“Hiked and left us to go it alone, eh?” nodded the Texan. “Well, that’s a plenty fine!”
“We may find him,” suggested Zenas.
“Not likely,” said Dick. “I fancy he thought the jig was up when he saw the crowd fall on you, as he shook the dust of that locality off his feet.”
“That will leave us in a beautiful scrape; but we’re outside that hotel,” said Brad. “It was a close call there, for we barely succeeded in slipping through the fingers of the Turks. How are we going to get out of this dirty old city, Dick?”
“I can’t say,” confessed Merriwell.
“Talk about the wild and woolly West!” growled Brad. “Why, since the days of Sam Houston and Davy Crockett there never were such doings in Texas as we’ve struck right here in this dried-up, outlandish country. If I ever get back home to tell about these doings, I won’t dare to tell, for they sure would lynch me as a liar.”
“We’re talking too much,” said Dick. “We’re attracting attention. Stop talking and keep moving.”
He led the way and they followed blindly.
Suddenly, as they turned from one street into another, the most appalling medley of horrible sounds burst upon their ears. It seemed that a hundred human beings were being tortured in the most excruciating manner, and were howling forth their dying agonies. There were yells, screams, roars, and, amid it all, a sort of muffled music, as of drums and other instruments.
“Great catamounts!” gasped Buckhart. “We’re up against a whole tribe of Injuns at a scalp dance, or I’m mistaken!”