Burt L. Standish

Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit

Warsaw 2018

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE OATH OF DEL NORTE

CHAPTER II. THE TERROR OF O'TOOLE

CHAPTER III. NEW ARRIVALS AT THE LAKE

CHAPTER IV. TWO GHOSTS

CHAPTER V. THE WOLVES

CHAPTER VI. IN THE GRASP OF DEL NORTE

CHAPTER VII. THE SENTINEL

CHAPTER VIII. AT THE FOOT OF THE PRECIPICE

CHAPTER IX. THE KNIFE DUEL

CHAPTER X. THE LANDSLIDE

CHAPTER XI. BURIED ALIVE!

CHAPTER XII. IN THE CAVE OF DEATH

CHAPTER XIII. HOW RAILROADS ARE BUILT

CHAPTER XIV. ANOTHER OBSTACLE

CHAPTER XV. HAGAN SECURES A PARTNER

CHAPTER XVI. ARTHUR HATCH

CHAPTER XVII. EVIL INFLUENCE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE POLICE RAID

CHAPTER XIX. ALVAREZ LAZARO

CHAPTER XX. THE AVENGER

CHAPTER XXI. THE FIRST STROKE

CHAPTER XXII. THE SECOND STROKE

CHAPTER XXIII. OLD SPOONER

CHAPTER XXIV. THE FLAMES DO THEIR WORK

CHAPTER XXV. THE PATIENT AND THE VISITOR

CHAPTER XXVI. A SURPRISE FOR FIVE THUGS

CHAPTER XXVII. A DUEL OF EYES

CHAPTER XXVIII. AT NIAGARA FALLS

CHAPTER XXIX. IN CONSTANT PERIL

CHAPTER XXX. THE END OF PORFIAS DEL NORTE

CHAPTER I

THE OATH OF DEL NORTE

Rain had ceased to fall, but the night was intensely dark, with a raw, cold wind that penetrated to one’s very bones.

Shortly after nightfall three men crossed the east branch of the Ausable River and entered the little settlement of Keene.

Of the three only one was mounted, and he sat swaying in the saddle, seeming to retain his position with great difficulty.

The two men on foot walked on either side of the horse, helping to support the mounted man. At intervals they encouraged him with words.

A few lights gleamed from the windows of Keene. Before a cottage door the trio halted, and one of the men on foot knocked on the door.

A few moments later a man appeared with a lighted lamp in his right hand, shading his eyes with his left as he peered out into the darkness.

“Who are you?” he gruffly asked, “and what do you want?”

“We want a surgeon or a doctor as soon as we can find one,” answered the man at the door. “One of our party has been wounded by accident, and we wish to have his wound dressed.”

“Another city sportsman shot for a deer, eh?” said the man in the doorway, with a touch of scorn in his voice. “It’s the same old story.”

“Yes, the same old story,” acknowledged the man at the door. “He may die from the wound if we do not find a doctor very soon.”

“There’s no doctor nearer than Elizabethtown.”

“Is there none in this place?”

“No.”

“How far is Elizabethtown?”

“Twenty-five miles.”

“How is the road?”

“It might be worse–or it might be better. You can’t follow it to-night.”

“We must. This is a case of life or death. See here, my friend, if you will help us out we will make it worth your while. We will pay you well. Have you any whisky in the house?”

“Mebbe so.”

“It’s worth five dollars a quart to us, and we will take a quart or more.”

“I reckon I can find a quart for you,” was the instant answer.

“If you will secure two horses and a guide to take us over the road to Elizabethtown to-night we will pay you a hundred dollars.”

This offer interested the man with the lamp.

“Bring your friend in here,” he said, “and I will see what I can do for you. Perhaps I can get the horses, and if I can––”

“Do you know the road?”

“I have been over it enough to know it, but it will be no easy traveling to-night. Better take my advice and stay here until morning.”

The man outside, however, would not listen to this, but insisted that the journey to Elizabethtown must be made that night. He returned to his companions, and the mounted man was assisted to descend from the saddle. One of them held his arm while he walked into the house, and the other took care of the horse.

The lamp showed that the injured one had bloody bandages wrapped about his head. He was pale and haggard, and there was an expression of anxiety in his dark eyes. At times he pulled nervously at his small, dark mustache.

“Bring that whisky at once,” said the wounded man’s companion, as he assisted the other to a chair. “He needs a nip of it, and needs it bad.”

The whisky was brought, and the injured man drank from the bottle. As he lifted it to his lips, he murmured:

“May the fiends take the dog who fired that bullet! May he burn forever in the fires below!”

The liquor seemed to revive him somewhat, and he straightened up a little, joining his companion in urging the man who had procured the whisky to secure horses and guide them, over the road to Elizabethtown.

“We have money enough,” he said, fumbling weakly in his pockets and producing a roll of bills. “We will pay you every cent agreed upon. Why don’t you hasten? Do you wish to see me die here in your wretched hut?”

The man addressed promised to lose no time, and soon hurried out into the night. He was not gone more than thirty minutes. Those waiting his return heard hoofbeats, and the light shining from the open door of the cabin fell on three horses as they stepped outside.

“It’s fifty in advance and fifty when we reach Elizabethtown,” he said, as he sprang off. “I will not start till the first fifty is paid.”

“Pay him the whole of it,” said the wounded man, “and shoot him full of lead if he fails to keep his part of the bargain.”

Stimulated by the whisky, this man had revived wonderfully, and soon the four rode out of Keene on the road that followed the river southward.

Through the long hours of that black night the guide led them on their journey. The road was indeed a wretched one, winding through deep forests, over rocky hills and traversing gloomy valleys. As the night advanced it grew colder until their teeth chattered and their blood seemed stagnating in their veins. Many times they paused to give the wounded one a drink from the bottle. Often this man was heard cursing in Spanish and declaring that the distance was nearer a hundred miles than twenty-five.

Morning was at hand when, exhausted and wretched, they entered Elizabethtown. Soon they were clamoring at the door of a physician, into whose home the wounded man was assisted as soon as the door was opened.

“Examine my head at once, doctor,” he faintly urged, as he sat back in a big armchair. “Find out where that infernal bullet is. Tell me if it’s somewhere inside my skull, and if I have a chance of recovery.”

In a short time the bandages were removed and the doctor began his examination.

“Well! well!” he exclaimed, as he saw where the bullet had entered. “How long ago did this happen? Yesterday afternoon? Forty miles from here? And you came all this distance? Well, you have sand! At first glance one would suppose the ball had gone straight through your head. It struck the frontal bone and was deflected, following over the coronal suture, and here it is lodged in your scalp at the back of your head. I will have it out in a moment.”

He worked swiftly, clipping away the hair with a pair of scissors, and then with a lance he made an incision and straightened up a moment later, having a flattened piece of lead in his hand.

“My friend,” he said, “you have grit, and I don’t think you’ll be laid up very long with that wound. You’re not at all seriously injured. It must have been fired from some one below you. Was he shooting at a deer?”

“Yes, señor,” was the answer.

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