“Stand where you are!” exclaimed the Mexican.
“I haven’t moved an inch, and I have no desire to do so, as long as you keep that gun pointed at me. But you sha’n’t put that lasso around my neck; you may depend upon that.”
The Ranchero was evidently astonished. Here was a fellow, who acknowledged himself a prisoner, and yet had the audacity to tell his captor what he should do, and what he should not do. The tones of Frank’s voice, his attitude, and the expression of his countenance, all bore evidence to the fact that he was quite in earnest; and the Mexican seemed to be in no hurry to come to close quarters with him. The hand in which he held the lasso fell to his side, and he stood looking at his captive, measuring him with his eye, and trying to decide upon some course of action.
Frank was no stranger to the Ranchero. The latter had often seen him, and he had heard of him, too. He knew the particulars of some of his exploits, and he had a wholesome respect for him. A boy who had courage enough to keep a secret with death staring him in the face, and who, after being nearly strangled, could fight with the desperation which Frank had exhibited in his encounter with Pierre Costello, was not one to be approached with impunity. The Mexican had never taken the trouble to look closely at him before, and now he was astonished to discover what a powerful young fellow he was. Although he was not quite seventeen years old, he stood five feet nine inches in his stockings; and the violent sports and exercises to which he had been accustomed from his earliest boyhood, had developed his muscles until they were as large as those of a blacksmith. He looked like a young Hercules as he stood there, drawn up to his full height, his arms extended above his head, his hands clenched, and his fingers moving nervously, as though they were aching to take the Ranchero by the throat.
“Hadn’t you better make up your mind what you are going to do about it?” asked Frank, who was beginning to get impatient. “You might as well put up that lasso, for you shall never catch me with it.”
“Stand where you are!” repeated the Mexican.
These words were addressed, not to the prisoner, but to the empty air. The spot on which Frank had been standing was vacant, and he had disappeared from the view of his captor as completely as though he had never been in the woods at all. While the Ranchero was looking at Frank, the latter was narrowly watching the Ranchero. He kept his eyes fastened upon the gun, and finally he saw the muzzle turned a little aside, so that it no longer pointed at his breast. That was enough for Frank, who now repeated the trick he had tried with so much success upon Don Carlos. Gathering all his strength for the effort, he made two or three tremendous bounds, and vanished.
Like an inexperienced young sportsman, who, seeing a flock of quails suddenly arise from the bushes at his very feet, stands gazing after them with open mouth, too astonished to think of the gun he holds in his hand, so stood the Ranchero. There was something almost magical in the escape of his prisoner. It was so sudden and unexpected! There he was, holding a loaded gun in one hand, a lasso in the other, and standing almost within reach of his prize; and yet he had effectually eluded him.
“Santa Maria!” yelled the Ranchero, arousing himself as if from a sound sleep. “Stop, or I fire!”
“Whoop!” yelled another voice. “Hooray fur the boy that fit that ar’ robber! Put in your best licks, youngster, fur the timber’s full of the varlets.”