Frank Merriwells Pursuit | Page 2

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.
"Very strange," said the physician. "This is a thirty-two-calibre bullet,
and it's not like the kind used to shoot deer. Most remarkable."
He hastened to cleanse and dress the wound, again bandaging the