The Project Gutenberg eBook, Frank Reade, Jr., and His New Steam Man, or, the Young Inventor's Trip to the Far West, by Luis Senarens

Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

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

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 Jr., and His New Steam Man;
OR,
THE YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.

By “NONAME”,

Author of Frank Reade Jr.’s Electric Cyclone; or, Thrilling Adventures in No Man’s Land, etc.

CHAPTER I.
A GREAT WRONG.

Frank Reade was noted the world over as a wonderful and distinguished inventor of marvelous machines in the line of steam and electricity. But he had grown old and unable to knock about the world, as he had been wont once to do.

So it happened that his son, Frank Reade, Jr., a handsome and talented young man, succeeded his father as a great inventor, even excelling him in variety and complexity of invention. The son speedily outstripped his sire.

The great machine shops in Readestown were enlarged by young Frank, and new flying machines, electric wonders, and so forth, were brought into being.

But the elder Frank would maintain that, inasmuch as electricity at the time was an undeveloped factor, his invention of the Steam Man was really the most wonderful of all.

“It cannot be improved upon,” he declared, positively. “Not if steam is used as a motive power.”

Frank, Jr. laughed quietly, and patted his father on the back.

“Dad,” he said, with an affectionate, though bantering air, “what would you think if I should produce a most remarkable improvement upon your Steam Man?”

“You can’t do it!” declared the senior Reade.

Frank, Jr., said no more, but smiled in a significant manner. One day later, the doors of the secret draughting-room of design were tightly locked and young Frank came forth only to his meals.

For three months this matter of closed doors continued. In the machine shop department, where the parts of machinery were secretly put together, the ring of hammers might have been heard, and a big sign was upon the door:

No admittance!

Thus matters were when one evening Frank left his arduous duties to spend a few hours with his wife and little boy.

But just as he was passing out of the yard, a darky, short in stature and of genial features, rushed excitedly up to him.

“Oh, Marse Frank,” cried the sable servitor, “Jes’ wait one moment!”

“Well, Pomp,” said Frank, pleasantly, “what can I do for you?”

The darky, who was a faithful servant of the Reades, and had accompanied both on their tours in foreign lands, ducked his head, with a grin, and replied:

“Yo’ father wants yo’, Marse Frank, jes’ as quick as eber yo’ kin come!”

“My father,” exclaimed Frank, quickly. “What is it?”

“I don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout it tall, Marse Frank. He jes’ say fo’ me to tell yo’ he want fo’ to see yo’.”

“Where is he?”

“In his library, sah.”

“All right, Pomp. Tell him I will come at once.”

The darky darted away. Frank saw that the doors to the secret rooms were locked. This was a wise precaution for hosts of cranks and demented inventors were always hovering about the place and would quickly have stolen the designs if they could have got at them.

Not ten minutes later Frank entered the library where his father was.

The elder Reade was pacing up and down in great excitement.

“Well, my son, you have come at last!” he cried. “I have much wanted to see you.”

“I am at your service, father,” replied Frank. “What is it?”

“I want you to tell me what kind of a machine you have been getting up.”

“Come now, that’s not fair,” said Frank Jr. with twinkling eyes.

“Well, if it’s any kind of a machine that can travel over the prairies tell me so,” cried the elder Reade, excitedly.

Frank, Jr., was at a loss to exactly understand what his father was driving at. However, he replied:

“Well, I may safely say that it is. Now explain yourself.”

“I will,” replied the senior Reade. “I have a matter of great importance to give you, Frank, my boy. If your invention is as good as my steam man even, and does not improve upon it, it will yet perform the work which I want it to do.”

A light broke across Frank, Jr.’s face.

“Ah!” he cried. “I see what you are driving at. You have an undertaking for me and my new machine.”

Frank, Sr., looked steadily at Frank, Jr., and replied:

“You have hit the nail upon the head.”

“What is it?”

“First, I must tell you a story.”

“Well?”

“It would take me some time to go into the details, so I will not attempt to do that but give you a simple statement of facts; in short, the outline of the story.”

“All right. Let us have it.”

The senior Reade cleared his throat and continued:

“Many years ago when I was traveling in Australia I was set upon by bushmen and would have been killed but for the sudden arrival upon the scene of a countryman of mine, a man of about my own age and as plucky as a lion.

“His name was Jim Travers, and I had known him in New York as the son of a wealthy family. He was of a roving temperament, however, and this is what had brought him to Australia.

“Well, Travers saved my life. He beat off my assailants, and nursing my wounds brought me back to life.

“I have felt ever since that I owed him a debt which could not be fully repaid. At that time I could make no return for the service.

“Jim and I drifted through the gold fields together. Then I lost track of him, and until the other day I have not seen or heard from him.

“But I now find that it is in my power to give him assistance, in fact to partly pay the debt I owe him. This brings us to the matter in hand.

“Six months ago it seems that Jim who is now a man of great wealth, still a bachelor and for a few years past living at a fashionable hotel in New York went to his club. When he returned in the evening he found a note worded like this:”

Mr. Reade laid a note upon the table, Frank read it:

“Dear Travers:—I would like to see you to-night upon a very important matter. Will you meet me in twenty minutes at the cafe on your corner. I must see you, so be sure and come.

“A Friend.”

“Of course Jim wondered at the note, but he did not know of an enemy in the world, so he felt perfectly safe in keeping the appointment. He started for the cafe.

“The night was dark and misty, Jim walked along and had got near the cafe when somebody stepped out of a dark hallway and grasped his arm.

“‘Come in here,’ a sharp voice said, ‘we can talk better here than in the cafe.’

“Before Jim could make any resistance he was pulled into a dark hallway. Two men had hold of him and something wet was dashed across his face and over his hands, then he felt some liquid poured over his clothes and some object thrust into his pocket.

“Then the door opened again and he was flung out into the street. Jim was unharmed, but amazed at such treatment. He had not been hurt and was at a loss to understand what it all meant.

“The incident had taken but a few moments in its course. At first a thought of foul play had flashed across Jim. Then it occurred to him to look at his hands which were wet with some substance.

“He gave a great cry of horror as he did so. There was blood upon them.

“In fact his hands and face and clothes were almost soaked in red blood. For an instant he was horrified.

“What mystery was this? But he quickly changed his opinion and actually laughed.

“It occurred to him as a practical joke upon the part of his club friends. Satisfied of this he resolved to get even with them.

“He tried to open the door, through which he had been pulled. It was locked and would not yield.

“Then he decided to go back to his room and wash off the blood. But he had not gone ten steps before he was met in the glare of the lamplight by one of the club men.

“‘Thunder! What’s the matter with you, Travers?’ asked his friend.

“‘Oh, nothing, only a little practical joke the boys have been playing on me,’ replied Jim with a grin. Two or three others come along and Jim explains in like manner. Then he goes to his apartments.

“When he arrives there he is amazed to find the door open and a fearful scene within. The furniture, the light carpet and the walls in places are smeared with blood. Jim now got angry.

“‘This is carrying a joke a little too far!’ he cried, testily. ‘This spoiling the furniture is too much.’

“But he went to washing the blood from his hands. This was a hard job and took time. Suddenly half a dozen officers came into the room and seized him.

“‘What do you want?’ cried poor Jim in surprise.

“‘We want you,’ they replied.

“‘What for?’

“‘For murder!’

“Instead of being horrified, Jim was mad, madder than a March hare. He just got up and swore at the officers.

‘I don’t like this sort of thing,’ he declared. ‘It’s carrying a joke too far.’

“The officers only laughed and slipped manacles upon his wrists. Then they led him away to prison. Not until brought into court did poor Jim know that he had been made the victim of a hellish scheme.

“Murder had really been committed in that house into which he had been dragged, and where he was smeared with blood. A man unknown, was there found literally carved to pieces with a knife.

“Blood had been found upon Jim in his room. A trail led from the house to his room. A knife was found in his coat pocket. The evidence was all against him and his trial had just come off and he had just been sentenced to death by hanging with only three months of grace.”

Frank Reade, Jr., listened to this thrilling tale with sensations which the pen cannot depict. It was so horrible, so strange, so ghastly that he could hardly believe it true.

He arose and walked once across the floor.

CHAPTER II.
THE NEW STEAM MAN.

Then the young inventor paused before his father, and in a deeply impressed manner said:

“Then an innocent man stands convicted of murder?”

“Yes.”

“In that case it is the duty of every philanthropic man to try and save the innocent.”

“It is.”

“We must do it.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“But the question now arises as to how we shall be able to do it. Is there no clew to the real assassins?”

“No definite clew.”

“That is very strange. Of course there must have been a motive. That motive would seem to be to get Travers out of the way.”

“Yes.”

“And he has no enemies?”

“None that he knew of.”

“Ah, but what would any one gain by putting him out of the way——”

Frank Reade, Jr., paused. He gazed steadily at his father. Much passed between them in that glance.

“His fortune is a large one,” put in the senior Reade, “the right to inherit would furnish the best motive. There is but one heir, and he is a nephew, Artemas Cliff, who is a stockman, somewhere in the Far West. It could not be him.”

“Could not?” Frank Reade, Jr., sat down and dropped into a brown study. After a time he aroused.

“I am interested in this case,” he declared. “And my Steam Man is at the disposal of justice at any time. But you spoke of the prairies. Is there a clew in the West?”

“The only clew possible to obtain at present,” declared Mr. Reade, Sr. “You see detectives tracked two suspicious men to Kansas. There they lost track of them. Everybody believes that they were the assassins.”

“Well, I believe it,” cried Frank Reade, Jr., with impulse. “I can see but one logical explanation of this matter. Either Artemas Cliff has employed two ruffians to do this awful deed for the sake of Travers’ money, or—the case is one not possible to solve with ease.”

Frank Reade, Sr., did not display surprise at this statement of his son.

“Now you have the whole thing in a nutshell, my boy,” he said. “Of course, you can do as you please, but if you wish to take any kind of a journey with your new invention, here is a chance, and a noble object in view. That object should be to track down the murderers, and clear Jim Travers. It may be that the nephew, Artemas Cliff, is the really guilty one, but in any case, I believe that it is in the West you will find the solution of the mystery.”

“That is my belief,” agreed Frank Reade, Jr., “but now that this matter is settled let me show you the plans of my steam man.”

Frank Reade, Jr., drew a roll of papers from his pocket and spread them upon the table.

Upon them were the blue print plans and drawings of the mechanism of the Steam Man.

Frank Reade, Senior, examined them carefully and critically. From one piece to another he went and after some time drew a deep breath saying:

“Well, young blood is the best after all. I must say, Frank, that I am beat. There is no doubt but that you have improved upon my Steam Man. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” said Frank Reade, Jr. with gratification.

“But I am anxious to see this marvel at work.”

“You shall,” replied the young inventor. “To-morrow the Steam Man will go out of the shop upon his trial trip.”

A few minutes later Frank Reade, Jr., was on the way to his own house.

He was in a particularly happy frame of mind. He had achieved great results in his new invention, and here, as by design, was a chance afforded him to use the Steam Man to a philanthropic and heroic purpose.

The idea of traveling through the wilds of the West was a thrilling one.

Frank could already picture the effect of the Steam Man upon the wild savages of the plains and the outlaws of Western Kansas and Colorado.

Also the level floor-like prairie of that region would afford excellent traveling for the new invention.

Frank Reade, Jr., was a lover of adventure.

It was an inborn love. The prospect before him fired his very soul. It was just what he desired.

That evening he unfolded all his plans to his wife.

Of course Mrs. Reade was averse to her husband undertaking such a dangerous trip. But after a time she overcame her scruples and reconciled herself to it.

The next morning at an early hour, Frank was at the engine house of the steel works. The wide doors were thrown open and a wonderful sight revealed.

There stood the Steam Man.

Frank Reade, Sr., and a great number of friends were present. Pomp, the negro, was also there, as well as a queer-looking little Irishman with a genuine Hibernian mug and twinkling eyes, which bespoke a nature brimming over with fun. This was Barney O’Shea.

Barney and Pomp had long been faithful servants of the Reades. In all of their travels with their inventions they had accompanied them. Of these two characters we will say no more, but permit the reader to become acquainted with them in the course of the story.

The senior Reade examined the mechanism of the new Steam Man with deepest interest.

“Upon my word, Frank,” he cried, “you have beaten me out and out. I can hardly believe my eyes.”

Frank Reade, Jr., laughed good humoredly.

Then he went about showing a party of friends the mechanism of the new Steam Man.

The man himself was a structure of iron plates joined in sections with rivets, hinges or bars as the needs required.

In face and form the machine was a good imitation of a man done in steel.

In no wise did he look ponderous or unwieldy, though his stature was fully nine feet.

The man stood erect holding the shafts of a wagon at his hips.

The wagon itself was light but roomy with four wheels and a top covering of fine steel net work. This was impervious to a bullet while anyone inside could see quite well all about them.

There were loop-holes in this netting to put the rifle barrels through in case of a fight.

A part of the wagon was used as a coal bunker. Other small compartments held a limited amount of stores, ammunitions and weapons.

Upon the fender in front was a brake to regulate the wagon on a steep grade, and a slit in the net work here allowed of the passage of the reins, two long lines connecting with the throttle and whistle valves. A word as to the mechanism of the man.

Here was really the fine work of the invention.

Steam was the motive power.

The hollow legs and arms of the man made the reservoir or boilers. In the broad chest was the furnace. Fully two hundred pounds of coal could here be placed, keeping up a fire sufficient to generate steam for a long time.

The steam chest was upon the man’s back, and here were a number of valves. The tall hat worn by the man formed the smoke stack.

The driving rods, in sections, extended down the man’s legs, and could be set in motion so skillfully that a tremendous stride was attained, and a speed far beyond belief.

This was the new steam man. The improvements were many and manifest.

All the mechanism was more nicely balanced, the parts more strongly joined, and the steel of finer quality. Greater speed was the certainty.

Fire was burning in the furnace, steam was hissing from the retort, and smoke was pouring from the funnel hat of the man.

Frank Reade, Jr., suddenly sprung in the wagon.

He closed the screen door behind him. Pomp was engaged in some work in the coal bunker.

Frank took up the reins and pulled them. The throttle was opened and also the whistle valve.

Three sharp shrieks the new Steam Man gave and then he was away on the trial trip.

Out of the yard he went and out upon the highway.

Everybody rushed to the gates and a great cheer went up. Down the highway went the Steam Man at a terrific gait.

His strides were long and powerful. So rapidly were they made that a tremendous amount of surface was covered.

It was a good smooth road.

Just ahead was a man riding a horse. Near him was a bicycler who was noted as a fast rider.

Both had heard that the Steam Man would make his trial run that morning.

Bets had been made by both that they could beat the Man.

Frank guessed the truth at once.

“Ki dar, Marse Frank,” cried Pomp, with a chuckle and a shake of his woolly head. “Dem two chaps ain got a pile ob gall. Jes’ yo’ show dem dat dey ain’t in it. Won’t yo’?”

Pomp had more than one reason for beating the horse and bicycle. He had made a small bet of his own on the result.

It was evident that the parties ahead were ready for the fun.

Frank Reade, Jr., smiled grimly, and opened the throttle a little wider.

The next moment the Steam Man, the bicycle rider and the trotter were all flying neck and neck down the road.

Heavens! what a race that was!

Down the road they flew like a whirlwind. The dust flew up behind them in a cloud.

But the Steam Man just trotted by his competitors with seemingly no exertion at all. Frank turned with a laugh to see how easily they were distanced.

After a good trial, the new Steam Man returned to the foundry yard. As Frank stepped down out of the wagon, his father came up and grasped his hand in an ecstasy of delight.

“Bravo, my son!” he cried. “You have eclipsed my Invention. I wish you luck, and I know that you will succeed in clearing Jim Travers.”

“I shall take only Barney and Pomp with me,” said Frank Reade, Jr. “There will not be room in the wagon for more.”

“Well, they will be useful companions,” said the Senior Reade. “My son; may God be with you in your enterprise.”

Frank Reade, Jr., at once proceeded to make preparations for his western trip.

He visited Travers in prison and talked with him.

“To tell the truth, I am distrustful of my nephew, Artemas Cliff. He is an avaricious villain, and a number of times has tried to swindle me out of money. I know that he has led the life of an outlaw out there on the border.”

“But if he aspired to gain your wealth, why did he not attempt your life in some direct manner?” asked Frank.

“I presume he may have feared detection,” replied Travers. “If I am hung for the murder of this unknown man, the mystery will be sealed forever. The real murderer will never be known.”

“I believe you are right,” agreed Frank Reade, Jr. “Well, I will find this Artemas Cliff, and do the best I can toward clearing up the mystery and setting you right.”

“Thank you!” said Travers with emotion. “I feel that you will succeed.”

CHAPTER III.
ON THE PLAINS.

The scene of our story now undergoes a great change.

We will transfer the reader from Readestown to the plains of the Far West. Fully five hundred miles from civilization, and right in the heart of the region of the hostile Sioux.

Frank Reade, Jr., had transported the Steam Man as far as possible by rail.

From thence he had journeyed the rest of the ways overland.

Nothing of thrilling sort had as yet marked their journey. But they were upon the verge of the most exciting adventures as the reader will hereafter agree, possible to be experienced by man.

With the broad expanse of rolling plain upon every hand, one morning in June the Steam Man might have been seen making its way along at a moderate gait.

Frank Reade, Jr., with Barney and Pomp were in the wagon.

Frank held the reins and his keen gaze swept the prairie in every direction.

As far as the eye could reach there remained the same broad expanse. There was little to break the monotony.

Barney and Pomp had taken advantage of a lull in their duties to play a social game of poker in the rear of the wagon.

These two unique characters, although the warmest of friends, were nevertheless always engaged in badgering each other or the perpetration of practical jokes.

“Bejabers, I’ll go yez ten betther on that, yez black ape,” cried Barney, throwing down a handful of chips. “I’ll take me worrud it’s a big bluff yez are playin’. Yez can’t fool me.”

“Youse will jest find out dis nigger neber plays a bluff game,” retorted Pomp with a chuckle. “Jest yo’ look out fo’ yo’sef, Pish.”

“Begorra, I ain’t afraid av yez an’ I’ll go ye the tin,” cried Barney.

There was a broad grin upon Pomp’s face. He quietly picked up ten chips and then put in ten more.

“Hold on, Pish, I’ll go youse ten better.”

“Call yez, be hivens!” cried Barney, chucking in ten more.

Then he threw down his hand.

“Can yez bate that?” he cried, triumphantly. “Give us the pot, naygur. Yez are no good.”

But Pomp put one black paw over the pile of chips.

“‘Jes’ wait one minnit, Pish.”

“Whurro! Yez can’t bate it!” cried Barney, confidently.

He had thrown a good hand containing four kings and two aces. But Pomp quietly laid down four aces!

The picture was one well worthy of an artist. For a moment the two card players gazed at the six aces in amazement. It was a very curious anomaly that there should be six aces in one pack of cards.

Then Barney sprang up furiously.

“Begorra, it’s a big cheat ye are!” he cried, angrily. “Whoever saw the loikes av that? Be me sowl, the hull pile is mine!”

“Don’ yo’ put yo’ hands on dem chips, Pish!” cried Pomp, angrily.

“P’raps yo’ kin tell me wharfore youse got dem two aces, maybe youse can?”

“Bejabers, they war in the pack, but yez kin tell me perhaps where yez got those four aces yez put down there?”

“I tell yo’, Pish, dey was in de pack.”

“Be jabers it’s the fust pack av cards I ever saw with six aces in it,” retorted Barney.

“Now don’ yo’ gib me any mo’ ob yo’ sass, Pish!” blustered Pomp. “I’ll jes’ make yo’ sorry if yo’ does.”

“Bejabers yez ain’t the size!”

“Look out fo’ yo’self, Pish!”

“Whurroo!”

Over went the table leaf, down went the chips in the bottom of the wagon, and the two angry poker players closed in a lively wrestle.

For a moment Barney had the best of it, then Pomp tripped the Celt up and both fell in a heap in the bottom of the wagon.

They chanced to fall against the wire screen door in the rear of the wagon.

It was unlocked and gave way beneath the pressure, and the two practical jokers went through it and out upon the hard floor of the prairie.

They were rolled about in a cloud of dust, and had they not been of something more than ordinary composition they would have suffered from broken bones.

But as it was both picked themselves up unhurt.

The Steam Man had gone on fully one hundred yards before Frank Reade, Jr., perceived that his companions were missing, and at once closed the throttle and brought the Man to a halt.

“Serves the rascals right,” muttered Frank, as he saw them pick themselves up from the dust. “They are always skylarking, and no good comes of it.”

Frank had stopped the Steam Man. He waited for the two jokers to pick themselves up and return to the wagon.

But at that moment a thrilling thing occurred.

Barney and Pomp had fallen near a clump of timber.

From this with wild yells a band of mounted Sioux Indians now dashed.

They were a war party—painted and bedecked with feathers, and in the full paraphernalia of war.

The peril which threatened the two jokers was one not to be despised.

It was quite evident that the savages meant to cut off their rejoining the Steam Man. In that case their fate would be sealed.

But Barney was quick-witted, and saw the situation at a glance.

With a wild howl he broke into a mad run for the Steam Man. It was a question of life or death and he ran as he had never ran before.

Pomp was not so lucky. While Barney was distancing his pursuers, and actually succeeded in reaching the wagon, the darky suddenly found himself cut off.

Indian ponies were circling about him, the red riders whooping and yelling like veritable demons.

The poor darky was beside himself with terror and perplexity.

“Golly sakes alibe!” he yelled, with his wool literally standing on end. “Whatebber am dis yer nigger gwine fo’ to do? I’se a gone coon fo’ suah.”

It certainly looked that way. The savages circled nearer and half a dozen of them dismounted and rushed upon Pomp.

Now the darky was unarmed.

He had not even a pistol or a knife. Of course he was at their mercy.

In less time than it takes to tell it, the savages had closed in about the terrified darky, and he was quickly thrown upon his back and bound.

Then he was laid across the back of a pony and tied on securely.

Then a lariat was attached to the pony’s bridle, and the savages with their prisoner in their midst dashed away.

Barney had reached the Steam Man and climbed into the wagon.

Frank Reade, Jr., had seen the whole affair, and for a moment was too astounded to act.

Then as Barney came tumbling into the wagon, Frank turned the man around and sent him flying toward the savages.

This move was quickly made, and the Steam Man ran forward rapidly. But quick as it had been, the savages had yet succeeded in making Pomp a prisoner and getting away with him.

“Be jabers, they’ve got the naygur bound to a horse,” cried Barney, wildly. “Wud yez luk at the loikes, Misther Frank. We must catch the omadhouns and give them a lessin of the right sort.”

“I hope we may,” replied Frank, with great anxiety, “but I fear the red fiends will get to cover before we can overtake them.”

“Whurroo! It’s mesilf as will sphoil the loike av some av thim,” cried Barney, as he picked up his rifle.

The savages were racing like mad across the prairie.

They had caught sight of the Steam Man, which was to them some fiend incarnate, some evil spirit which would seek their certain destruction.

Terror of the wildest sort made them whip their ponies to the utmost.

It was a mad race.

But the Steam Man was gaining.

He took tremendous strides. Frank pulled the whistle valve, and the shrieks sent up on the air were of a terrifying kind.

The savages had all gazed with wonder upon the white man’s iron horse that followed its steel track across their prairies.

But this latest appearance, the Steam Man, was too much for their nerves. They could not bear it, and fled.

The Steam Man would certainly have overtaken them.

But, not visible until one had turned the timber line and made a rise in the prairie was a distant range of hills.

Toward this the savages were going. If they reached them, they would certainly succeed in eluding their pursuer.

And the chances seemed good.

Frank saw, with a peculiar chill, that they were really liable to reach the point aimed at.

He sent the man on at full speed.

Barney placed himself at a loop-hole, and commenced firing as rapidly as he could at the fleeing foe.

The result was that many of them fell, and the others redoubled their exertions to make an escape.

On went the chase toward the distant range of hills.

Nearer and nearer drew the ponies to the objective point.

With sinking heart Frank saw that the Indians were likely to reach them before the Steam Man could overtake them.

Of course this would mean safety for the savages, for the Steam Man could not hope to follow the ponies over the rough surfaces there encountered.

“Heavens, we are not going to save Pomp!” cried Frank, with a thrill of despair in his voice. “What shall we do, Barney? Is it not awful?”

Barney was busily engaged in placing fresh cartridges in his Winchester.

“Begorra, it’s save the naygur I will if I sacrifice me own loife!” cried the big-hearted Celt. “It’s me own fault, for sure, that he iver fell troo the door and got picked up by the red min.”

Frank put on all the steam he dared, and the man took tremendous strides forward.

“We will make a mighty effort,” he gritted, as he piled on the steam.

“Bejabers, here goes for wan av the spalpeens!” cried Barney.

Then the Irishman’s rifle cracked.

One of the savages tumbled from his pony’s back.

Barney continued to load and fire as fast as he could. But the opportunity was not long granted him.

Suddenly the cavalcade of savages dashed into the mouth of the pass.

They were out of sight in a twinkling. The Steam Man was obliged to come to a halt.

There were huge bowlders and piles of stones to block the passage. Barney and Frank Reade, Jr., exchanged glances of despair.

“That is the end of Pomp,” declared the young inventor, with a chill. “I have no doubt that is a part of Black Buffalo’s band, and he never spares a life.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE COWBOYS.

Frank had spoken truthfully. The band of savages was really a part of the tribe of which Black Buffalo was the chief.

Throughout all the Kansas border this blood thirsty fiend was known and feared.

He had ravaged more wagon trains, burned more settlements, and committed more massacres than any other Sioux chief in the Far West.

His name was a synonym of terror among the settlers, from Dakota to the boundary line of Texas.

By many he was claimed to be a white man or renegade. Others averred that he was a recreant Pawnee chief.

However this was, certainly no red warrior was better known and feared than Black Buffalo.

And it was into his hands that Pomp had fallen.

Small wonder then that Frank Reade, Jr., was much alarmed, and even inclined to believe his faithful servitor’s life lost.

The merciless Black Buffalo would not be likely to spare Pomp’s life. The savages had captured him alive simply to drag him into the hills and torture him to death.

Barney began to bemoan the situation in violent terms.

“Och hone, the poor soul,” he cried, “he was a black naygur but he had a white heart jist that same. Be jabers av’ we cud only get near enough to the red omadhouns I’d loike to shoot ivery mother’s son av thim.”

“Well, I don’t see why the red fiends haven’t the best of us,” declared Frank.

“It luks that same, Misther Frank,” wailed Barney.

“I don’t see how we can ever get through that pass. The Steam Man might go there, but the wagon won’t.”

This was true enough.

The Steam Man on the level prairie was invincible, but on rough ground like this wholly useless.

Frank and Barney were beside themselves with solicitude and perplexity.

Frank even thought of going forth on foot to try and overtake the redskins. But of course the folly of such a course was quickly apparent to him.

Barney even attempted to carry out literally this plan.

He went so far as to open the door in the wire screen and leap down to the ground.

But Frank cried sternly:

“Barney, come back at once. You can gain nothing by such a course.”

“Shure, Mr. Frank,” cried the Irishman, “if yez will only let me go——”

“Come back,” was Frank’s terse command, which was reluctantly obeyed by the Celt.

Frank took a careful look at the hills.

He chanced to see a smooth pathway up the height, and which seemed to follow the course of the canyon or pass.

Up this the Steam Man cautiously advanced. As they continued to ascend higher a good broad view of the prairie was obtained.

And suddenly reaching an elevation from which a southward view could be obtained, Frank gave a sharp cry, and taking a glass from a locker, sprung to a loop-hole in the netting.

He scanned a number of objects upon the prairie far beyond.

At that distance they looked like a herd of buffaloes.

But with the glass Frank saw that they were mounted men and white men at that.

They looked like a roving band of cowboys. In any event they were white men and it was quite enough for the young inventor to know this.

“We can depend upon them to help rescue Pomp!” cried Frank, exuberantly. “Luck is yet with us, Barney.”

“Be jabers I hope so,” cried the excited Celt. “If they be white men and have a heart they’ll shurely do it.”

Frank instantly turned the wagon about and sent the Steam Man rapidly down to the prairie.

He blew shrill blasts upon the whistle to attract the attention of the white men.

In this he was successful.

As the Steam Man reached the prairie floor, the cavalcade or cowboys came dashing up.

They did not seem surprised at sight of the Steam Man somewhat singularly and drew up fifty yards distant while one of their number rode forward.

He was evidently the leader, and was a tall, dark, evil-looking fellow. Frank Reade, Jr. was not favorably impressed with his appearance.

As the young inventor noted that the whole gang had a forbidding appearance and with a chill Frank realized that he could hardly expect any assistance from such a cut-throat looking band.

The tall, dark leader doffed his sombrero as he rode forward and made a low bow.

“Buenos Senors!” he said with a Spanish accent. “I wish you a fair day. Do you travel far with your Iron Man?”

“I am glad to meet you,” replied Frank, eagerly. “We come from the East and we are here upon an important mission.”

The stranger smiled and bowed again with a peculiar affectation of politeness.

“I am pleased to hear it. Are you not the gentleman called Frank Reade, Jr.?”

Frank gave a start of surprise.

“I am,” he replied, quickly, “then you have heard of me.”

“I have, Senor Reade,” replied the cowboy chief, with another exaggerated bow and smile.

“Perhaps you know of my mission here?”

“I do,” was the reply.

Frank was more amazed than words can express. What mystery was this?

How had this fellow, who bore the stamp of a Spaniard, learned of his mission to the Far West? The young inventor was staggered for a moment.

“Your mission here,” replied the cowboy chief, politely, “is to hunt down two men who you believe are guilty of a murder which they skillfully foisted upon a certain man by the name of Jim Travers.”

“You are right!” cried Frank. “But how in the name of wonder did you know that?”

“I prefer not to say. It is enough that I know it.”

“It is strange that you should have learned it,” said Frank, “but I will ask no more questions just now in the face of a terrible exigency.”

“Ah!”

“I want to ask your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes”

“Pardon, senor, but I cannot see in what manner I can serve you.”

“You must assist me. One of my men—a colored man—has fallen into the hands of the Indians. They have made him prisoner and have just escaped with him into these hills. I ask your assistance in effecting his rescue.”

A peculiar smile played about the cowboy’s lips.

“Is he not the one you call Pomp?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And that man with you in your cage there is called Barney?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I see—Barney and Pomp. Well, Senor Reade, pray accept my compliments and the wish that you may see civilization again alive, which I do not believe will be the case. Ha—ha—ha! You have blundered into a death-trap!”

Something like a correct comprehension of affairs now began to dawn upon Frank.

“What do you mean?” he gasped in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Well, since you ask me I will tell you,” replied the cowboy chief with a laugh. “I am no Spaniard, as you might have thought. I am as good an American as you, and you will have good cause to remember my name in the near future, provided you escape from this trap. I am the man you are so eagerly looking for—I am Artemas Cliff.”

“Heavens!” gasped Frank Reade, Jr., “the man I am looking for!”

“The same,” replied Cliff, mockingly. “You have undertaken quite a daring deed, my fine inventor, but you will find that you have bitten off a very much larger slice than you can masticate.”

“We will see,” began Frank.

“You see these men?” continued Cliff. “They are my followers, tried and true. What is it to you whether my uncle, Jim Travis, should hang for murder? You can never prove him innocent—at least, never will, for you will never go from here alive.”

“Scoundrel!” cried Frank. “You are the real murderer!”

“Ha, ha, ha! Prove it if you can!” laughed the cowboy chief, derisively.

“I will prove it, if I have to drag the confession from your lips!” cried Frank, resolutely.

“Pshaw! Talk is cheap. Attention, men! Grab the throttle rein of the Steam Man and you can destroy him! Forward! Charge!”

Frank Reade, Jr., heard the command and knew well the danger. He was at a loss to account for Cliff’s knowledge of him and his invention.

The young inventor was not aware of the fact that for weeks previous to the starting forth of the Steam Man spies had been busy in Readestown.

But such was the truth.

Artemas Cliff had covered his tracks well. He knew that Frank Reade, the young inventor’s father, was a friend of Travers and would see him through, if possible.

Therefore he had provided well for giving Frank Reade, Jr., and the new Steam Man a hot reception on the plains.

With hoarse cries the cowboys descended upon the Steam Man. They urged their horses forward at a full gallop.

Frank Reade, Jr., knew well that it was possible for them to greatly injure his invention, so he made quick action to defeat their plans.

He shouted to Barney:

“Give it to them, Barney. Shoot every man you can.”

Then Frank opened the throttle, and let the Steam Man out for all he was worth.

It was an easy matter to outstrip the horses, and the Steam Man kept ahead, while the cowboys came thundering on in the rear.

Then Frank slackened speed so as to keep up a uniform distance between the Man and the horses.

While Barney poured in shot after shot into the midst of the gang of pursuers.

The cowboys began to drop from their saddles one by one. It was a destructive and telling fire.

And they strained every nerve in vain in an effort to reach the Steam Man. Frank kept the Man just far enough ahead to ensure safety and enable Barney to pick off the cowboys with ease.

It took Cliff some time to tumble to this little game.

When he did, and realized that he was simply decimating numbers without gaining ground, he called a halt.

The cowboys were now near the banks of a wide river which was really the Platte. Frank Reade, Jr. saw his advantage and brought the Steam Man to a stop. Then he seized a rifle and joined Barney.

CHAPTER V.
POMP’S RESCUE.

But it was hardly likely that the cowboys would stand their ground long under such a fire.

As fast as they could Frank and Barney worked the repeaters.

The result was that quite a number of the foe lay dead upon the prairie.

But Artemas Cliff knew the fatality of remaining there. Being unable to catch the man, he knew that their only hope now was in retreat.

All of the cowboys fired at the Steam Man. The bullets rattled harmlessly against the steel cage.

Frank at once sprang to the reins and the brake and started the Steam Man in pursuit. It was quite a turning of tables.

The pursuers were now the pursued.

So it continued until suddenly, by the orders of Cliff, the cowboys turned their horses into the river and forded it.

Once on the other side they were soon beyond the reach of the rifle balls. The Steam Man of course could not follow.

The encounter with the cowboys was at an end.

They did not return to the attack, somewhat singularly, but kept on until the rolling plains hid them from view.

Cliff’s direful threat against the Steam Man and its inventor, had not been carried out. But Frank did not, by any means, delude himself with the belief that the villain would relinquish the attempt so easily.

“Well, Barney,” he cried, cheerily, when satisfied that the scrimmage was over. “We came out of that scrape a little the best of it. It has all turned out as I expected. That Cliff is the real murderer.”

“Begorra, it luks that way, Misther Frank,” agreed Barney.

“So it does. We must plan to capture the villain, and wring a confession from him.”

“Be jabers that’s thrue. If I only had an opportunity I’d pretty quick wring his loon neck for him.”

“But that does not settle the question of Pomp’s fate,” declared Frank. “He must be saved.”

“Shure, Misther Frank.”

“But how can we do it?”

This was yet a conundrum.

Frank and the faithful Irishman stood looking at each other. It was a long time before either spoke.

Finally Frank said:

“There’s only one way, Barney.”

“An’ phwat’s that?”

“We’ve got to got into those hills in some way. I don’t like to leave the Steam Man, but to save Pomp I’d——”

The young inventor ceased speaking. A strange medley of sounds came from the direction of the pass.

There were wild yells and pistol shots, and then, out upon the prairie, the two astonished travelers saw a motley crew of horses and savages emerge.

The savages were fighting furiously. Frank knew enough of the Indians of that region to know what it all meant.

A band of Sioux and a band of Pawnees, the deadliest of enemies, were engaged in a terrific battle.

Frank took in the scene at a glance.

He at once understood all.

The band which had captured Pomp was undoubtedly the one engaged in this conflict. They had very likely met the Pawnees in the upper part of the pass.

When the Pawnees and Sioux met a fight always followed. Generally the latter came off victorious.

As it seemed now, however, the Pawnees had the best of it.

They were worsting the Sioux in good fashion. Frank and Barney watched the scene a moment until suddenly a sharp cry burst from Barney.

“Begorra, Misther Frank, if there ain’t the naygur.” he cried, wildly.

Barney was right. Frank glanced in the direction indicated and saw a thrilling act.

In the midst of the Sioux was Pomp bound to the back of a mustang.

Suddenly in the midst of the melee the horse was seen to bolt from the rest and dash out upon the prairie.

Of course, Pomp had no control over the beast, having his hands tied behind him.

The mustang took his own course and ran like the wind.

The Sioux did not dare to any of them attempt pursuit. The foe in their front claimed their attention.

“Bejabers, the horse is runnin’ away wid the naygur,” cried Barney. “Phwat will we do, Misther Frank?”

“Catch him if we can,” cried Frank, seizing the throttle rein.

He opened the throttle and let the Steam Man go ahead; with long strides the machine began to gain upon the mustang.

Pomp was vainly endeavoring to free his hands.

If he could have done so, and could have got hold of the reins once, he could easily have stopped the horse.

But this he was unable to do.

As a result, the animal carried him along swiftly, and along the base of the hills.

Suddenly the mustang swerved and darted into a narrow pass.

Barney, at the loop-holes of the wagon with rifle in hand, had been sorely tempted to fire at the runaway.

But the fear of hitting Pomp had restrained him.

Now, however, the horse was out of range. But Frank headed the Steam Man for the pass.

Fortunately, it was unobstructed by bowlders, and had a good level floor. The Steam Man was enabled to forge along with safety.

But the mustang and his black rider had gone from sight. However the pursuers kept on.

Suddenly they came out upon a broad plateau with steep descent upon all other sides. This extended among the hills for a distance of several miles.

A great cry of horror now went up from Frank and Barney.

The mustang was seen racing along the edge of a mighty chasm. In a few seconds he would be almost sure to take an impossible leap over a deep gorge.

If he should go to the bottom of that gorge it would be the end of Pomp and the mustang.

This was seen at a glance and with the most intense of horror Barney cried:

“Shall I fire, Misther Frank? It’s the only thing as will save the naygur.”

“You will have to do that,” replied Frank, sharply. “Look out for your aim, Barney. God help Pomp!”

Barney pulled the trigger.

Crack!

The bullet sped true to its mark. It struck the mustang in the side.

The animal faltered, threw up its head, stumbled, and then pitched forward in a heap.

Pomp lay beneath the horse. It did not require but a few moments for the Steam Man to reach him, however.

In a twinkling Barney sprang out of the wagon and cut Pomp’s bonds.

The darky was not in the least injured. He lay with one leg under the mustang, but was easily extricated.

The joy of the darky at his rescue cannot be expressed in words.

He embraced Barney effusively.

“Shure I thought yez kilt intoirely, naygur,” cried the big-hearted Irishman. “It’s moighty glad I am to see yez aloive.”

“Yo’ kin jest bet dis chile am glad fo’ to get out ob dem red debbils’ hands,” cried Pomp, exuberantly.

And then he dashed aboard the Steam Man and grasped Frank’s hand.

“Oh, Marse Frank, I’se dretful glad to see yo’!” cried Pomp, excitedly.

“I am glad to have you back, Pomp,” cried Frank. “And to know that you are unharmed in any way. But it was a close shave for you.”

“‘Deed it was dat, Marse Frank. But dis nigger am powerful hard for to kill, an’ specs dat’s why I lib. But I’se got lots to tell you, Marse Frank.”

“You have?” exclaimed Frank.

“‘Deed I has. P’raps yo’ kin find it valuable fo’ yo’. I’ll jes’ tell yo’ dat when we went up troo dat pass we jes’ cum out pretty quick in a valley. Dat ar’ valley was a scrumptious one, an’ dar was a trail leadin’ down inter it. But afore the Injuns could ride down inter it along cum six white men on hossback an’ a right pert young lady on a hoss, too.

“Sakes alibe I nebber seen so pretty a gal in all mah life. Well, dese yer men, dey seemed like dey was ‘quainted wid der Injuns. Dey jes’ talked as free like wid old Black Buffalo, an’ I jes’ opened my ears an’ listened.

“Dey said dat de gal was a prisoner an’ dey was takin’ her from a cave in de hills to Ranch V. Dey mentioned de name ob Artemas Cliff. Den dey rode on, sah, an’ mah sakes, jus’ den up from the valley dere came a hull gang ob Ingines and pitched into us. Ob cose yo’ know all de res’.”

Frank Reade, Jr., listened with the deepest amazement to this exciting story.

“A young girl!” he gasped. “Of course those men were Cliff’s, but where on earth were they going?”

“Dey done said it was to Ranch V. sah.”

“Ranch V!” repeated Frank. “That is not very definite. But it must be the headquarters of Cliff and his gang. You didn’t hear them say just where that ranch was located, Pomp?”

“No sah, but I jes’ took note ob de direckshun dey was goin’ an’ it was to de souf-west.”

“Well,” said the young inventor as he turned the Steam Man about, “I cannot imagine who the young girl is or how she fell into the hands of Cliff’s gang. But it is certain that she is in their power and we must save her.”

“Be jabers that’s roight, Misther Frank,” cried Barney, gallantly, “the O’Sheas from Brian Boru down war always known as men av honor an’ defenders av female virtue.”

The Steam Man started on the return across the plateau.

It was Frank Reade, Jr.’s intention to reach the prairie once more and strike out to the southwest, in the hopes of locating the Ranch V.

The Steam Man ran swiftly to the mouth of the pass which led down to the prairie.

Barney had filled the furnace with fresh coal, and the indicator showed that there was plenty of water in the boiler.

Frank was about to enter the pass when suddenly Pomp sprang up with a wild cry.

The darky sprang to Frank’s side and tried to grab the throttle rein.

Frank was astounded.

“Hold on there, Pomp. What are you trying to do?” he cried.

“Ki dar, Marse Frank. Stop de Man, or fo’ de Lawd we am all done fo’, suah as preachin’!”

“What?” gasped Frank.

“If yo’ don’t believe it, jes look up yonder?”

Pomp pointed one finger upward to the canyon wall above the pass. The sight which rewarded the startled gaze of the young inventor caused him to reverse the throttle and bring the Steam Man to a halt.

Two cowboys were crouching behind an enormous bowlder which they had intended to roll down upon the Steam Man.

CHAPTER VI.
THE FIGHT IN THE PASS.

A more narrow escape could hardly be imagined.

The precipitation of the huge bowlder upon the Steam Man would have destroyed the invention and the lives of those on board.

Just in time Pomp had seen the danger. Another moment and it would have been too late.

“Ki yi, don’ yo’ see now, Marse Frank?” cried Pomp, wildly.

“I see,” replied Frank, in thrilled tones. “My God! that is a narrow shave. We would have been crushed to atoms in another moment as I live.”

“Whurroo! Give the spalpeens a good bit av cold lead!” shouted Barney, rushing to one of the loop-holes with his rifle.

“That’s right!” cried Frank, doing the same.

“Golly, yo’ kin bet we will do dat!” chimed in Pomp.

The two cowboys, seeing that their game was exposed, sprang up with wild shouts of dismay.

As they did so they were exposed to shots from below. The three rifles spoke sharply in chorus.

The two would be destroyers tumbled in a heap. Their fall was followed by a wild chorus of yells from the thickets and bowlder piles above.

A volley of bullets came from there and rattled harmlessly against the steel netting, showing that the cowboys were there located in great force.

How they had chanced to be there at that critical moment our adventurers could only guess.

But Frank mentally concluded that at best they were but a division of Cliff’s gang, and they had happened upon the spot by chance.

Seeing the Steam Man they had seized what seemed to them a fine opportunity to destroy it.

How far short they came of it we have already seen.

A red-hot contest now began between the cowboys and those in the steel wagon.

Of course our three friends had a vast advantage inasmuch as they were protected from the shots of their foes.

Of course the outlaws far outnumbered them, but it was not at all a difficult matter to pick them off occasionally with a rifle bullet.

Volley after volley the cowboys fired at the Steam Man.

When at length it became patent to them that their shots were futile, they made the air ring with yells of baffled rage.

Then they ceased firing and silence ensued. Every cowboy had disappeared seemingly from the canyon wall.

But this did not deceive Frank Reade, Jr.

He knew that this was only a game of the foe and that it would yet be unsafe to try the pass.

“Bejabers, ain’t there some other way av gettin’ out av this place?” cried Barney, giving the plateau a sweeping glance.

But the chain of hills surrounding it did not lend color to such a possibility.

“It don’t look like it,” said Frank, dubiously.

“I jes’ fink dat am de only way out ob dis place,” said Pomp.

“We are in a kind of trap,” declared Frank Reade, Jr. “We were not sharp or we would have avoided this scrape.”

As it was, however, the best they could do was to watch for an opportunity to run the gauntlet through the Pass.

But they had not long to wait for new and thrilling developments. Suddenly Pomp gave a startled cry.

“For massy sakes, Marse Frank, jes’ yo’ look out yonder. Whatebber am dey up to now?”

Over the edge of the plateau there was visible a line of men advancing rapidly toward the Steam Man.

They were deploying right and left as if to surround him. This was certainly their purpose.

“They’re thryin’ to surround us!” cried Barney.

Frank watched the maneuver with deep interest.

He smiled grimly.

This was certainly the purpose of the foe. But the young inventor saw in the move a betterment of his own chances.

“They will not gain what they hope to,” he said, resolutely.

Then he saw that a line of armed men had deployed across the mouth of the Pass to prevent the Steam Man from escaping in that direction.

In Frank’s judgment there were fully two hundred cowboys in the party. This was tremendous odds, but the young inventor did not fear the results.

With a wild cheer the cowboys began to close their line in about the Steam Man.

Frank Reade, Jr., opened the whistle valve and let out several defiant shrieks.

Then he started the Steam Man in a straight line for the pass.

Pomp and Barney with their repeaters began to fire upon the line of men there.

The repeaters did deadly work.

It was a constant fusillade, and the cowboys dropped like sheep. The error of their plan could now be seen.

In dividing their forces to make the surrounding line, they had weakened themselves. Frank had seen this.

If they had been merely content with holding the pass, it would have been extremely doubtful if the Steam Man could so easily have escaped.

Just as fast as they could work the sixteen-shot Winchesters, Barney and Pomp mowed down the opposing line of cowboys.

The line was thin, and it would have required a very solid corps to have withstood that scathing fire.

Down went the Steam Man toward the Pass with fearful speed.

Heaps of the dead and wounded cowboys lay upon the ground. As the Steam Man reached the Pass, a number of the cowboys tried to grasp the throttle reins and stop the machine.

But the ponderous body of the Man knocked them aside like flies and the wheels of the heavy wagon crushed them into death or insensibility.

The Steam Man literally forged his way through the Pass like a rocket.

Barney and Pomp cheered wildly and fired parting shots at the discomfited foe.

In a few moments the Steam Man ran out upon the prairie.

Frank did not waste time but set his course at once to the Southwest.

He was anxious to locate Ranch V. This he believed was his first and most important duty.

He was satisfied that nothing was to be gained by remaining in the hills.

He was confident that Cliff had gone to the Ranch V wherever it was. More than all else, he was powerfully interested in the mysterious young lady as described by Pomp.

He was determined to know who she was, and what Cliff held her in captivity for.

The day was rapidly drawing to a close.

After a short while the hills faded out of sight, and the rolling prairie was visible upon every hand.

Then, as the Steam Man look his long strides across the even plain, Frank suddenly caught sight of a beaten path or trail.

It was plainly a trail much used and bore a trifle east of south. Frank brought the Man to a stop.

“I would like to know where that trail goes to?” he declared. “I am not sure but it is the route to Ranch V.”

“Golly, Marse Frank!” cried Pomp, craning his neck and looking to the southward a little ways. “What am dat jus’ ober dat roll in de perairy?? Am not dat some berry sumspicious objec’?”

Frank gazed in the direction indicated and saw a tall, black-looking timber seeming to rise out of the roll in the prairie. But he knew that it was beyond.

Frank let the Steam Man go along for a quarter of a mile, and topping the rise a startling sight was revealed.

There, scattered over several acres of land were the blackened ruins and charred timbers of some buildings.

It was easy to see what these buildings had constituted.

A large ranch with stockade, extensive cattle pens and yards, had once stood upon this spot. Frank allowed the Steam Man to pass through the ruins.

Thrilling sights were accorded our adventurers.

There were heaps of ashes, the bones of animals, and several charred skeletons of human beings.

There was every evidence that a fight had occurred at the place, and that the ranch had been burned by either Indians or rival cowboys. As chance had it the sign which, painted in broad letters, had once hung over the yard gate, had not been destroyed, and lay upon the ground near.

Our explorers were enabled to read it plainly.

“Rodman Ranch.”

Barney and Pomp descended from the wagon, and spent some time in exploring the ruins.

“I jes’ fink de Ingines burned up dis yer place,” averred Pomp.

“Begorra, it’s the divil’s own job they med av it,” declared Barney.

But Frank said, with conviction:

“Just as likely it was the work of Cliff and his gang. They are outlaws at best, and if Rodman Ranch was a respectable place, they would be sure to wish it destroyed.”

Barney and Pomp re-entered the wagon now, and once more the quest for Ranch V was begun.

But night came on, and they had obtained no clew.

A good place was found to camp, and it was decided to wait until morning before pursuing the journey further.

Accordingly everything was made comfortable with this end in view.

No camp fire was made, for this was not deemed necessary.

At night they always slept in the wagon, and Barney and Pomp served turns in watching.

The fires in the furnace were banked, and the Steam Man was given a rest just the same as the others.

One place was always as good as another in camping out thus, save that it was necessary to be near a body of water, so that the boilers could be filled with ease the next morning.

The Steam Man was thus cared for, the fires banked, and everything made shipshape when, after Barney had been on watch not more than two hours, the first of a series of thrilling incidents occurred.

The night was as dark as Erebus, not a star twinkled in the ether, for heavy black clouds overhung all.

Suddenly Barney saw a light glimmering far out on the prairie.

It increased to quite a respectable size and continued to blaze for a long time.

The Celt watched it for a long while. Then his curiosity got the better of him.

“Bejabers, that’s quare,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure there’s something wrong about that now.”

Barney, acting upon impulse, leaned over and grasped Frank’s shoulder. The young inventor awoke with a start.

CHAPTER VII.
THE VIGILANTS.

“W-what’s the matter?” gasped Frank, sleepily arousing himself.

“Whist now, Misther Frank! There’s a quare loight out yonder on the perairy, an’ I thought I’d jist call yure attintion to the same, sor.?”

“A light?” muttered Frank, now fully awake.

He got upon his feet, and rubbing his eyes, stared at the distant blaze.

“That is odd,” he muttered. “It will do to investigate that.”

“Sure, it may be a camp fire,” ventured Barney.

“If so, then we must find out who the campers are,” declared Frank.

It was but an instant’s work to arouse Pomp.

Then the fires in the furnace were started, a line of hose was run to a creek near, and the boiler was filled.

In an incredible short space of time steam was got up, and the Steam Man moved ahead.

Frank held the throttle reins and directed the Steam Man’s course toward the distant camp fire.

For such it was, as became evident as they drew near.

At first no movement was made by the camping party, and Frank fancied that they had nobody on guard.

But as the Steam Man with clanking tread came within one hundred yards of the camp, a wild shout went up and a gun was discharged at the Steam Man.

Frank was now able to see the circle of the camp as revealed by the firelight.

Men had been rolled in blankets upon the ground to the number of a score.

But these were now upon their feet. Just beyond it could be seen that mustangs were corralled.

Frank Reade, Jr., had no way of knowing whether the campers were friends or foes.

He had fancied them a part of Cliff’s cowboys. Still there was a possibility they were not.

At any rate he could not treat them as foes until he learned positively that they were such.

So he brought the Steam Man to a stop just fifty yards from the camp.

The scene in the camp now was a ludicrous one.

The men were filled with mingled fear, amazement and stupefaction at the sight of the Steam Man.

The fiery eyes and nostrils and mammoth proportions of the man in the darkness made him look like a monster from the infernal regions.

The startled cries of the campers came to the amused hearing of those in the wagon.

“Great Jericho! What d’yer call that thing?”

“It’s the devil hisself!”

“He’s arter us!”

“That last drink at ther cross trails was too much for us boys. We’ve got ‘em bad.”

“I reckon we’d better fix up a prayer. Ther old gentleman has cum to git us.”

Barney and Pomp exploded with laughter. It was very funny.

But as soon as the pandemonium had for a moment subsided, Frank Reade, Jr. hastened to shout:

“We’re human beings the same as you. Have no fear. Who are you?”

The words had an astounding effect upon the campers. After a moment of stupefied silence the answer came back.

“Who the dickens are you?”

“I am Frank Reade, Jr., and this is my new invention, the Steam Man,” replied Frank. “You have nothing to fear.”

The campers now saw the three men in the wagon as Barney turned on the light of the calcium and illuminated the vicinity.

At once their fear fled and a comprehension of all dawned upon them.

“A steam Man, by thunder, and built all of iron!”

“Wall, that beats all!”

“What’ll come next?”

“That beats the iron hoss all holler!”

The campers now came thronging about the wagon. As the number was limited, Frank did not feel particularly uneasy, though he held the throttle ready and Barney and Pomp had their repeaters at hand.

But the fears of our three adventurers were quickly allayed.

One of the men, a tall, powerful framed man, came forward, and said:

“Wall, cap’en, we’re glad to meet you an’ yer Steam Man. My name is Sim Harmon, an’ I’m captain of this band, who are all Vigilants from Poker Gulch. We’re out on the trail of a gang of ruffians.”

“Vigilants!” cried Frank Reade, Jr., with joy. “Then you are not members of the Artemas Cliff gang?”

“Artemas Cliff!” cried Harmon. “He is the chap we want. If we can lay hands on him we’ll stretch his neck, you bet. D’yer know whar we kin find him?”

“I am on his trail myself.”

“The deuce ye are?”

“It’s the truth.”

“What for?”

Frank opened the door of the wagon, and descending shook hands with the Vigilant captain.

He told him explicitly of the mysterious murder of which Jim Travers had been adjudged guilty, but which it was believed was the work of Cliff.

Harmon listened with interest.

“So that’s another game of ther cuss!” he cried. “Wall, that’s a bad one, but I reckon we’ve a wuss count agin him, stranger.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Frank.

“Did ye cum across ther ruins of a ranch out hyar on ther perairy some miles?”

“I did.”

“Wall, that was onct Rodman Ranch, an’ Ralph Rodman was one of the best men in this part of ther West. But that ornery cuss Cliff fell in love with pretty Bessie Rodman, his darter, an’ when Ralph denied him the right to come a-courtin’ her, ther scoundrel jest brought down a gang of hoodlums an’ burned down the ranch, toted off ther gal, an’ killed all ther rest about ther place.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Frank. “But you have not told me of Rodman. What became of him?”

“Wall, that illustrates ther villainy of ther cuss. Just previous to burnin’ ther ranch, two men, Sid Bowen an’ Jem Ducey, hired by Cliff, enticed Ralph to New York by bringin’ him a bogus message from a brother, who was represented as bein’ in great distress. That’s the last seen of Rodman. What they did with him we don’t know. But I’ve heard that Bowen an’ Ducey have returned, an’ Rodman didn’t cum with ‘em. It’s my belief he’s been done away with, an’ it’s all a game of Cliff’s to get the gal Bessie into his possession.”

A great cry broke from the lips of Frank Reade, Jr.

This story of Harmon’s he had listened to eagerly, and, as it was unfolded, bit by bit, a clear, concise comprehension of all now came to him.

He saw the hideous details, the cold, scheming construction of a deep and awful plot, involving murder and abduction and terrible wrong.

“Great heavens!” he gasped, wiping cold perspiration from his brow. “Your story throws a great light upon the matter which I have in hand, Mr. Harmon.”

“The deuce you say!” gasped the captain of the Vigilantes.

“It is the truth,” cried Frank. “I think I can tell you the true fate of Ralph Rodman, and you will agree that Cliff is the projector of one of the most awful double plots of crime that human being could be capable of.”

The Vigilantes all gathered around the young inventor, agog with interest.

“Ye don’t mean it?” gasped Harmon, with amazement. “Ye’re huntin’ Cliff then ther same as we are?”

“Yes.”

“What fer?”

“To force a confession or explanation from him of a mysterious murder of which his own uncle, James Travers, of New York, has been adjuged guilty and who is now in prison awaiting his sentence of hanging about a year from now.

“Oh, this villain is a deep one. But I have told you of that mysterious murder and, as Heaven is my judge, I believe the victim of that murder which was purposely thrown upon Travers was Rodman. You see Cliff’s object in throwing the murder upon Travers was to see him hang and thus inherit his vast wealth.”

For a moment after this statement silence reigned.

Appalled with the magnitude of the villain’s plot all remained silent. But the mystery was cleared up at last.

All understood now exactly the deep game of Artemas Cliff.

But one sentiment reigned supreme in the breasts of all. Artemas Cliff should be brought to justice.

It was easy enough to see how the wretch in planning to win Bessie Rodman had enticed Rodman to the East and there murdered him. Then to kill two birds with one stone he had caused the awful crime by clever circumstantial evidence to be thrown upon his wealthy uncle, James Travers.

Of course, with Travers’ death, he would inherit the millions left by him.

Ralph Rodman was dead. The ranch was a heap of ashes.

For these crimes Artemas Cliff was responsible. But Bessie Rodman was yet in his power. Travers was near the gallows.

These two people must be saved.

Frank Reade, Jr., saw the mission, as did Harmon.

Instinctively they clasped hands.

“I reckon we both know what to do,” declared the Vigilant captain tersely. “P’r’aps we kin work together. I’ll help you all I kin.”

“And I will help you,” replied Frank. “We will bring Cliff to justice if the Steam Man can help us to do it.”

“He will hang if I kin get my hands onto him.”

“But we must make no mistake. He is strongly backed up. You have only twenty-five men with you.”

“But they air all men,” replied Harmon, pluckily.

“I will not question that,” replied Frank, “but the weight of numbers would defeat you. Cliff has several hundred men in his command.”

“We’re not afraid of ‘em. Yet ye’re right enuff. It’s well fer us to go easy.”

“It is well to be careful,” said Frank. “I think that you had better keep along with us for a time.”

“All right!”

“I think there is no doubt but that the young girl whom Pomp saw in the hills was Bessie Rodman.”

“In course it was her.”

“They were taking her to Ranch V. Do you know where it is?”

“Yas,” replied Harmon, quickly, “that’s on Stone River, an’ it’s a pesky big place too. Thar’s a big stockade around it an’ armed men are allus a-watchin’ for fear an outsider will git in. So that’s ther place, eh? Wall, it will be hard to git Bessie out of Ranch V.”

“She shall be got out or I will give my life in the attempt!” cried a tall, handsome young plainsman with flashing eyes.

He looked much in earnest. Frank gazed at him critically. A little later he was introduced to him as Walter Barrows, a rising young stockman, and the lover of pretty Bessie Rodman.

CHAPTER VIII.
ON TO RANCH V.

Plans were quickly made.

It was decided to work upon strategical grounds, as their force was so much lighter than Cliff’s.

“You see, if we can strike Ranch V. at a time when Cliff and the majority of his men are in the hills we can capture the place,” declared Frank, shrewdly.

“That’s bizness,” agreed Harmon, “but ye’re the boss. I kin see that ye’ve got a better head piece nor I have, Mister Reade.”

“We will not admit that,” said Frank, modestly, “but rather let us work together, Mr. Harmon.”

“All right, cap’en. I’m with ye.”

Further plans were elaborated, then as only a few hours yet intervened until dawn, it was decided to snatch a few brief hours of sleep.

With the early dawn all were astir. The Vigilants saddled their mustangs and all was soon ready for the start.

The Steam Man was an object of great wonder to the plainsmen.

“By Jinks!” exclaimed one of them, “the sight of that queer-lookin’ critter oughter scare the life out of any number of Injuns.”

“I think the Steam Man will aid us much in accomplishing our ends.” said Frank, modestly.

The start was made just after daybreak. The Vigilants rode alongside the Steam Man on their mustangs.

Of course Frank was compelled to go more slowly on this account.

But the Vigilantes knew the way to Ranch V. and this was, after all, the most important thing of all.

Frank considered it a great piece of luck in having fallen in with the Vigilantes.

He now understood exactly how matters stood all around.

It was near noon when a halt was called in a small basin near a lake of water.

Here camp was briefly made, and also at the same time an important discovery came to hand.

A broad trail made by a cavalcade of men and horses was discovered.

It pointed to the north.

Harmon examined it carefully and finally, with great exuberance, cried:

“It’s good luck, friends. That thar trail I believe was made by ther cowboys an’ it leads to ther hills. It’s over three days old, an’ they haven’t come back this way. I should think that the most of their men must be up there, in which case Ranch V. will be almost deserted. Cum on, boys, let’s capture ther hull place.”

With a cheer the Vigilants sprang to saddle.

Soon they were once more galloping ever the prairie.

Not two hours later, or in the middle of the afternoon, Harmon drew his horse alongside the Steam Man and pointing to the south cried:

“Look yonder, Mr. Reade. Do ye see them lines of high ground? Wall, jest this side ar ther Ranch V.”

A cheer went up from all.

“Begorra, it’s Ranch Ours it’ll be, if iver we get there,” declared Barney.

“Golly, won’t dis be a big ‘sprise party fo’ dat vilyun Cliff,” cried Pomp.

Frank Reade, Jr., held the Steam Man at a steady stride, and very soon the ranch came in sight.

It was truly a most extensive establishment.

The stockade and buildings covered acres of ground. A great herd of cattle were feeding on the open plains.

The main ranch itself was surrounded by a high stockade, which would resist most any ordinary attack with small arms.

As the Vigilants and the Steam Man came swiftly rushing down upon the place, a great commotion was seen to take place.

Men rushed out into the yards, horsemen went scurrying about, and down came the stockade gate.

But Harmon and his men rode boldly down to the gate, and began to assail it with axes.

While Frank Reade, Jr., kept the Steam Man on an elevation near, from which he, with Barney and Pomp, covered the work of invasion by a hot fire with their Winchesters.

The cowboys could not get upon the stockade to fire at the assailants for this reason.

Harmon’s men therefore worked with perfect immunity.

No more favorable time for an attack could have been chosen.

There were but few of the cowboys in the ranch, and these were picked off by the fire from the Steam Man as fast as they appeared on the stockade.

With lusty cries the vigilants chopped through the timbers of the gate.

In a remarkably brief time a hole was cut through and the gate raised.

The Steam Man rushed into the yard, and in less than ten minutes every cowboy in the place was a prisoner, and Ranch V. was captured.

Walter Barrows, the brave young stockman, was the first to enter the main ranch.

The instinct of a lover took him to the chamber in which Bessie Rodman was kept a prisoner.

He burst in the door and clasped the young girl in his arms.

That was a joyous meeting.

When they appeared in the yard the vigilants cheered wildly. It was a brilliant victory.

Ranch V. was captured.

The stronghold of the outlaw Cliff, the den of villainy and vice, was captured. It did not require much time for them to reach a decision as to what to do.

“Every building must be laid low!” cried Harmon. “Put the torch to every accursed timber.”

The cry was taken up and spread from lip to lip.

In haste torches were procured. Harmon himself lit the first, and was about to apply it to a building.

But he did not do so.

A thrilling incident stopped him. A loud cry went up.

“The cowboys! they are coming! To arms everybody! There comes Cliff at their head!”

Every eye was turned to the plain beyond the stockade.

There was no disputing the truth. Cliff and his gang returning from the hills had come just in time.

It would be folly now to burn the ranch.

Harmon, seeing the desperate exigency dropped the torch, and cried:

“To the stockade! It’s for life or death, boys. Fight to the last!”

But the command was not necessary. Already the brave Vigilants were at their posts.

Cliff with his small army of followers came on at a swinging gallop.

He could see that the ranch was in the possession of a foe.

This inflamed his wrath, and, with loud curses and yells, he rode down in the van of his followers.

Frank Reade, Jr., had taken in the situation at a glance.

He knew that it would be flatly impossible for the score of vigilants to hold those three hundred desperadoes long at bay.

It would mean the eventual massacre of every vigilant. This Frank wished to avoid.

The young inventor had induced Bessie Rodman to seek refuge in the wagon. Otherwise, she would certainly fall into the hands of the foe again.

Frank started the Steam Man ahead, and went down to the stockade. He made the vigilantes a hasty address.

“Nothing will be gained by holding this place,” he declared, with force. “You cannot do it. The odds are too great.”

“But we cannot surrender,” cried Harmon, “and how can we retreat?”

“Easily enough,” replied Frank, “there is a rear gate. Open it and cut out upon the prairie.”

“But they may overtake us?”

“It is your only hope. You’ll have to work lively, for they are trying to surround the stockade. I’ll cover your retreat easy enough.”

Harmon saw that Frank was right.

He did not pause to argue the point further. With quick commands he caused his men to fall back.

The stockade gate in the rear was opened just in time, and the vigilants rushed out upon the prairie.

They set out at a mad gallop for the distant hills.

The cowboys with mad cries followed. But they met with quite a serious obstacle in their pursuit.

The Steam Man kept exasperatingly between them and the vigilants.

From the rear loop-holes of the wagon Barney and Pomp kept up a steady fire with the Winchesters.

Nearly every shot emptied a saddle, and despite their superior numbers, the cowboys soon found it better and safer to keep well out of range.

The pursuit lasted for ten miles. Then the horses of both parties became fagged and they were compelled to halt.

But Harmon’s men, by dint of careful work, got their horses into the fastnesses of the hills. Here they felt more secure.

The Steam Man had well covered the retreat of the vigilants. But darkness was now coming on and a serious question presented itself to Frank Reade, Jr.

To remain where they were for the night would be to incur the risk of a midnight attack from the cowboys.

This might result seriously.

At least Frank was disposed to evade it.

He consulted with Harmon, and the result was an arrangement which it was believed would be better for all.

In the fastnesses of the hills Harmon felt sanguine of holding his own against the cowboys.

Therefore it was decided that the Steam Man should leave the vicinity and go far enough away over the prairie to make sure of safety for the night.

Accordingly Frank left the vicinity and sent the Man striding over the plain in the dusk of evening.

There was no visible indication that the cowboys intended to pursue.

They had apparently gone into camp not five miles distant.

Frank kept on with the Steam Man until twenty miles had been covered.

Then he came to a halt.

It seemed as if they must feel safe here. Accordingly, arrangements were made for passing the night.

A comfortable seat was arranged for Bessie Rodman and, much exhausted by the fatigue of her experiences, she quickly fell asleep.

But tears had wet her cheeks and trembled on her eyelashes. Frank had told her of her father’s death.

“Oh, I fear it is more than I can bear,” she declared, in agony of spirit. “My dear, dear father. Oh, if I were a man, how I would avenge him!”

“There are plenty to do that,” replied Frank, cheeringly. “The villain shall surely pay for his evil deeds.”

“I hope it may come to pass,” she said, sincerely.

Then she dropped off to sleep. But even as she slept, deadly peril hung over her young and beautiful head.

CHAPTER IX.
POMP’S MISTAKE.

Frank Reade, Jr., felt comparatively safe as he rolled himself up in a blanket and went to sleep. He did not believe that the villain, Cliff, would be able to molest them that night.

It was Barney’s first watch.

The Hibernian, until midnight, kept a good lookout in the cage. Then he called Pomp to succeed him.

The darky kept a good lookout until the early morning hours.

The darkness was most intense.

At about this time Pomp experienced a deadly faintness at the pit of the stomach and a great longing for water.

His thirst became most consuming, and it seemed as if he must, at any cost, gratify it.

But he found, upon looking in the tank, that it was empty.

There was not a gill of cold water in the wagon. Pomp grew sober with this dampening reflection.

“I jes’ fink if I had a bit of watah I would be a’ right,” he muttered; “but how ebber am dis niggah gwine fo’ to get it, dat’s what I’d like to know.”

Pomp went to the steel screen and tried to penetrate the darkness.

He knew that not ten yards distant were the waters of a small creek. He could hear them rippling now.

It was directly at variance with his orders to open the cage door. Yet it seemed to Pomp as if he must do so.

The risk did not seem great.

There seemed little likelihood of the proximity of a foe.

Pomp felt certain that he could reach the creek, get his drink, and get back safely to the wagon.

He was sorely tempted. The desire was most powerful.

“Golly!” he muttered, with a wry face. “What am I gwine fo’ to do? I don’ beliebe dar’s any danger ob going out dar, but if Marse Frank knew it he’d fix me putty quick. Sakes alibe! but what am a chile gwine fo’ to do? I am mos’ dyin’ fo’ a drink ob watah.”

Pomp thought of awakening Barney and enlisting his aid.

But he reflected that the Celt would be certain to disagree with his scheme.

There was no other way but to assume the responsibility himself. Pomp drew a deep breath.

Then he fell to listening.

All was silent as the grave.

“Sho!” he muttered. “Dar ain’t no danger at all. I’ll jest hab dat watah as suah as I’m born.”

He quickly slid back the bolt in the door and opened it.

Then he stepped out of the wagon. In another moment he glided down to the water’s edge.

Pomp flung himself flat and began to drink of the creek water.

But he had not taken one drink when he became aware of an appalling sensation. He turned his head and glanced back at the Steam Man.

The lantern hanging in the cage showed the open door and all as plain as day. But, great heavens! What did he see?

Dark forms were swarming about the machine. One was already in the wagon.

Pomp saw this much, and then his attention was claimed by another matter. He suddenly felt a heavy body descend upon him and talon fingers clutched his throat.

In that flash of time Pomp had turned partly over.

He was just in time to see the flash of a knife blade. He made a convulsive upward blow, and grasped the wrist of his unknown assailant.

By the merest chance the death blow had been averted.

But it was a close call.

Then with a herculean effort Pomp rolled over the edge of the bank, and the next moment, with a powerful swing, he had brought himself and assailant into the water of the creek.

The sudden bath caused Pomp’s adversary to relax his grip.

The darky had no further motive for continuing the struggle, and striking out swam for the opposite bank.

He clambered out of the water, and crawled into a thicket.

There he lay shivering, and witnessed a thrilling scene upon the other bank of the creek.

The occupants of the wagon had all been aroused, and were every one prisoners, in the power of Cliff and his cowboys.

The outlaw had managed to cover the twenty miles, skillfully following the trail by means of a dark lantern.

He had been hovering with his minions about the Steam Man, just as Pomp committed the indiscretion of leaving the door open.

Of course it was an easy matter for the cowboys to board the wagon and make prisoners of all on board.

The glee of Cliff was beyond expression.

He danced and clapped his hands with fiendish joy. He pinched Bessie’s arms until she screamed with agony, and with brutal laughter roared:

“Oh, I’ll make ye all dance. Ye thought ye’d git away from me, did ye, gal? I’ll show ye that ye can’t get away from Artemas Cliff. Ha, ha, ha! What a good joke.”

He laughed uproariously.

“All mine,” he continued, “And this Steam Man, this wonderful invention, is just what I want. I can travel around in great style. Oh, Mr. Frank Reade, Jr., I’ll dance on your grave yet.”

“Monster!” cried Frank, writhing in his bonds. “You’ll never succeed. A righteous God will never permit it.”

The villain gave his men carte blanche to make camp and indulge in a carousal.

They did so until daybreak, and then Cliff stated that it was his purpose to go back to Ranch V.

It did not lake him long to understand the mechanism of the Steam Man.

He quickly found out how to use the throttle reins. He was aided by the fact that he had once been a locomotive engineer.

With the early morning light the start for Ranch V. was made.

And Pomp, wet and shivering and horrified, crouched in the thicket upon the bank of the creek, saw the Steam Man and his friends, all in the power of the foe, take departure.

When they had gone Pomp came out of his hiding-place.

“Golly!” he muttered, with distended eyeballs, “I jes’ fink dis nigger hab done de berry awfulest fing eber known. Dar am only one way fo’ Pomp to sabe his honor, an’ dat am to fix some way to rescue Marse Frank an’ all ob de odders, an’ I’ll do it if I can.”

Pomp was very much in earnest.

He was a brave and generous fellow, and willing at any time to sacrifice his life for his master.

In some manner he must certainly vindicate himself. He crossed the creek again and stood upon the spot where the Steam Man had been.

Of course the machine was out of sight by this time, but nevertheless, Pomp took the trail and proceeded to follow it.

For some hours he trudged on over the prairie. All the while the darky was revolving in his mind some plan for the relief of his friends.

He was bound to admit that it was a puzzle. Yet he did not lose hope.

The hills were every moment becoming plainer. Already Pomp had covered five of the twenty miles.

The darky was a good walker, and no distance was too great for his trained muscles.

The sun was beginning to run high in the heavens, and a brisk breeze blew across the prairie.

Pomp kept on steadily.

The trail kept on toward the hills, and the sagacious darky reflected that Cliff was likely going to join the main body of his men.

“I jes’ fink I can see what dat rascal am up to,” muttered Pomp. “He am jus’ too sharp to let de game slip him once he gits his clutches onto it. He am jus’ goin’ fo’ to take de Steam Man to his Ranch V., and dar’s whar dis darky must go an’ try fo’ to work some leetle plan fo’ to rescue Frank Reade, Jr., an’ de odders. Dat am a fac’.”

With this logical conclusion Pomp trudged on.

He was now on the last five miles of his journey to the hills. The sun was long past the noon hour when Pomp, by dint of rapid walking, had made the hills.

There was no sign visible of the Steam Man or of the cowboys.

But Pomp saw that the trail continued around the base of the hills.

This puzzled the darkey a moment.

He paused and scratched his head in deep thought.

“Dat am a dretful queer thing,” he muttered. “Dat ain’t de way to go to Ranch V, if I’se right in mah conjeckshun.”

Then he paused, and a light of comprehension broke across his face.

A distant sound had come to his hearing. It was the faint rattle of firearms far up in the hills.

“Golly!” he ejaculated. “I see de trick ob dat berry sharp fox, Artemus Cliff. He am gwine fo’ to gib de Vigilants a good lickin’ afore he goes to Ranch V. Dat am jus’ my bes’ way for to jine Marse Harmon an’ his men, an’ help dem trash the cowboys.”

Pomp’s mind was made up.

He would join the vigilants and do his best to give the cowboys a good drubbing. He at once struck into the hills.

But alas for Pomp!

Luck seemed against the darky for the time being. He had not more than fairly entered a narrow pass when an appalling incident occurred.

The air was suddenly broken by wild yells, and in an instant he was surrounded by half a hundred painted savages, who burst from niches and crevices in the rocks about.

They pounced upon him, and before Pomp had even time to think of resistance he was a prisoner.

The savages swarmed about him like bees. Words cannot express Pump’s dismay at this turn.

His eyes bulged, and his knees shook as with the ague.

“Fo’ de good Lor’ dis am dretful!” he groaned. “I’se done fo’ dis time, an’ dar am nobody to rescue Marse Frank!”

It was truly a dubious outlook. The savages were of Black Buffalo’s gang of Sioux, and they seemed much elated at getting the prisoner once more into their clutches.

They chattered and gesticulated like a flock of magpies, and some of them approached Pomp with their tomahawks as though they would fain make an end of him then and there.

But the others held them back and an excited wrangle followed.

All this while Pomp was writhing in his bonds. In vain he tried to break them.

For some while the savages wrangled. Then a compromise was made and Pomp was picked up bodily, and carried through the pass and into a small glade among some trees.

Here he was tied to a tree and a great heap of fagots were piled at his feet.

With a chill of horror, the darky saw that the savages meant to take his life in a horrible manner.

He was to suffer death in the flames. Pomp felt sick and faint. But even in that moment he thought not of himself, brave fellow, but of Frank Reade, Jr., and the others.

“Golly sakes, whoebber am gwine fo’ to sabe Marse Frank, now?” he groaned.

CHAPTER X.
IN THE ENEMY’S POWER.

Artemus Cliff shouted in evil glee and triumph as he manipulated the Steam Man and let him out for a swift run across the prairie.

He amused himself by racing with his followers who were on horseback.

“By jingo!” he roared, “this is more fun than I ever had before. Why this beats the steam-cars all to smash. And it’s all mine. Why I can travel like a prince now. Ha-ha-ha! I’m the luckiest man on earth.”

He turned and fixed a glowering gaze upon Bessie Rodman.

“And ye’re mine too,” he cried, “the lily of the prairie. The happy life companion of Artemus Cliff. When I get my hands onto Uncle Jim Travers’ millions, we’ll travel the world over, my daisy.”

Bessie did not appear to heed his words, though her face increased a trifle in its pallor.

“Monster!” cried Frank Reade, Jr., with intensity. “You will never succeed. Heaven will not permit it.”

“Heaven don’t have much to do with me,” cried the villain, with a lurid oath. “The devil has been a good friend of mine, and I ain’t afraid of his place either.”

“Begorra, they wudn’t have ye even there,” cried Barney. “Yez are too wicked for avin that place.”

“Oh, ho, Irish, you’ve got your tongue, eh?” cried Cliff, with a vicious laugh. “So ye think I’m too bad, eh?”

“Be me sowl, thar cudn’t be a place too bad for yez!”

“I’ll have a nice little hades fixed fer yer right on this earth an’ I’ll give ye a fair taste of it in advance, too,” said the villain, vengefully.

“Arrah, yez can’t scare me at all, at all,” he retorted. “Yer threats are jist the same as a puppy dog’s bark.”

“You’ll find that I’m the kind of a dog that bites,” averred the villain.

“It’s not me that cares fer yer bites.”

“We’ll see about that. Don’t blow your horn too soon.”

“Begorra, that’s good advice fer yersilf, ye blatherskite! Av I on’y had me two hands to use now I’d baste the rascality out av yez or I’d make a good job fer ther undhertaker.”

“Talk is cheap,” sneered the villain. “Ye’d better save yer wind.”

“It’s yersilf as nades it most,” said Barney, bound to have the last word.

Cliff evidently found Barney’s tongue equal to his own, for he abandoned the conversation in a sullen fashion.

Bessie Rodman made no attempt at speech.

She sat silently in one corner of the wagon.

Frank Reade, Jr., also remained silent.

The twenty miles were quickly covered by the Steam Man. It was yet far from the noon hour when they arrived at the camp of the previous night.

The cowboys in full force were there, and as Cliff appeared with the Steam Man, they made the welkin ring with yells of delight and satisfaction.

All crowded around to examine the steam wonder and inspect its mechanism.

The prisoners looked out upon a sea of faces. They were not kindly regarded by the cowboys.

“Take ‘em out and shoot ‘em, Cliff!” cried a voice in the crowd.

“Give ‘em twenty paces and a grave seven feet deep.”

But Cliff refused to do this.

“Leave it to me!” he cried. “I’ve got a better plan.”

“What is it?” was the cry.

“I want ye all to be ready in half an hour to go into the hills an’ corner Harmon an’ his gang. There must not one of the vigilants go out of here alive.”

“Hurrah!” yelled the cowboys.

“We can give them the worst thrashin’ they ever had.”

“Of course we can.”

“In regard to these prisoners, the gal is going to be my wife. The others I’m going to have some fun with down to the ranch. We’ll have a rabbit chase with ‘em, or something of the kind.”

“Good!” yelled the mob, carried away with the plan.

Thus the fate of the prisoners was decided by their captors. But the question of attack upon the vigilants was now the one in order.

Preparations were at once made for cornering Harmon and his heroic little band.

Several parties of cowboys were dispatched to head off any possible attempt at escape from the hills.

Harmon’s men were certainly hemmed in on all sides, and it was a most dubious outlook for them.

The exultation of the cowboys was beyond expression.

“We’ve got ‘em dead sure!” cried Cliff, triumphantly. “Not a one on ‘em can possibly escape.”

The cowboys now began to close the line in about their prey.

A pass was found through which the Steam Man was taken, and to a point within easy range of the position held by the Vigilants.

Harmon had chosen an elevated position on a kind of small tableland or plateau.

Here behind bowlders he had concentrated his forces. The position was not a bad one to defend.

To charge upon it the cowboys would have to ascend a height of fifty feet or more in the face of a strong fire.

But this sacrifice of men Cliff did not intend to make, at least not at once.

There were other points of vantage about, which the cowboys quickly took possession of.

From these a desultory fire was kept up with the Vigilants with some loss upon both sides.

But Harmon’s men could not very well withstand any loss whatever. This the cowboys could stand better.

The Steam Man, however, could advance to very close proximity with the Vigilants, and those on board were safe from any shots of retaliation.

This made it bad for Harmon for he had no way of checking this most destructive fire.

It was a most galling thing for Frank Reade, Jr., to remain idle and see his invention used in such a manner.

He groaned aloud with horror and dismay. Barney did the same.

“Oh, if I could only free myself,” declared the young inventor.

“Begorra, I wish I cud do that same,” muttered Barney.

Cliff and the three cowboys with him in the cage were doing their best to shoot every Vigilant who exposed himself.

They were thus so deeply engrossed that they paid no special heed to the prisoners for the time.

Barney, quick-witted Irishman, noted this fact.

At a favorable moment he leaned over and whispered to Frank:

“Bejabers, Misther Frank, I think I know av a way to turn the tables on them blasted omadhouns.”

“The deuce!” gasped Frank. “What is it, Barney?”

“Whisht now an’ work quiet, me gossoon!” whispered Barney. “I’ll lay down ferninst the side here an’ yez kin turn yer wrists toward me mouth an’ me teeth are no good av I don’t cut them in two before so very long.”

Frank experienced a thrill.

“Can you do it, Barney?”

“Av course I kin.”

“But if they see us——”

“They’ll niver do that. Be aisy now, me gossoon, an’ roight on the shelf there there’s a knoife an’ yez kin cut my bonds at the same toime. Thin we kin take care av ther four av thim. I’ll take two mesilf.”

“And I’m good for the other two or I’ll die!” muttered Frank. “All right, Barney, do your best.”

“I will that.”

But at this moment Bessie Rodman leaned forward, and in a soft whisper said:

“Wait! There is a quicker way.”

Frank and Barney were astonished.

“What?” exclaimed the young inventor.

By way of reply Bessie drew both hands from behind her.

They were free. There were livid lines upon the fair wrists, where the cruel throngs had cut in.

But the shapely hands were so small that Bessie had been enabled to slip them through the bonds and free them.

Up to this moment neither Frank nor Barney had looked upon the young girl as more than the ordinary weak woman.

That is to say, they had not given her credit for the amount of nerve she possessed.

But they were given ample evidence of it now.

Quick as a flash, and with commendable resolution, she reached over and seized the knife upon the shelf.

It was but a moment’s work for her to cut Frank’s bonds. As they snapped, the young Inventor took the knife and quickly cut Barney’s.

Their captors were at the loop-holes firing, and had not seen this move.

Nothing could have worked better.

Frank picked up a club, and Barney an iron bar. Nobody can handle a weapon of the sort better than an Irishman.

“Whurroo! bad cess to yez fer a pack av omadhouns,” cried Barney, dealing one of the cowboys a crushing blow on the head.

Before one could think, the iron bar came down upon the head of another. Both sank senseless to the floor of the wagon.

Frank Reade, Jr., had knocked Cliff senseless. Only one of the foe was left, and he was quickly knocked out.

In a twinkling, as it were, the tables were turned.

Barney and Frank Reade, Jr., were now masters of the Steam Man once more. The irrepressible Irishman pulled the whistle valve and sent up a shriek of defiance and triumph.

Then Frank Reade, Jr., swung open the wagon door.

“Throw them out!” he cried; “all but Cliff.”

Barney obeyed the command. The three cowboys were quickly dumped out upon the ground.

But Cliff was allowed to remain. The villain lay insensible in the bottom of the wagon.

Frank was about to bind him, when an imminent peril claiming his immediate attention prevented him.