It fascinated Merriwell, and, for the instant, he paused to stare at the spectacle. He saw the Indian’s assailant was almost a giant, and a startling thought flashed through his mind:
“It’s Gunnison Bill! I did not kill him, after all!”
“Now, redskin, I’m goin’ ter carve yer up! I’ll just rip yer inter ribbons in a minute!”
The voice was that of the big ruffian, and then Merry knew beyond a doubt that the man was Gunnison Bill.
A cry came from the lips of the boy, arousing Frank from the strange lethargy that seemed to have seized him. Without a sound, the young athlete leaped toward the spot where the boy was doing his best in the struggle with the man who had clutched him.
“I think I’ll take a hand here!” exclaimed Merry, as he sprang upon the man.
It was the companion of Gunnison Bill, who had escaped on Frank’s mustang.
Startled by Merry’s sudden appearance, the fellow whirled about, trying to fling the boy aside. The moonlight fell full on his face.
“Anton Mescal!” cried Merriwell exultantly. “At last I have found you!”
“Frank Merriwell!” gasped Mescal, for it was the scoundrel who had snatched the message from Merry in the New York hotel.