Frank Merriwells Bravery | Page 7

vid der ropper anyhow."
Burchel Jones was well satisfied with himself. At Yukon he sent a
dispatch to Hank Kildare, the sheriff at Elreno, saying:
"Have captured Black Harry. Bringing him in irons. Have Miss
Dawson at station to identify him when train arrives.
BURCHEL JONES, "Private Detective."
Jones was surprised at the quiet manner in which Frank had submitted
to arrest, but he felt that the lad had been cleverly taken by surprise,
and had seen by the eye of the man with the revolver that the best thing
he could do was to give in without a struggle.
The boy saw it was quite useless to attempt to convince the man that
any mistake had been made, and so, after the first effort, ceased to
waste his time in the vain struggle. He remained calm and collected,
much to the dismay of the some nervous passengers, who were certain
the train would be held up by Black Harry's Braves, who would be on
hand to rescue their chief.
Jones heard one man declaring over and over that he knew the train
would not reach Elreno without a hold-up, and the detective

immediately declared:
"If an attempt is made to rescue Black Harry, it will be very unfortunate
for Harry, as I shall immediately shoot him. I do not propose to let him
escape, to continue his career of crime and devastation."
The boy smiled, in a scornful and pitying way.
When the train drew into Elreno, a great crowd was seen on the
platform of the station, and, for the first time, a troubled look came to
the face of the youthful prisoner.
"The whole town has turned out to see Black Harry and the man who
captured him," said Jones, swelling with importance.
Frank said nothing; he knew well enough that such a crowd was
dangerous in many cases. What if it were generally believed that he
was, in truth, Black Harry, and the mob should take a fancy to lynch
him? His chance of escaping a speedy death would be slim, indeed!
The train stopped, and, with his hand clutching the boy's shoulder,
Jones descended to the platform.
"Thar he is!"
The cry went up, and the crowd surged toward the two.
"Stan' back hyar!"
A man that was six feet and four inches in height, and weighed at least
two hundred and fifty pounds, forced his way through the throng,
casting men to the right and left with his muscular arms. He had a hard,
weather-tanned face, and looked as if he did not fear the Evil One
himself.
"Are you Burchel Jones, ther detective?" asked this man, as he loomed
before Jones and his captive.
"I am, sir," was the dignified reply; "and this is Black Harry. I

surrender him to you, and claim the reward offered for his capture."
"Thet ther skunk known as Black Harry?" said the giant sheriff, in
evident surprise. "He don't look like a desperado. Wal, we'll soon settle
all doubts on thet yar point, fer Miss Dawson is hyar, an' she will
recognize him ef he is Black Harry. Come on, boy."
Kildare, the sheriff, for such the giant was, again forced a path through
the crowd.
In the station door, a woman and a girl were standing. The girl was not
more than seventeen, and was very pretty, despite the traces of grief
upon her face.
Kildare led the boy up before the woman and girl, and he spoke to the
latter:
"Take a good, squar' look at this yar kid, Miss Dawson, an' see ef yer
ever saw thet face afore."
The girl looked at Frank, and then fell back, horror and loathing
depicted on her face. She stretched out one hand, with a repellent
gesture, as if warning them to keep him away, and with the other hand
she clutched at her throat, from which came a choking sound. The
woman offered to support her, but she sprang up in a moment, pointed
straight at the youthful captive, and literally shrieked:
"He is the wretch who shot my poor father!"
CHAPTER IV.
FOR LIFE AND HONOR.
A sudden, mad roar went up from the crowd on the station platform.
They swayed, surged, struggled, and shouted:
"Lynch him!"

That cry was like the touching of a torch to dry prairie grass. Men
climbed on each others' shoulders; men fought to get nearer the
prisoner, and the mob seemed to have gone mad in a moment.
"Lynch him!"
A hundred throats took up the shout, and it became one mighty roar for
blood, the most appalling sound that can issue from human lips.
The face of the menaced boy was very pale, but he did not cower
before that suddenly infuriated mob. He showed that he had nerve, for
he