In a corner lay yet a third man, and this was the mighty outlaw himself, although—ye gods!—what a face he had! He was recognizable more by his red hair and beard than anything else. His face was battered and disfigured by blood, which had run down upon his clothes, and, taken all together, he was a most pitiful-looking object.
Old Ferret stared when he saw this fellow. What did it mean? Something had happened to Cunningham, and it had happened very much, too!
“I know!” thought the detective, in triumph. “Jiminy goshfry! Didn’t Frank Merriwell give it to him good! Oh, say! Um-um! Didn’t he just paralyze Mr. Outlaw! I’d give fourteen thousand dollars just to have seen that scrap!”
Then came a horrible and blood-chilling thought. What had happened to Frank Merriwell?
Old Ferret shivered in his boots, only they were not exactly boots, and they had holes enough in them to cause anybody to shiver.
Where was Frank Merriwell? Had these ruffians killed him? This was the fear that caused even the freckles of the great detective to turn pale.
“If he is dead, I will avenge him!” vowed Old Ferret, through his clenched teeth.
Then he resumed his search, though it was with his heart filled with dread at what he expected to discover.
Almost the first room he peered into contained the object of his search.
Not dead! Not dying!