“Spare your breath, my fine fellow,” said Frank. “Profanity will not help you.”
“Well, whatever was the varmint trying to do?” cried Buckhart. “I certain thought he was going to bless you.”
“He would have blessed me with a knife between my ribs had I been deceived by him,” asserted Merriwell. “In my saddlebags you will find some stout cord. Give it to me.”
A few moments later, in spite of his occasional struggles, the captured rascal was securely bound.
“There,” said Merry, “I think that will hold you for a while. Now, boys, I am going to see what has become of the holy father. This is his cloak.”
“You’re not going back there alone,” protested Dick, at once.
“Not on your life!” agreed Buckhart. “We are with you, Frank.”
They followed him into the yard, where the darkness was now deep, and came together to the entrance of the mission, but without discovering anything of the aged monk. Standing in the corridor, they peered in at the yawning door, but could see or hear nothing. Frank called to the monk, but only echoes answered him from the black interior of the mission.
“Here’s where you may get all the fight you want, Buckhart,” he said grimly. “Be ready for anything, boys.”
“I am a heap ready, you bet your boots!” answered the Texan, who had a pistol in his hand.