Frank Merriwell Down South | Page 7

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 of your son?"
"I did; but I recognized something besides that."
"What?"
"The finger."
"Oh, you may have been mistaken in that--surely you may."
"I was not."
"How do you know?"
"By a mark on the finger."
"Ah! what sort of a mark?"
"A peculiar scar like a triangle, situated between the first and second joints. Besides that, the nail had once been crushed, after which it was never perfect."
"That was quite enough," nodded Professor Scotch.
"Yah," agreed Hans; "dot peen quide enough alretty."
Still Frank was silent, watching and waiting, missing not a word that fell from the man's lips, missing not a gesture, failing to note no move.
This silence on the part of Merriwell seemed to affect the man, who turned to him, saying, a trifle sharply:
"Boy, boy, have you no sympathy with me? Think of the suffering I have passed through! You should pity me."
"What are you trying to do now?" asked Frank, quietly.
"I am trying to raise some money to ransom my son."
"But I thought you did raise money?"
"So I did, but not enough."
"Finish the story."
"Well, when I received that letter I immediately hastened to this land of bandits and half-breeds. I did not have three thousand dollars, but I hoped that what I had would be enough to soften Pacheco's heart--to save my poor boy."
"And you failed?"
The old man groaned again.
"My boy is still in Pacheco's power, and I have not a dollar left in all the world! Failed--miserably failed!"
"Well, what do you hope to do--what are you trying to do?"
"Raise five hundred dollars."
"How?"
"In any way."
"By begging?"
"I do not know how. Anyway,