Frank Merriwell Down South | Page 7

Burt L. Standish
embers
raked out from the general mass.
Withered and skinny old hags were crooning over the pots, surrounded
by swarthy children and lazy men, who were watching the preparation
of the evening meal.
Groups of peons, muffled to the eyes with their serapes, were sitting
with their backs to the adobe walls, apparently fast asleep; but Frank
noted that glittering, black eyes peered out from between the serapes
and the huts, and he had no doubt but that many of the fellows would
willingly cut a throat for a ridiculously small sum of money.
Within the town it was different. All day the window shutters had been
closely barred, but now they were flung wide, and the flash of dark
eyes or the low, musical laugh of a señorita told that the maidens who
had lolled all the hot day were now astir.

Doors were flung wide, and houses which at midday had seemed
uninhabited were astir with life. In the patios beautiful gardens were
blooming, and through iron gates easy-chairs and hammocks could be
seen.
Many of the señoritas had come forth, and were strolling in groups of
threes or fours, dressed in pink and white lawn, with Spanish veils and
fans. The most of them wore white stockings and red-heeled slippers.
Many a witching glance was shyly cast at Frank, but his mind was so
occupied that he heeded none of them.
The hotel was reached, and they were dismounting, when a battered
and tattered old man, about whose shoulders was cast a ragged blanket,
and whose face was hidden by a scraggly, white beard, came up with a
faltering step.
"Pardon me," he said, in a thin, cracked voice, "I see you are Americans,
natives of the States, Yankees, and, as I happen to be from Michigan, I
hasten to speak to you. I know you will have pity on an unfortunate
countryman. My story is short. My son came to this wretched land to
try to make a fortune. He went into the mines, and was doing well. He
sent me home money, and I put a little aside, so that I had a snug little
sum after a time. Then he fell into the hands of Pacheco, the bandit.
You have heard of Pacheco, gentlemen?"
"We have," said Frank, who was endeavoring to get a fair look into the
old man's eyes.
"We surely have," agreed the professor.
"Vell, you can pet my poots on dot!" nodded Hans.
"The wretch--the cutthroat!" cried the old man, shaking his clinched
hand in the air. "Why didn't he kill me? He has robbed me of
everything--everything!"
"Tell us--finish your story," urged the professor.

Frank said nothing. The light from a window shone close by the old
man. Frank was waiting for the man to change his position so the light
would shine on his face.
For some moments the man seemed too agitated to proceed, but he
finally went on.
"My son--my son fell into the hands of this wretched bandit. Pacheco
took him captive. Then he sent word to me that he would murder my
son if I did not appear and pay two thousand dollars ransom money.
Two thousand dollars! I did not have it in the world. But I had a little
home. I sold it--I sold everything to raise the money to save my boy. I
obtained it. And then--then, my friends, I received another letter. Then
Pacheco demanded three thousand dollars."
"Der brice vos on der jump," murmured Hans.
"But that is not the worst!" cried the old man, waving his arms,
excitedly. "Oh, the monster--the demon!"
He wrung his hands, and groaned as if with great anguish.
"Be calm, be calm," urged Professor Scotch. "My dear sir, you are
working yourself into a dreadful state."
"How can I be calm?" groaned the stranger. "It is not possible to be
calm and think of such a terrible thing!"
"What terrible thing?" asked Frank. "You have not told the entire story,
and we do not know what you mean."
"True, true. Listen! With that letter Pacheco--the monster!--sent one of
my boy's little fingers!"
"Shimminy Gristmas! I don'd toldt you dot, do I?"
"Horrible! horrible!"
The professor and Hans uttered these exclamations, but Frank was calm

and apparently unmoved, with his eyes still fastened on the face of the
old man.
"How you toldt dot vos der finger uf your son, mister?"
"That's it, that's it--how could you tell?" asked the professor.
"My son--my own boy--he added a line to the letter, stating that the
finger had been taken from his left hand, and that Pacheco threatened to
cut off his fingers one by one and send them to me if I did not hasten
with the ransom money."
"Dot seddled you!"
"You recognized the handwriting as that
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