let you go and have a confab with the chap; see who and what he is, what he wants with me, and then act according to your own judgment, whether to let him in or send him off about his business. You’ve got a better head on you than half of the boys, and I can trust you fully.”

“Thanky,” mumbled Jack, and with a scrape of his foot he backed out of the room.

A moment later he was out of the house and approaching the horseman.

The latter regarded him steadily, but not a sign of recognition passed between the two men.

When they approached close to each other the stableman spoke:

“Glad to see you, old man.”

“Mutual,” laconically returned the horseman. “Don’t think I should have known you. You look like a regular cutthroat. Do you want to know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him my name is Sparrowhawk, and that I’m a New York cracksman. I met Smith, a deserter from his gang; old pal of mine; the police were after me; I cut west; here I am, and want to ring in with him.”

“That’ll do,” said Jack. “Remember, he’s not a chicken to deal with. Keep your eyes open for danger, or I may have to peril all by raking you out of a trap. Dismount, throw your bridle over a bush, and follow me into the house. He’s watching!”

“I twig,” said Sparrowhawk, getting off his horse and disposing of the bridle as Jack had directed. “Fear not for me.”

Jack soon conducted him to the presence of the captain.

“Here’s a chap named Sparrowhawk, capen, from New York, which he’s a cracksman. He met Smith that deserted from you a little time ago; had to get away from the cops, so he come west, and now he wants to join yer. I can vouch for him for all that.”

“How?”

“’Cause we’re both brother members of a great society, ‘The Bloody Hand,’” said Jack. “We’d die for each other.”

And it sounded like truth.

“You want to join me?” asked Prime.

“I do,” said Sparrowhawk. “I’m called one of the best engravers in the trade, and a very good dye sinker. I’d like to join the ‘Prairie League.’”

“I can use you then,” said the captain. “In the morning you will be regularly initiated into the band, but until that time your brother of the ‘Bloody Hand’ will take care of you. Clear, and let me snooze.”

The two men left the room and strolled off towards the stables.

“So far so good,” said Sparrowhawk. “Harry intends to lay off for the wagons and scoop them in if he can.”

“How many men has he?”

“Ten.”

“He’ll be swallowed up,” said Jack, with an expression of alarm. “The boys of the band number more, without counting the redskins, and they’re all tough fighters. If Harry gets scooped this enterprise will go up like so much gas.”

“Can’t be helped,” said Sparrowhawk. “Ah, what’s that?”

“The distant sound of guns,” said Jack, as the dull boom of far-away rifles came rolling across the plains. “Harry has got his head in a trap.”

“But what’s that?” cried Sparrowhawk, as a loud and long whistle came plainly to their ears. “A locomotive?”

“Can’t be,” said Jack. “But there’s the devil to pay out there.”

And Jack was right.

There was the devil to pay.

[CHAPTER V.]
THE RUNNING FIGHT ON THE PLAINS.

“Charge!”

Three white canvas-covered express wagons were rolling over the plains, drawn by teams of tough mustangs.

In a little grove, close to the track of the wagons, a small body of mounted men sat motionless, headed by one whose flashing eyes and commanding manner stamped him a born leader.

Around the wagons, stretching out for the distance of half a mile, rode fully half a dozen men, not seeming to have any connection with the wagons and still keeping them under guard.

As the command pealed from the lips of the leader, the men in the grove put spurs to their steeds and dashed down upon the wagons.

Not a sound escaped their lips as they rode swiftly on in a compact body.

As soon as they appeared the drivers of the wagons lashed their teams, and the mustangs dashed over the plains at a furious gallop.

“Spread,” cried the leader.

At the word his little command spread out in the form of a fan, covering the distance of an eighth of a mile, and stretching across the course of the flying wagons, that were now bumping along at a terrific pace.

“Halt!” was the next command, and the spread-out body pulled up sharp, right in the path of the oncoming teams.

Still the drivers of the wagons lashed the mustangs, evidently with the idea of cutting through at all hazards.

At this moment one of the drivers fired off a pistol, and the outriding guard began to close in towards the wagon at a swift pace.

The leader of the charging party whistled shrilly, and half a dozen of his men at once covered the oncoming teams with their rifles.

“Fire!”

Many reports blended, and the leading team fell.

Shouts of rage arose from the drivers and the closing-in guard, but the first wagon came to a sudden stop, and before the others could cut around it the leader of the little band yelled:

“Down upon them!”

His men spurred forward, and rapidly closed in upon the little train, while at the same time the guards sent up their wild shouts as they rushed madly to the rescue.

“Halt!” cried the leader who had directed the charge. “Rifles up, and cover them so as to keep them at bay. Use the wagons for a barricade, for they outnumber us.”

The wagons had all been forced to come to a standstill by the stoppage of the first one, and the drivers had leaped from their seats with weapons clutched in their hands.

The guards were brought to a halt when within rifle-shot by the stern command of the leader of the attacking party.

“Halt!” he shouted. “Stand, or I shoot you down!”

They wisely pulled up, and sat still on their panting horses, covered by the weapons of the others, who were secured somewhat by the wagons.

“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded one of the drivers, striding up to the plucky little leader of the attacking band. “Who am I talking to?”

“A man,” quietly responded the leader. “I intend to search through your wagons, my good fellow.”

“Who are you?”

“Myself, individually.”

“And a blessed cutthroat, too!” savagely said the driver.

The leader smiled.

“You’re not the man to be so severe on cutthroats,” he said. “Now, listen. I don’t want to detain you one minute longer than is necessary, if you are really what you seem to be; but if you are humbugs, why I shall have to scoop you in; so be kind enough to tumble out what goods you’ve got in your truck.”

“If I do, I do,” blustered the driver, “but if I do I’m darned. We’re honest expressmen, driving for the Prairie Express, and, I’d rather die with my weapons in my claws than give up my charge. If you want to see what I’ve got you must come and ride over my dead body.”

He leaped backwards and leaned against the wagon, his pistols held lightly, but firmly, in his hands.

The leader looked admiringly upon the plucky chap.

“You’re gritty,” he said, “and I can admire you; but if you don’t tumble up into that wagon in just half a minute, and tumble out your goods, I’ll be cussed if I don’t tumble you.”

His long rifle leaped to his shoulder as he spoke, and the dark, deadly tube fairly covered the driver’s breast.

Pluck was an admirable thing, but it was laughing at death to stand there covered by that deadly rifle.

For a moment the driver stood irresolute, and then he turned and clambered over the body of one of the fallen horses and leaped into the wagon.

He began throwing out his various articles, and the other drivers were ordered to follow his example.

They obeyed orders, and soon the goods from the interior of the tented wagons formed a heap on the plains.

During this time the mounted guard had been forced to sit carelessly on the backs of their horses, kept at bay by the leveled weapons of the attacking party, the latter keeping partly under cover of the wagons.

“Lively,” ordered the captain. “Tumble them out as quickly as possible, for I want to search through the wagons after you get through.”

“That’s all in mine,” said the driver, who had attempted to brave him, throwing out a large bundle. “The wagon’s clear. I can’t imagine what you want. Are you going to rob us of these goods?”

“Oh no.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You shall see,” said the leader. “Jump out of that.”

The driver obeyed, and the leader at once leaped into the wagon.

He searched around the inside, sounded the flooring of the body, and at length found a little crevice running across the boards.

He drew a knife from his bootleg, and with firm hand drove it deep down into the crevice.

Bearing strongly on the hilt he caused the board to fly up, revealing a little trap about a foot square.

In this trap lay a carefully sealed up bag, which he lifted with a little difficulty from its resting-place.

“Gold, by the weight,” he said, and going to the front of the wagon he held it up so that his men could see it.

“I have found it,” he cried.

The driver uttered a yell of rage, and made a luckless leap forward.

He sprang upwards and caught the brave leader by the throat.

Instinctively the followers turned to the aid of their leader.

The bag fell with a musical jingle from the wagon to the ground.

The driver and the leader clenched tightly, and then followed the bag, rolling from the wagon to the plain.

As soon as the rifles of the attacking men were lowered, the guards made a rapid rush upon them.

A cheer rang out upon one side, a loud shout of defiance from the other, and then the two parties closed in a wild fight.

Rifle and pistol, bullet and blade were crashing and contending, and blood flowed from cruel wounds.

The plunging of the steeds, the hoarse and vindictive shouts of the riders, the screams of the wounded and dying men rang out in a demoniac chorus, and with such music above them the leader and the driver still clung to each other, rolling fairly under the hoofs of the plunging steeds, in their desperate encounter.

There was a wild shriek of mortal agony, as the iron-shod hoof of a madly plunging steed crashed through the brain of the unfortunate driver, and then the leader leaped to his feet, heated and half worn out, but still full of energetic command.

“I’m here!” he shouted, for well did he know that the sound of his ringing blows would encourage his men. “Drive them from the field!”

High above the roar and din of voices and weapons could be heard the crashing sound of many hoofs spurning the pebbles of the stony plain.

As if by magic, hostilities closed, and both parties turned to view this new arrival of enemies or friends of one side.

Around the little grove came sweeping a mixed band of red and white men, outnumbering both sides put together, and with loud yells charged down towards the wagons.

A cheer arose from the guards.

“They come, they come.”

The leader of the attacking party gave a shrill call, and his horse came crashing through the ranks, knocking steeds and horses left and right.

Like a flash he was mounted by his brave riders, and the latter shouted:

“Together, wheel, follow.”

And before the guards could recover from their surprise, the little band was rattling away behind the executive captain, leaving one man dead, and another one dying on the field, and carrying away more than one wound.

Onward at a swinging gallop, gathering into a compact body as they rode, came the mixed band.

A ringing shout of defiance came back as the little band swept onward, answered by hoarse, threatening cries from the mixed party, now joined by the guards of wagons.

The leader of the small party now turned in his saddle, and glanced swiftly over his right shoulder.

The pursuers were led by a flashily attired man, who held a big rifle in his left hand, guiding the steed he bestrode with the other.

With a quick motion the little captain’s rifle was thrown upward, until the steel-bound butt rested against his shoulder; his keen eyes flashed over the clouded tube, and a loud report rang out.

Crack!

Like a sharp snap of a whip, the rifle sent forth its death-note.

The leader of the mixed band tumbled to the ground, while the riderless horse scampered away.

Crack, bang!

Two reports answered the opening fire of the running fight.

One of the brave fellows fell headlong from his horse.

Another one threw up his hands with a low groan of pain, and would have fallen from his horse if his leader had not been prompt in putting out a strong hand, and steadying him in the saddle.

“Wounded?”

“Yes, Harry, I’m afraid it’s about all day with me,” gasped the man. “And I’m hit in the back. I never wanted to get my last dose there.”

“Cheer up,” said Harry. “It may not be so bad.”

But even as he spoke, the form he was supporting grew limp and nerveless, and fell sideways from the saddle, while the steed dashed steadily onward.

“Poor Bates,” said Harry. “Here’s to avenge the poor fellow.”

Two long range navy revolvers were taken from his holsters, and turning slightly in his saddle he extended his arms in the direction of his foes.

Crack, crack, went the revolvers, and at that instant a little volley was sent in by the pursuers.

The revolver in the right hand of the spirited leader was torn from his hand by a flying bullet.

Another bullet struck his horse in the off hind quarter.

The animal plunged, reared, and then struck off at right angles from the band.

Half a dozen of the Indians and white men instantly separated from the party, and with shouts and yells of wild glee spurred after the cut-off fugitive, whose horse had become crazed with pain.

We must now return to Frank and Charley.

Frank had just decided to put on a full head of steam in order to make a final effort, when his cousin hailed him with a signal whistle.

Frank shut off steam and allowed Charley to drive the man up close to the horse.

“What’s the matter?” asked Frank.

“Pomp just took a peep with the telescope,” said Charley, “and he saw a band of murderous reds and whites about four miles ahead. They are the worst on the plains, and I move that we try to clean ’em out alone. What do you say?”

“How many are there?”

“Eight or ten.”

“I’ll do it,” said Frank, diving down into the wonderful trunk, “and here’s the article that will do the business.”

He hauled forth a curious wire work.

When stretched out it was about twelve feet long and four or five wide, made of very strong crossed wires, and looking capable of holding considerable weight.

They watched Frank closely while the genius tied the sides of the wire work to the insides of the wagons as they then stood, and made them fast.

“Now drive up close, pull the slack of the wire into your wagon, and then travel. Put on thirty pounds of steam, and we’ll run steadily together.”

His orders were obeyed, and in two minutes they were rattling across the plains at a smashing pace, close together, and rapidly nearing the mixed band of cutthroats.

These latter suddenly spied them, and tried hard to escape in a compact body, and then Frank cried:

“Forty pounds of steam! Hurrah!”

And like two immense bolts the Steam Horse and the Steam Man shot down upon the flying band, and as they neared them, Frank cried:

“Spread!”

They spread out slightly, rushed on like flashes, and the extended screen of wire pushed the men kiting from the ground and sent them flying, dead, bruised and dying over the plain, while the groans and curses of the band, and their wild screams rang out in one thrilling chorus of terror and pain.

Men went whirling high into the air; and went tumbling over the ground like tops, and all sorts of weapons flew around with the force of the shock, for the solid weight of two immense machines had been sufficient to knock over every living object.

Many were killed instantly; others were left dying on the ground; some few were left to scamper away; but very nearly the entire party of men were stretched out by the one grand rush, and onward dashed the man and horse once more.

And as they rushed onward they caught sight of the running fight, and saw the single fugitive, who had been cut off from his men.

Even as they looked the horse leaped high into the air, twice, and then fell headlong to the ground, catching his rider’s leg under him.

The pursuers spurred fiercely toward him, and then Frank shouted:

“A full head of steam. Scoop ’em in with the net. Do or die. Onward!”

No time was to be lost if they would scoop the little band of pursuers before the helpless captain could be reached, so on went a full head of steam.

The pursuers, yelling like maniacs, spurred toward the captain with drawn weapons in their murderous hands.

“Rescue!” shrieked Frank.

“Hurrah!” shrieked Charley; and together the man and the horse rushed forward at a terrific pace upon the enemy.

[CHAPTER VI.]
MIDNIGHT DEVILTRY.

In order to properly connect the various parts of our story in proper places, we are forced to turn backward to the night first preceding the day on which occurred the events narrated in the preceding chapter.

We wish to conduct the reader to a large and handsome house situated on the outskirts of Clarkville, the town where Charley Gorse belonged.

This house, the most pretentious in that prosperous town, belonged to a gentleman named Radcliffe, a retired merchant.

Here Mr. Radcliffe resided with his only son Ralph, a boy of fifteen.

Mr. Radcliffe was a perfect invalid, and was not expected to live long.

Many said that he sorrowed for the wife he had buried two years before.

Radcliffe was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and as he lived in first-class style for that locality, there seemed grounds for belief in his riches.

Midnight had descended on the sleeping village, and all were hushed in slumber.

Inside the mansion none heard the clock strike twelve but the invalid owner of the estate.

As the last peals of the silver hammer died away, he arose from his chair in the study, and was about to open the door leading into his bedroom, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.

He stopped short, and with more surprise than alarm turned to see who it was, for the moment believing that it might be his son, who had stolen into the room on tiptoe.

He was mistaken.

He found himself face to face with a man of middle age, powerfully built, heavily bearded, and furnished with a pair of dark, restless eyes, that were ever flashing about him, as if seeking a victim.

He looked like a tough customer, in his rough dress of homespun material, and the host grew somewhat alarmed when he saw a knife half hidden in the left hand of this midnight visitor.

“Who are you?” he faltered, sinking down upon a chair and looking up dubiously at the man before him. “What do you want of me?”

“Much,” said the visitor, in the most easy and off-hand style. “That’s right; sit down and take it easy. I’ve been waiting some time to see you.”

And so saying, he drew up a chair quite close to the invalid, and seated himself with the utmost composure.

“Suppose you don’t know me?” said this cool card. “Very likely, as you’ve not seen me in many years. Used to know me, however. Very kind of me to resume the acquaintance. Well, I’ve come to have a talk with you concerning certain matters.”

“Who are you?” demanded Radcliffe, with some spirit.

“Call me—let’s see—Hardscrabble; yes, that is a good enough name. You can call me Hardscrabble, principally because it’s not my name; and when we conclude our little business, I’ll tell you who I am.”

“Well, sir,” said Radcliffe, inquiringly, “is this the way you pay visits?”

“Oh, cut it!” impatiently interrupted the so-called Hardscrabble. “I’m not ceremonious at all. Are you ready to talk?”

“Yes, go on,” said Radcliffe, sinking back in his chair.

He did not care about this interview in the least; but then what could he do about it, when it was requested by a powerful, ruffianly-looking fellow, who could have crushed him without need to have recourse to the weapon in his hand?

“Well, sir,” said Hardscrabble, fixing his bright eyes upon him, “I wish to know whether you have made a will?”

Radcliffe did not answer, but looked at him doubtfully.

“Oh, you might as well talk out,” said this rascally-looking Hardscrabble, “for if you don’t you will force me to bind and gag you, and then go through your private desks and drawers. It would only be natural for an invalid to make a will.”

“Well, I have made one,” slowly returned Radcliffe, who began to feel that he was in the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would not hesitate to stab him if much provoked.

“And how have you left your property?” was the next question.

“What’s that to do with——” began the invalid, but a slight motion of Hardscrabble’s hand, the one containing the poniard, was enough to recall him to his senses, and remind him that indignation was not a very good article just then.

“Answer,” sternly said the visitor.

“I have left the bulk of my property to my son and heir, my Ralph,” answered the old man; “and he will inherit everything, with the exception of a few unimportant legacies left to old servants and one or two friends. Tell me what interest you have in the matter.”

“A very great one,” said the other. “You have no brothers?”

“I have not.”

“Nor sisters?”

“Not one.”

“Nor any near relatives to step in and get your property if your son should die suddenly?”

“I have no relations living to my knowledge, the last one dying some two or three years ago in California. He was stabbed in some drunken quarrel.”

“What was his name?” asked Hardscrabble, an odd smile playing over his lips.

“James Van Dorn,” said Radcliffe. “He was my first cousin, and the only relative left me for many years.”

Hardscrabble’s hand went up to his face with an adroit motion, and he removed the heavy beard.

It made him look ten years younger, but did not take the dare-devil look from his face.

“Don’t you know me?” he said.

Radcliffe peered closely at him, and then said slowly:

“Yes, you are Van Dorn.”

“Just so, I am James Van Dorn,” said the visitor, and then put the poniard in his pocket with a pleasant laugh. “Only did this as a joke, you know. How much are you going to leave me in your will, Cousin Radcliffe, now that you know I’m alive?”

The question was proper enough, but the tone was a threat.

“Will you divide the estate with myself as half heir?” he asked, peering close into the invalid’s face with those wicked dark eyes. “Speak.”

“I will not,” firmly said Radcliffe, trying to rise from his seat. “You can never touch one cent of my money.”

“You lie!” savagely said Van Dorn, and with a quick motion he caught poor Radcliffe by the throat with one hand as he drew the poniard with the other. “You lie, for I intend to handle every cent of your money. I’m going to take your life for two reasons; one is because you married the only girl I ever thought a straw about, and the other reason is because you made me as black to her as a man could be made. Die!”

The poniard flashed in the light, the invalid writhed in a vain effort to get away from the ruffian’s clutch, and the blade descended and was sheathed in Radcliffe’s heart.

The murderer laid the body down, and after spurning it with his foot, picked up the lamp from the table and walked softly out of the room.

He traversed the hallway and reached the door of another room; this he entered with a cat-like tread, and set the lamp down while he turned towards the bed that stood at the side of the room.

There half reclining was a youth of about fifteen, who had been aroused from his slumbers by the light.

Van Dorn strode forward, and the bloody knife flashed before the eyes of the half awakened boy.

“Silence,” cautioned Van Dorn, with a look of menace, “for if you make any outcry, utter one sound above a whisper, I’ll not hesitate for a moment about driving this poniard into your heart!”

[CHAPTER VII.]
THE RESCUE.

Like a bolt from the skies the wonderful Steam Horse rushed forward.

The little mixed band of pursuers, yelling and swinging their hatchets and rifles, did not discover the near approach of the rescuing steed until it was too late for them to think of escaping the monster by flight.

In the body of the wagon stood Barney Shea, and in his hands the brave Irishman held a loaded rifle.

The pursuers had reached within two hundred yards of the helpless captain before they discovered the Steam Man, so excited were they by the thought of taking their prey a prisoner.

Then they pulled up short, and tried to wheel their horses so as to escape the impending danger.

The man kept level with the horse, even at this terrible speed.

Charley Gorse held the reins of his high-stepping man, and on the seat beside him, perched up like a frog, sat the darkey.

The latter held two long range revolvers of the Colt’s Navy order in his hands, and looked eager to use them.

As the pursuers wheeled their steeds, the sharp tones of the revolving rifle rang out.

Four of the seven men fell from their horses.

Three of them were killed instantly, and never stirred or quivered after falling to the ground.

The fourth one, a big muscular white man, was only wounded, and no sooner was he down than he was up again, pistol held in his hand.

His right hand flew up as the two steam wonders dashed towards him.

The muzzle of his weapon was in a line with Frank Reade’s heart.

But quicker than the villain was Barney Shea.

His rifle was still held to his shoulder, and its chambers still contained many death warrants.

The muzzle of his breech-loader moved very swiftly, his finger pressed the trigger, and ere the villain on the ground could fire, Barney Shea had sent a bullet into his heart.

Both Frank and Charley knew that horses were too heavy for them to ride down without running the risk of injuring their machines, so they steered slightly to the right, and as they passed the remainder of the pursuers, the darkey and Barney let drive at them.

Pomp’s revolver brought down two out of the three, and Barney’s rifle finished the affair.

“Pull up slowly,” cried Frank, “and turn back to that poor chap.”

As they slowly wheeled and retraced their route back to the helpless man on the ground, the riderless steeds of the fallen men rushed madly over the plains.

Together they went to the vicinity of the man and horse, steam was shut off, and while Pomp was removing the wirework from the trucks, Frank, Charley, and the Irishman went to the captain.

The poor fellow was pinned to the ground under the heavy body of the horse, and was in great pain, and unable to move his imprisoned limb.

As soon as the three rescuers looked at the captain they sprang forward with cries of recognition and surprise.

“It’s Harry Hale!” cried Frank.

“The secret service detective,” gasped his Cousin Charley. “Why, he’s fainted.”

“And no wonder,” said Barney, “for it’s the divil’s own throp, so it is.”

“Roll that horse over,” commanded Frank Reade, who, being clear-headed and quick to conceive ideas, was looked upon as a sort of leader. “Take that off hind leg, Barney.”

Barney did so; Frank seized the other leg, and Charley Gorse grabbed the animal’s head.

The poor steed was as dead as could be, and he had no trouble in rolling him over.

Frank instantly bent over the captain to examine the leg.

He expected to find the limb broken by the weight, but was overjoyed to find that it was only bruised, and with a little care would soon be as well as ever.

“Whisky, Barney,” he called; “of course you have some.”

“Arrah now, me gossoon,” said blarneying Barney, as he handed forth a heavy pocket-flask, “and it’s yerself as knows what kind of a mon I am. Sure, I’d not be a thrue Irishman if I didn’t love whisky and fiddlin’. Av coorse I never get drunk, ye know, but thin I loike a wee shmall drink, so I do.”

While the Irishman was gabbing, Frank was pouring whisky down Harry Hale’s throat.

Charley Gorse rubbed the poor fellow’s hands, and opened his shirt to give him full chance to breathe.

In a few moments he came back to life and sensibility.

When he opened his eyes he looked with surprise at the faces around him.

He seemed to think that he was dreaming, and placed his hands to his head in a wondering manner.

“Frank Reade,” he slowly said, looking curiously at our hero.

“Right,” said Frank. “Here I am, just in time to save you from losing your beautiful curly hair. Give us your hand, old boy.”

“And Charley Gorse,” cried Hale. “Oh! now I begin to understand it. You have just arrived in time to rescue me. I remember that those devils were spurring down upon me when I was caught under the horse, then everything grew dark around me, and I suppose I must have fainted.”

“Exactly,” said Frank. “Don’t you remember this gentleman?”

With a little effort Harry Hale got upon his feet, and looked steadily at the Irishman.

Barney was quite a bit stouter, and therefore Hale did not know him at once.

“Know me!” cried Barney, standing up to the detective with outstretched hands, “av coorse he knows me, for wasn’t we companions in arrums and twin divils for fightin’?”

“I’ll be darned if it isn’t that blundering Irishman, Barney Shea, the cuss that was always spoiling for any kind of a row. Of course I know him. Jerusalem! how my leg hurts.”

“It’s lucky it wasn’t broke,” said the driver of the Steam Horse. “But just see how I travel now.”

And then Harry Hale saw the young genius’ latest invention, and eyed it with wonder.

He walked painfully towards it, for his leg felt stiff and sore, but his curiosity and admiration would not allow him to rest until he had fully examined the wonderful contrivance from end to end.

“That’s really the greatest invention of the age,” he said. “And if he can do as well as the Steam Man, you can have good times on these prairies.”

“He can do better than the man,” said Frank. “We have just had a race, and I should have won it if it had not been for a band on foot that we had to wipe out.”

“I don’t know about that,” put in his Cousin Charley. “I didn’t think that I was going to be beaten. I’m ready for another trial at any time.”

“I’ll accommodate you,” said Frank.

“Have you seen anything of my boys?” asked Harry Hale.

“Your boys?”

“Yes, my men who are under my lead. We are out here on a big job. I have two brother detectives with me, and the rest are wild bordermen, all terrible boys for a fight, and as fine riders as any on the plains.”

“And what’s the big job?” asked Charley.

“I’ll tell you,” said Hale, seating himself on Frank’s wagon. “The country for some time past has been flooded with a large amount of counterfeit money, gold, silver, and the green legal tender. We have looked for the rascals near home, but after a long search we found they were in the West, and I was picked out as the most experienced man to track them down.”

“And have you?”

“I think I have,” said Hale. “I have got one of my men in their stronghold, and he sent me word to-day, by a boy, that the wagons were coming back with a lot of money in them.”

“Wagons?” said Frank.

Harry Hale explained the counterfeiters’ mode of operating through a regular express line.

“But we must not stand here wasting time in talk,” he said. “My brave boys are being killed, perhaps, while I stand jabbering, for they were riding away from three times their own number. Are you willing to help me?”

“Willing?” said Frank, springing up to his seat. “Just give me a show for adventure, that’s all.”

“Or me,” said Gorse, jumping up to his seat.

“Hooroo!” cried Shea, swinging his old hat. “There’s bound to be a row.”

“Where away?” cried Frank.

“Sou’west,” said Hale.

The reins were pulled, the whistles gave forth a merry yell apiece, and then the Steam Horse and the Steam Man darted swiftly away.

[CHAPTER VIII.]
“WHAT’S THE MATTER?”

But little was said as the two vehicles rolled swiftly over the ground; both the man and the horse planking out at a lively rate.

For ten minutes the high rate of speed was kept up, and then Pomp’s voice was heard above the clatter of the iron feet:

“Dar dey is!”

And he pointed in a direction a point or two off their course.

Frank Reade heard him, and glanced ahead over the plain.

He could just make out two flying bands of mounted horsemen, not a quarter of a mile afront, and as he looked one of the leading band tumbled to the ground.

“More speed,” said Hale, who was peering over his shoulder.

“More speed it is,” said Frank, and pulling his reins sharply, at the same time altering his course slightly.

Charley Gorse did likewise, and at an increased rate they rushed onward to the aid of the little handful of fugitive men.

Pomp had reloaded his revolvers, and was now perched up by Charley once more, the deadly weapons flashing in the afternoon sunlight.

Barney and Harry Hale, standing up in the truck of the Steam Horse, grasped their guns with an eager grip, telling how they longed to use them.

The immense spurt of speed brought them rapidly upon the course passed over by the flying band of white men, and the man and horse out in between the two parties.

Two shrill whistles rang out, and then the white horsemen—Harry Hale’s men—pulled up sharp, and dashed back to take a hand in the fight, feeling confident that the mixed band of red and white rascals could not contend successfully with the wonderful inventions of Frank Reade.

The prisoners seemed to have no wish to meet with the man and horse, for they checked their steeds sharply when they discovered the rescuing party, and endeavored to cut away.

“Half circle, and cut them off!” yelled Frank to Charley.

The latter obeyed.

The two monsters spread out and made a half moon dash for the flying band of frightened cutthroats.

Hale’s men kept on in a straight line for the rascals they had so lately run away from.

In a few minutes the man and the horse had dashed ahead of the band, and then Charley and Frank wheeled in and closed the circle.

Harry Hale’s men were thundering up in their rear, and the rascals were forced to pull up.

They were cut off, and unless they were willing to run the gauntlet between the rapidly converging man and horse they would be forced to fight.

For a moment they hesitated, not knowing whether to stand at bay or run the risk of trying to cut through.

That moment’s hesitation signed and sealed many death warrants.

The man and horse closed in upon them.

Pomp’s long-range Colts rang out with a frightful sound.

Barney and Hale poured in a storm of bullets from their carbines, each one of which held sixteen lives.

Several of the men and horses of the mixed band were wounded, and one red rider was killed outright by the sharp little volley.

Hale’s men dashed up like rockets in the rear.

Their wild terrific cheer rang out like a bugle-note of defense, and their ready rifles cracked sharply.

The band thus forced to stand at bay did not deliberate longer.

The voice of the leader arose above the reports of the guns.

“Fire! shoot down the men in the wagons.”

And then Harry Hale and Barney wisely dropped down into the bottom of the truck, just as the Steam Horse ceased to move, and Frank tumbled from his seat just in time to escape being perfectly riddled by the hail of whistling bullets that passed over his seat just as he fell.

Charley Gorse had just brought the man to a standstill as the order was shouted forth.

He merely ducked his head with an involuntary dive.

Pomp, sitting at his side, saw several dark tubes turned upon him.

The darkey made up his mind that diving alone might not save him from getting a bullet through his woolly head, as he seemed to have been picked out by the enemy as the most dangerous foe opposed to them.

He didn’t hesitate a moment, but made a frog-like jump to the ground, and the bullets clipped over Charley’s head with a merry whirr, cutting part of the feather in his cap in their flight.

Pomp bounded from the ground like some huge rubber ball.

He had dropped one of his revolvers into the wagon as he jumped.

The other he now thrust hastily into his belt, and then dashed in among the mixed band in a perfectly fearless manner, and leaped upon the leader.

While the bullets were singing their song of death, the daring darkey grasped the leader by the leg, and tore him from the back of his steed.

Head down to the plain went the leader of the outlaws, and like a monkey, Pomp leaped up and was instantly in the saddle.

As Charley Gorse had told his cousin, the darkey was one of the most expert riders of the day.

He could do more with a horse than an ordinary rider.

He seized the reins, gave them a peculiar twitch, and the horse reared upon his hind legs.

Pomp yelled at him, and the animal began striking viciously with his iron-shod hoofs.

His heavy blows knocked men from their saddle, and caused other horses to leap away in fear.

Pomp kept yelling at him and twitching the reins, and the horse continued striking in a ferocious manner.

Hale and Barney had leaped from the body of the wagon to the ground.

Here they kept dancing about like two uneasy hornets, and banging away right and left.

A bullet raised the skin on Barney Shea’s arm, and the Irishman’s carbine fell from his hand.

One of the horsemen charged down upon him, a huge bowie flashing in his hand.

Frank Reade had rolled fairly under the bottom of his wagon.

His little revolver, made by himself, and as true as a die, was peeping out from his belt, and as the outlaw dashed down upon the Irishman, the weapon gleamed in Frank’s hand.

Crack, went the deadly little pop-gun, and with a shattered wrist the outlaw passed by Barney, the bowie dropping from his nerveless fingers.

Barney snatched the bowie as it reached the ground, and hurled it after the man who had intended it for his breast.

“Take that wid me compliments, and don’t feel cut up over the little affair,” cried the Patlander.

He was not a remarkable thrower of the knife, but on this occasion he made a good shot.

The keen blade went quivering into the back of the receding outlaw, and the latter fell from his horse.

“Aha!” roared the delighted gentleman from Clonakilty; “I can bate the Aist Ingy jugglers, so I can. Would ye look at that, now?”

Charley Gorse had fallen from his seat in trying to regain his balance, and had landed astride the shafts of his wagon, from which place he toppled to the plain.

All this time Pomp had been raising the deuce with his striking horse, until the animal grew perfectly wild.

He tore and plunged around like some lunatic.

Pomp drew hard and sharp on the rein, and the leather snapped.

Like a bolt the horse leaped forward as soon as he found himself free from the rein.

With immense strides he dashed away over the prairie.

He was the leader’s horse, and the other animals had been accustomed to follow in his footsteps, and as he bounded away they all leaped after him, and in all probability their riders did not care about stopping them.

In an instant the battle was over, and the cavalcade of horsemen were going like streaks over the prairie in a line, following in the wake of Pomp and the maddened horse the darkey clung to with accustomed ease.

“After them!” yelled Harry Hale.

Frank tumbled up from under the body of the wagon, and leaped nimbly on to his seat.

Hale and Barney leaped over the rear of the wagon.

Charley Gorse sprang up to his seat and pulled the reins.

The Steam Man started, ran forward for a hundred yards or so, and then pulled up.

Charley leaped to the ground, with an odd expression on his face, and ran to the man.

He flung open the furnace door in the Steam Man’s belly.

His fire was almost out, and therefore his steam had become hot water.

“Go on,” shouted Hale to his men, as they looked at him for orders. “Follow them, and if you can’t reduce their number by picking them off, you must try to finish them in a desperate charge. Away!”

And like a cloud the western riders hurried away, dashing on swiftly after the pursuers of the darkey.

“Now, lively!” he cried to Frank.

The boy was yanking away on the reins even as he spoke.

No move on the part of the Steam Horse answered the pull.

Frank pulled again.

No better effects.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hale.

“Has the harse the heaves, or has the haythenish baste foundered?” asked Barney.

“Darned if I know what’s the matter,” said Frank; and then he saw that Gorse was stuck, too.

“What’s the matter, Charley?” he yelled.

“Fire almost out,” yelled back Gorse, and ran to his coal box.

“Maybe mine is too,” said Frank. “Barney, see to the fire.”

“I will that,” said Shea, and ran to the breast of the horse.

“A fire hot enough to singe the bristles o’ Mrs. Faylix O’Doolahan’s pigs,” said the rollicking Irishman.

“Jump down lively,” requested Hale, “and see what is the matter. Those fellows may eat my boys up, if we don’t follow them in a moment.”

Frank sprang from his seat, and first looked at his gauge.

It registered thirty pounds of steam.

“That’s all right” said Hale, who was at his side. “Look at your boiler and steam chest proper, and see if there’s anything blocking up the way.”

Frank did so, but found everything all right until he discovered that one of the important pipes, the tube conducting the steam, was bent in such a manner as to render the passage of the vapor power impossible.

In a moment he was back to the wagon, and seized his box of tools, so necessary for keeping the machine in repair.

“It’ll be all right in five minutes,” he said, and began tinkering at the tube, handling his machinery in the most careful and expert manner.

“Hurry up,” shouted Charley Gorse from his wagon. “I’m getting up steam very rapidly.”

“I’ll be ready as soon as you,” shouted back his cousin, sticking steadily to his delicate repairing.

“I’ll ride with Charley,” said Harry Hale, leaving Frank’s side, “and Barney can keep you company.”

“All right,” said Frank. “Barney, jump into the wagon and load up the guns and pistols.”

“I will that,” said Barney.

By the time that the weapons were loaded, the repairing was completed, and then the young genius leaped up to his box with a cry of triumph.

“Away!” he cried, and once more pulled on his reins.

At the same instant Charley Gorse got under headway, and sending forth their shrill whistles, the Steam Horse and his human-shaped brother trotted away.

[CHAPTER IX.]
THE AVENGER’S VOW.

Our story turns to a spot about five or six miles away from the place last mentioned.

Just where the rolling prairie was barred by a patch of woods, long, narrow and dark, a hardy pioneer had erected a rough but substantial dwelling, which, with the waving grass of the plains in front and the dark foliage of the adjacent strip of timber land to form a background, looked as pretty and tasteful as a picture.

Only a very brave man, one who laughed at danger could have been sufficiently heedless of peril to build a dwelling in such an unprotected location.

Jared Dwight knew no such thing as fear.

He had brought his wife and two little children here, had camped in the patch of woods while building the house, and had then taken up his residence in the out-of-the-way dwelling with all the coolness in the world.

His wife was one of those brave, hardy women of the West, who could handle a rifle with skill, and shoot down a stag as well as she could cook the animal after she had slain it.

Here, then, Jared Dwight lived quietly for some time, until the afternoon of the day on which we bring the reader to his dwelling.

Dwight was hoeing a little patch of corn when a bullet came whistling past his ear, and the report of a rifle snapped out near at hand.

Dwight knew that the shot came from the woods.

He did not look around nor stop for a moment.

Where one shot had come from, more might come.

Without a moment’s hesitation the tall borderman bounded towards the door of his house, shouting out to his wife as he leaped onward.

A chorus of yells rang out, and a storm of bullets flew around and over the swiftly-running man; but he passed on without a scratch, and dashed safely into the door of the house.

The instant that he was in, his wife closed the portal with a bang, and dropped the heavy bar into its socket.

In one hand she held her rifle, and although her cheek paled somewhat, as she gazed upon the two frightened little ones crouching upon the floor in terror, yet her hands were as steady as those of her fearless husband.

“Jared, they’re Injins,” she said.

“Injins! and worse than Injins,” said Dwight. “They’re half white and half red, and the white part is the worst of the two, for a renegade is the worst critter on earth.”

He walked to the window, and looked out.

Several forms were dancing in and out among the trees on the edge of the narrow wood patch.

As the borderman had said, some of these were white and others were red, and probably the whites were worse by far to deal with than the savages to whom they had linked themselves.

A big Indian stood exposed for a moment by the side of a tall cottonwood.

That moment was his last one on this side of the happy hunting-grounds.

Jared Dwight’s rifle, its muzzle peering out through a little hole, spoke out sharply, and the red-skin, leaping high into the air, with an awful shriek, fell lifeless to the ground.

Some of his comrades dashed forward to lift him from the ground.

Jared spoke out sharp:

“Shoot the foremost man!”

His wife’s rifle flew to her shoulder, the end of the barrel resting in the little port-hole; her keen eye flashed over the weapon, and her steady forefinger pressed the trigger.

“Crack!”

A yell of mortal agony followed the shrill report, and the first man of the number which had rushed forward, fell dying in the arms of his comrades.

A chorus of yells rang out as they bore the dying man back into the shelter of the trees.

Then all was still.

“A good shot,” said Jared. “They’ll begin to understand that we’re not going to be gobbled up very easily.”

“But they could starve us out if they held out long enough,” said his wife; and the brave woman felt a strange heaviness at her heart when she looked upon the two children, who were crying as they huddled together in a corner.

“They won’t wait so long,” said Jared Dwight. “They’re very still, and that is what I don’t like. It means deviltry of some kind, and—my God!”

A flaming arrow tore through the air, and fixed itself in the dry logs of the house.

Another and another followed, until the air seemed full of blazing darts.

They fixed themselves in the building very rapidly, until a great part of the log-house was covered with the blazing arrows.

The logs caught fire, and soon the red and white flames roared, and the blue smoke curled up from the blazing side of the settler’s cabin.

“Now we’re gone,” said Dwight, and his voice was steady with the awful calmness of perfect, hopeless despair. “We have only one chance. Let me see if any of them are at the front.”

He dashed to the front of the little house, and peered out upon the plains.

Several forms, hitherto hidden by the tall prairie grass, were now dancing up and down in savage glee.

“We’re hemmed in,” despairingly said the borderer. “To go out by either door would be to get a bullet, or a dozen of them, through your body. We must stay here as long as we can, and trust for something to turn up to aid us, and if nothing does come, then we’ll die together in the cabin. You and the children had better die than fall into the hands of those brutes yonder.”

His wife threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her pale lips to his.

“I can die with you,” she said.

The children, crying bitterly, crept up to them, and the little clinging hands took hold of their garments.

“Curse these wretches,” gasped Dwight, as he gazed upon his children.

The flames were hissing and crackling, the blue smoke rolled in clouds around the burning cabin, and the loud yells close at hand told that the demons had closed up around the doomed dwelling.

A dozen bullets came crashing through the little window, and with an awful cry of agony, the brave wife sank down upon the floor, the blood welling slowly upward from a wound in her breast.

“My God! she’s killed,” gasped Dwight, and not daring to look at her, he slung his rifle over his back, picked up the two children, and dashed up the stairs, for the room was becoming choked with smoke, and the heat was intolerable.

His wife, wounded, but not dead, heard him leaping up the stairs with the two children, and with great difficulty she arose and staggered after him, and when she reached the room above, she gasped for breath and staggered feebly to the window, where, with her arms held forth in a supplicating attitude, she stood until another bullet put an end to her life.

Outside, the red fiends and their white brothers in crime were dancing up and down with devilish joy.

Dwight had clambered out upon the roof of the little log hut, and there he stood with a child on each side of him, until the whistling bullets from the fiends below struck down the poor children, laying them both dead at his feet.

He seemed to bear a charmed life, for, although some of the leaden missiles rent his clothing, he still stood there unwounded.

A loud whistle, shrill and piercing, rang in his ears, and looking over the plains he beheld the Steam Horse, making splendid time over the plains towards him.

The Indians scattered like chaff as the monster bounded towards them, very gradually reducing its speed; and as the prairie steed drew near, Jared Dwight made a leap from the roof of the house, landed safely upon the hard ground, and then bounded nimbly into the wagon as it passed by.

“Onward,” he cried, and Frank Reade increased his speed. “The rest are all gone.”

“Who are killed?” asked Frank, as Barney handed his consoling flask to Dwight.

“My wife and my children,” said Jared, and his face grew dark and stern with a terrible thought; “all I had to love and care for in this world. They were all shot down by those red and white devils, and their bodies will burn in that fire.”

“Do you know your foes?”

“Know them?” said Dwight. “Aye, I do, and they shall know me. I have now nothing to live for but revenge, and they shall know what it is to be harassed by the untiring hate of an avenger, for here I swear to devote my whole life to the work of ridding the plains of these human fiends. Neither by night nor by day shall my hatred sleep, and to the last man will track them down to death. Hear me, just God, and give ear, oh, earth, that from this time forward, until my arms are still in death, I am an avenger!”

[CHAPTER X.]
POMP’S RIDE.

We left Pomp dashing away over the vast plains on the horse belonging to the leader of the outlaws.

The racket just suited the darkey, for above all things he liked racing and excitement, and certainly this sort of race was exciting enough, for the stake at issue was his own life.

Like a rocket he dashed on, for the horse he bestrode was one of the fleetest mustangs of the plains; barrel bodied, full chested, thin nosed, clean limbed, bright eyed, and full of bottom and speed.

After him in a perfect cloud came the outlaws.

As the reader knows, the mounted men of Hale’s command did not leave their captain until it was ascertained that something was the matter with the machines, therefore Pomp and his pursuers had a big start and a clear course.

With the most practiced ease the little darkey stood on his head in the saddle, and kicked up his legs.

“Come on,” he yelled. “Don’t yer go for to be getting bashful, kase I’se out for fun, I is, and I likes company. Come right ’long dar, and don’t be hanging back. What fo’ you think dis nigga want to go trablin’ lone for, hey?”

A chorus of shouts, shots, shrieks, yells and curses rang out.

Several bullets whistled around the little darkey, but none hit either him or the horse.

His enemies were wild over his cool mode of treatment.

It was decidedly contemptuous, and they did not like it.

So they banged away at him, but it is not every marksman who can hit even a very large sized mark when he has to fire from the back of a bounding steed, and Pomp knew that as long as they aimed at him he was pretty safe, whereas if they had only banged away in a promiscuous manner, he would have felt insecure.

He knew that they were not likely to hit what they aimed at.

He stood their firing for a few minutes, and then he stood up in his saddle and took a view of them.

They were just about a quarter of a mile behind, well together, and coming on at a swinging gallop.

They set up a loud shout as Pomp stood up so carelessly, and the little darkey sent back a cry of defiance.

“’Tain’t all you fellers what kin hit on de fly,” he said. “Dis chile’ll show you what a darkey kin do.”

His remaining Colt’s long range revolver was in his belt.

He drew it, cocked it, and stood for a moment selecting his mark from out of the many.

In the front of the band of pursuers rode a tall Indian, mounted upon a beautiful cream stallion.

Both man and horse were decorated in fancy style, and Pomp knew that the Indian must be a person of consequence.

The cream stallion could have left the rest behind if his rider had let him have his head, but it is likely that the gayly-tricked-out red-skin did not care about getting too close to Pomp.

“Dat are stallion am jest a little bit too good a hoss for to be chasin’ me,” said the nig. “He’s de only one what could catch dis chile, so I guess I’ll send him free over the plain, wi’out a rider.”

His long right arm went up, and the gleaming weapon in his hand was extended toward the pursuers.

His keen black eyes flashed for a mere instant over the barrel, and then he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

With a terrible yell the Indian leaped fairly from the back of his horse, and went down to the ground under the hoofs of the flying steeds, while the noble cream stallion, freed from its load, dashed away from the band in frightened style, making wonderful bounds that soon carried it out of sight.

Again the revolver in Pomp’s hand sent forth its death-note, and another riderless steed bounded away after the cream stallion.

An answering volley rang out from the pursuers.

A well-aimed bullet struck against the lock of the revolver, and the heavy weapon was torn from the hands of the surprised darkey.

Away it flew through the air, whirling over and over.

It struck some few hundred yards ahead of the horse, and directly in the course the darkey was traveling.

A cheer went up from the pursuers when they saw their plucky enemy thus suddenly disarmed, for in the hands of such a marksman that very revolver was not a proper thing to ride behind.

But Pomp performed a marvelous feat from the back of the horse that caused them to give another shout, this time in admiration of the plucky darkey.

The revolver landed and stopped, and then Pomp put one foot over the pommel of the saddle, the other one curved dexterously over the horse’s neck, and then Pomp went head down and made a quick grab at the butt of the weapon as it lay on the ground.

He got it, and holding it firmly in his right hand, he caught the mane with the strong fingers of his left paw, and rapidly swung himself up again.

He looked over the weapon.

It was uninjured, and two charges were still in the chambers.

In an instant the darkey was standing erect again in the saddle, and his two remaining bullets were sent shrieking into the closely-packed crowd of howling pursuers, tumbling two more of them from their horses, and creating a little panic among the band.

Then the darkey plunged down into the saddle and caught his reins up.

His horse was making splendid time running, and the gait, a long, swinging gallop, was not tiresome.

The darkey possessed very powerful eyes, but he looked in vain for anything in the shape of rescuing friends.

Nothing was to be seen but the howling enemies in his rear.

“Den dis yere am a ride for life,” said the darkey to himself, as he sat cross-legged on the saddle and proceeded to reload his weapon. “Well, I kinder guess dis chile kin do de ridin’.”

And the shooting, too, he might have added, for he had already sent several of his enemies to their last account, and he was as yet totally uninjured.

He glanced ahead, and a cry of surprise, if not of fear, burst from his lips.

The plain was here intersected by a rapidly-flowing stream, hemmed in by long spurs of rock.

On the bank which the darkey was rapidly approaching, a strange and thrilling scene was being enacted.

A dozen buffaloes, wounded, covered with blood, and evidently maddened to a desperate degree, were fighting a terrific running fight, continually dashing around and around in a big circle, describing the distance of a hundred yards.

Their sides and horns were reeking with gore and their bellowing sounded like the moans of a dying army.

In the center of this immense circle, and fairly hemmed in by the beasts as they tore around, were two trembling horses, and upon their backs were seated a man and a boy.

These latter were none others than James Van Dorn and Ralph Radcliffe, the son of the man Van Dorn had so brutally murdered in his house at Clarkville.

“For de land’s sake!” cried Pomp, fully surprised by the wonderful sight. “Dey is hemmed in by dem bufflers, an’ dey is not able to get out. Why de debbil don’t de man pop some of de bufflers ober?”

But when he looked again he saw that the man had no rifle; and a revolver, in the hands of an ordinary marksman, and used upon the tough hide of a bison, doesn’t amount to much.

Pomp stood upon the saddle so as to get a clear view, and held his reloaded weapon in his right hand.

The maddened buffaloes were leaping and prancing in that immense circle, their deep-toned lowing sounding like distant thunder.

There appeared to be two sides to the fight, for there were about half a dozen on one side and half a dozen on the other, but instead of rushing forward and locking horns, as a domesticated bull would have done, they continued their fierce battle in that big ring, and a desperate battle it was, too.

Even as the darkey stood up one of the big beasts made a desperate leap upon one of his foes, the other in turn attacking a foe ahead of him; but the fierce charge of the first-named brute was well directed, and the second buffalo sank dying to the plain, a gash fully a yard long in his side, showing where he had been disemboweled as quickly and as neatly by a cruel horn as the sharpest sword could have done.

Pomp’s horse was heading direct for the fighting beasts.

The pursuers, thundering rapidly up in the rear, thought that Pomp’s ride was over now, and they set up a loud shout of expectant triumph.

But Pomp didn’t have any idea of giving up just then.

His powerful eyes recognized the features of the pallid boy at James Van Dorn’s side, and he made up his mind to rescue the lad if the thing could be done.

He turned lightly in the saddle, and his keen eyes ranged over his foes.

They were gaining on him, but his horse was still in good wind, and Pomp was sure that he could keep them back.

His arm went up, and again that long muzzled Colt covered one of the advancing band of outlaws.

It spoke out sharply.

“Dar goes one,” said Pomp, as he re-cocked his weapon. “Here we are again.”

Again that long-range weapon sent forth its unerring bullet.

“Down goes anudder,” roared the delighted darkey, as his enemies wavered and broke up in some confusion. “Now for dat ar’ poor little boy.”

He thrust his pistol in his belt, and with a firm grip seized the reins, pulled up on them taut, almost lifting the horse from his feet, and with a loud yell urged him on.

Forward bounded the steed at a fearful pace, dashing down directly upon the swiftly-moving circle of buffaloes, and the darkey’s steady hand and quick eyes guided him through a slight gap in the living ring.

As he gained the inside of the ring, his enemies came thundering down upon his track, their rifles ready for either the buffaloes or himself.

Pomp leaned far out from the saddle and clutched Ralph Radcliffe by the arm, swinging him before him with but small effort of his cable-like muscles, and then he yelled at the horse again, and pulled him up with one hand, short and sharp, and as the animal was going at full speed it caused him to leap.

Straight over the fighting circle arose the horse and his double burden.

[CHAPTER XI.]
THE TRAPPED TRAIN!

The reader has of course guessed that the Steam Horse and the Steam Man became separated in some manner.

After starting away on the tracks of Pomp’s pursuers, all went smooth for some time, and then Charley’s man got out of order in some part, and he was forced to pull up and investigate the matter.

“I’ll keep right on,” yelled Frank.

“That’s right!” shouted back Harry Hale from Charley’s wagon. “We’ll soon be on the road again.”

And then Frank shot away over the plains with his gallant Steam Horse, the animal of mettle and metal spurning the hard course with rapid hoofs.

But Frank lost his bearings, and, in some unaccountable manner, got off his course, and instead of following in the trail of the darkey, and the outlaws, he took a course some points off the line, and, as the reader knows, was enabled to rescue Jared Dwight from the roof of his burning home.

After Dwight had registered that solemn vow that made him an avenger for life, he sank down into the bottom of the wagon and covered his face with his hands, and for some time did not utter a single word.

Barney then looked at him with a rather awestruck expression, and then clambered up beside Frank.

“Frank, dear?”

“Yes, Barney.”

“It’s a bad lot he is, so he is, and he’ll make them rue the day, so he will.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Frank.

“I’d not like to mate him alone on a dark night, so I wouldn’t, if I knew that the man had a grudge agin me.”

“He is a tough customer,” said Frank, “and I’ll back him to avenge his wife and little ones if he gets a square show.”

The Steam Horse was now running, or rather trotting away at the rate of about fifteen miles an hour, for Frank knew that he was off his course, and therefore there was no use hurrying.

For some time he trotted along in a leisurely manner, but no signs could he see of either Pomp, his pursuers, or Charley Gorse and the man.

Barney Shea turned to him with a most comical expression.

“Masther Frank.”

“Go ahead, Barney.”

“Av coorse it sames out o’ place to talk of such thrifling matthers, whin we’re enjoying such illegant rows an’ ructions, but thin I’m only a man afther all, and be me sowl I have a stummick.”

“And that ‘stummick’ is hungry?”

“It is that.”

“Well, I don’t mind confessing that I am in the same condition,” said Frank. “I could eat a horse, shoes and all.”

“Unless the animal was a sthame horse,” said Barney, with a grin.

“Exactly,” said Frank. “See yonder, there’s a little grove. We’ll stop there, cool off all my wheels, attend to everything, so as to have the concern in the best traveling order, and get away with a square meal. I guess by the look of the place that we shall find a little spring of beautiful fresh water bubbling up there.”

“Arrah, and it’s meself that loikes beautiful fresh wather,” said Barney; “that is, wid the whisky in, av coorse. Faith, it’s only haythens that would think o’ drinkin’ beautiful fresh wather widout a wee shmall dhrop o’ poteen to flavor wid.”

In a few moments they were at the grove, a beautiful shady little spot of about a half acre in extent, furnished with several tall trees, a lot of bushes, and a bubbling clear spring.

Here the Steam Horse came to a halt, and the avenger started abruptly from the dark train of thought that had absorbed his mind.

Frank walked up to him.

“Come, sir,” he said, kindly, “I sympathize deeply with you, but it will do you no good to brood over your troubles. You cannot forget them, nor your vow of vengeance, so nursing your hatred in this dark and gloomy manner can do no good. What is your name?”

“Jared Dwight.”

“And mine is Frank Reade, of the city of New York, and my companion here is Barney Shea, of Clonakilty, Ireland.”

“I know you both,” said Dwight, as with an effort of will he shook off the dark cloud hanging over his spirits. “I was with Snap Carter, the prairie guide, when we were all penned up in that blind pass, and you rescued us by cutting through with your Steam Man, dashing away to the fort, and bringing the soldiers down upon the outlaws. I knew that it must be you when I saw this Steam Horse coming over the plains when my house was burning under me, for it is just what I expected of you.”

“Oh, it’s a wonderful gossoon he is, so he is,” said Barney, casting a look of pride upon Frank, “and it’s rare foine ideas he has, so he has: but divil a wan would amount to anything if I didn’t come wid the braw jaynus to kape him straight.”

With a faint smile the avenger turned from him, and walked to the bubbling crystal spring.

Frank had made a dive into the body of the wagon.

Here he had constructed a locker or larder, and kept in it a sufficient quantity of food to last several days if need be; for his food was nearly all dried or else condensed, and could be kept in a pure state for several months.

In a few moments Barney had a cracking fire started. Frank produced a little silver tea-pot and hung it upon a wire frame which sat airily above the flames of the little fire, and in less than five minutes a good cup of tea was produced by the young genius.

“I merely do this to try how my frame works,” said Frank to Dwight, who was watching him with interest. “My furnace would serve me for all cooking purposes, but this seems the nicer way, and it don’t seem natural to do your cooking in the breast of a horse, even if the animal be made of metal.”

“Science is a wonderful thing,” said Jared, looking attentively at the horse.

“You bet it is,” said Frank, warmly. “Just by scientific trickery, nothing else, I was able to get the best of one of the smartest Indian jugglers in the West, and now I’m equal to a dozen of them.”

While talking they kept their jaws very busy as well as their tongues, and in the course of half an hour Frank and Barney declared themselves as feeling better.

Frank replaced his articles in the wagon, had a look at the axles of his wheels, and found that all the parts were as cold as could be, and then, after a peep at his furnace, and a squirt of steam through the nostrils of the horse, declared everything in proper traveling order.

“Of course, you’ll go with us,” he said to the avenger.

“If you will take me I should be pleased to go,” said Dwight. “I know that you are in the midst of wild adventures day after day, and that will afford me chance for the revenge I seek. I am a homeless wanderer now, and all spots are alike to me, so that they do not take me too far away from the wretches I have sworn to track down to the bitter end; but—hark!”

He ceased speaking, and held up his hand in a listening attitude.

Frank and Barney bent forward in eager attention.

The distant thundering of many rifles, clear, though far away, came with a rumbling echo to their ears.

“Where is that same firing?” demanded the impatient Irishman. “Oh, there’s an illegant row going on somewheres around here, and I’m not there to take a hand. Och, where the divil is the foight?”

Frank leaped up to his seat and seized the telescope that lay in brackets alongside his driving-place.

In a moment he adjusted it, placed it to his eye, and slowly swept the plain with the powerful glass.

He saw, some four or five miles away to the right hand, the very trap Dwight had spoken of a few moments before.

Two narrow but high spurs of rock, closing in at one end and forming a blind pass; into this rocky trap a band of mounted men wore forcing an emigrant train, and from both sides came the thunder of the guns that they had heard.

He handed the glass to his companions, and they took in the scene at a glance through the lens.

“That damnable blind pass again,” said the avenger. “What will you do?”

“Not go to the fort again, anyhow,” said the inventor of the Steam Horse, as he took his seat. “I hold myself good for a tribe of red-skins, and, I reckon, to be able to scare a few white men, also, with my odd contrivance. Let me look again through the glass.”

When he looked again he found that the train was fairly into the trap, and that the outlaws of the plains—red or white—were forced to draw out of gunshot, for the emigrants were at bay.

“What will you do?” asked Dwight. “I’d like to pile right down there.”

“So would I,” said Barney. “Hooroo! give me a whack at ’em, Frank, dear.”

“You’d both lose your hair and mine, too,” said Frank. “It is growing dark rapidly now, and when night comes on I shall be able to astonish you with some of my little inventions. I shall stay here until it is perfectly dark, and then if I don’t trot down to that pass and yank those poor people out of that trap lively, then you can call Frank Reade a fool. But just you wait.”

[CHAPTER XII.]
BARRY BROWN’S SEARCH.

The reader will remember the individual who was admitted by the captain of the gang of counterfeiters in the second number of this story.

This person was Barry Brown, one of the men under Harry Hale, and a most cool and skillful secret service detective; as the reader has doubtless surmised, Jack, the tall stableman, was also a spy upon the counterfeiters who had been worked into the service of the leader by the cunning of Harry Hale.

Barry Brown had been selected by Hale to enter the counterfeiting gang, and by his skill in die-sinking and engraving, to work himself thoroughly into their confidence, for this gang conducted its secret operations on a larger scale than any other in the country, and it was worth time and patience, and all possible risk, to have the glory of bringing the rascals to justice.

This Brown was as cool as a piece of steel, and his nerves were like the same chilly metal in texture.

He was brave to a fault, but was never rash, and the greatest danger had never proved sufficiently exciting to cause him to lose his head, as the saying is.

Therefore it will be seen that he was a man eminently fitted to carry out the dangerous task intrusted to him by his leader, that of probing into the secrets of the gang, becoming one of their trusted workers, and thus eventually of being able to spring a trap and bag the lot of them.

When the first firing took place between the Prairie Express and the men under Harry Hale, Barry Brown and Jack the stableman were standing in the opening fronting the house.

Some of the horses in the stable became a little frightened, and Jack was forced to attend to them.

“I guess it’s the captain stopping those wagons,” muttered Brown. “Well, whether he carries out his plans or not, I must attend to my work. There being very few in the house now, I guess it will be the best chance I shall have of going on an exploring expedition.”

He went back to the house, and entering the hallway, closed the door.

Nobody was to be seen.

Barry Brown walked slowly along the hallway.

There was a stairway leading down to some unknown part; and down the steps with cautious tread went the secret service spy.

They conducted him to a lower hallway, and this was constructed of huge blocks made of solid stone.

He paused in this hallway, and bent his head to a listening attitude.

A form glided out from the gloom of a dark corner, and with a swift, noiseless leap, bounded upon him.

The secret service man probably owed his life to one fact. He had been a telegraph operator in his time, and the wonderful business had sharpened his ears so much, that, even the very slightest sound became audible to him.

What he heard on this occasion was the sound of the flying foe.

The latter rushing swiftly through the air made but little noise, but that noise was sufficient to attract the attention of Barry Brown’s quick ears.

Merely from the force of a long-practiced habit the detective dropped to the ground, and the flying form shot over him.

It was a huge hound, one of that silent, deadly race that destroy without uttering a single sound.

In a moment the dog turned and made for him again, but Barry Brown did not dodge this time.

He’d met with four-footed enemies before this, and he knew how to battle with them.

In his right hand he grasped a cruel-looking bowie.

His left arm was wrapped in the folds formed by the tail of his coat.

Without a single cry, the immense hound leaped forward.

Barry Brown’s steady eyes flashed like two stars.

His left arm was struck forward, fairly into the immense jaws of the hound as the brute dropped upon him.

The white teeth sank into the thin cloth, and the force of the charge sent Barry over on his back.

The brute came fairly on top of him with its crushing weight.

That armed right hand went up like some mechanical contrivance four or five times with the regularity of clock work, and the keen blade sank again and again into the quivering body of the hound.

The powerful jaws relaxed their hold, the beast rolled off sidewise from the man, and after a few convulsive struggles, gave its last kick and died.

Barry arose to his feet, kicked the dog aside, and then looked to see from what place the creature had come when he made his first leap.

He saw a sort of a kennel in one corner, and thither he dragged the dead hound by his tail and left it.

“A very good dog,” soliloquized he, “a very good dog indeed, but he wasn’t fairly up to the mark, or he never would have given me a chance to draw a weapon. I wonder how long it will take them to find out that he’s dead? It’s rather odd that Jack shouldn’t know anything about the hound being there. Perhaps he forgot to tell me. Well, that’s one guard gone, and the fact that he was a guard tells me that I’m approaching some place worth guarding, and that is what I’m after. I’m blessed if I can see any door in the wall.”

He could not see anything that looked like a door until he came to the end of the hall, and there a small knob informed him that something like a countersunk door might be found.

He unsheathed his knife and held it in his hand.

A strange, buzzing sound came from the other side of the heavy stone wall, but Barry could not distinguish anything more than the fact that human voices formed part of the sound.

“Without doubt, this is one of their down-stairs work-rooms,” said Barry, as he held one ear close to the wall in a vain effort to catch some clear sound from the other side of the massive masonry. “I must lay off there until some one comes out. I’ll wait hours before I’ll budge, unless some new danger drives me away.”

This man’s patience in carrying out such an idea was remarkable.

He crouched down upon the floor, seeking the shady side of the wall, and lay at ease, calmly waiting for some one to appear.

One, two, three, four long hours dragged wearily by, and no one came forth to reward his watching; but beyond a slight change of position, the secret service man stirred not from his post.

Then the portion of the wall intersected by the knob spoken of before swung slowly open, and as Barry Brown looked up, he beheld a man standing before him with a gleaming sword uplifted, as if to cut the daring spy.

When Frank and Charley parted company on the plains, in consequence of something being the matter with the Steam Man, Harry Hale fumed and fretted greatly over the delay.

“It’s no use fussing about it,” cheerily said Gorse, as the man came to a dead stop, and he leaped to the ground. “Both of these machines are very good for speed and effect, but it’s impossible to prevent them from getting out of order if we persist in using them in this slap-dash style. Be good enough to jump down and help me to find what’s up with the old fellow.”

“My boys will be cut to pieces,” said Harry Hale. “They’ll rush into any sort of wild danger if I’m not with them to hold them in check.”

“Don’t fret,” said Charley. “It’s my private opinion that they lost so much time, that they have not been able to come up with Pomp or his pursuers. As for the darkey, I have no fears, for he’s a devil of a fighter, and the best rider in the West, bar none.”

By this time Hale was upon the ground by Charley’s side, and together they went over the machine.

“Running posts all right?” asked Hale.

“Yes,” said Charley.

“Your axles cool?”

“Yes, as ice; not a bit swelled.”

“Water all right?”

“Yes, and steam gauge indicating a high pressure—forty pounds. I must blow off steam.”