“Yes, I am. I wish we had never come near Don Carlos’ rancho.”
“So do I. I’ve wished that more than a hundred times during the last hour. We’ve got ourselves into a pretty mess.”
“And not only ourselves, but somebody else, also. We have thus far escaped with our lives, but he didn’t. He’s dead.”
“He! Who?”
“Dick Lewis.”
“Well—by—gracious!” exclaimed Archie, as soon as he could speak. “Why—how—Eh! It can’t be possible.”
“That is just what I thought, even while I was seeing the thing done,” replied Frank. “He was pulled down by a lasso; and the Mexican who caught him wheeled his horse and galloped off, dragging Dick after him. If his neck had been made of iron, it must have been broken.”
“But how did he happen to be around where the Mexicans were?” asked Archie, who could not bring himself to believe his cousin’s story. “Why didn’t he stay at home, where he belonged?”
“Why didn’t we stay at home where we belonged?” retorted Frank. “If we had done that, Dick would have been alive and hearty, now. He lost his life in trying to save me. But we have wasted time enough in talking. How did you get in here?”