“You’re caught now,” said he, in a tone of great satisfaction, “and I am a poor herdsman no longer. I’m rich.”
The Ranchero did not attempt to lift Frank upon his horse, but held fast to his collar, and dragged him over the ground. He went at the top of his speed, and whenever Frank tried to regain his feet, so that he could run along beside his captor, the latter would touch his horse with his spurs, and the animal would spring forward so suddenly that Frank would be thrown back again. It was a most uncomfortable and painful situation to be in, but, strange as it may appear, Frank made no attempt at escape; indeed, he scarcely bestowed a thought upon himself. A scene which he had witnessed just after his enemy seized him, had deprived him of every particle of courage and strength. He had seen the friend who had stood by him through innumerable dangers strangled before his very eyes.
We said that, when Frank ran toward the woods, the trapper started off in the opposite direction. He had done this, hoping to draw the attention of the Mexicans to himself, and thus give Frank a chance for escape. He had succeeded in one part of his object, and failed in the other. Three of the Rancheros wheeled their horses and started in pursuit of him, while the others kept on after Frank. They had no desire to take the trapper alive, for the Don had not offered a reward of fifty thousand dollars for him; but they believed that he was quite as dangerous to them as Frank was, for he was acquainted with their secret. They had tried their best to shoot him when they met him in the woods, but Dick had escaped unhurt. Now they had caught him on the open prairie, where they could use their lassos, and they were determined that he should not return home to tell his friends what he knew about Don Carlos and his rancho. They charged toward the trapper with loud yells, discharging their pistols at him with one hand, and swinging their lariats around their heads with the other. One of their number rode to his death, for when Dick’s rifle cracked, the foremost Mexican threw up his arms, and fell heavily from his saddle; but before the trapper could turn to run, a lasso was thrown over his head, and he was pulled to the ground. A yell of defiance rang out on the air, and then the Ranchero wheeled his horse and galloped off, dragging his victim after him.
Frank could scarcely credit his senses. Was it possible that the redoubtable Dick Lewis, the hero of a thousand desperate encounters, had met his match at last, and in these cowardly Mexicans, too? It did not seem to him that it could be so, and yet the whole thing had transpired in plain view. If Dick had possessed the strength of a dozen men, he could not have escaped while that lasso was around his neck. Beyond a doubt, Frank had seen the last of him. The brave fellow had lost his life in trying to save him, and the boy could not have been more horrified if he had heard his own doom pronounced. He closed his eyes, that he might not see the terrible sight; and when he opened them again, his captor was on the point of dragging him into the woods. Still urging his horse forward with reckless speed, he now lifted Frank from the ground and laid him across the horn of his saddle and held him there with one hand, while, with the other, he guided his horse through the bushes. Arriving at the creek, he dashed in, and upon reaching the opposite bank, again entered the woods, and continued his flight as rapidly as ever.
All this while the prisoner’s mind had been so fully occupied with the scene he had witnessed on the prairie, that he scarcely knew what was going on; but now he became aware that his captor was not taking him to the rancho, but that he was making the best of his way toward the mountains. Frank was at a loss how to account for this, until he glanced at the dark, lowering face above him. Could he believe his eyes? He raised his head and looked again; and it is hard to tell whether he was the more astonished or alarmed. That one look was enough to satisfy him that his troubles were but just beginning. He would much rather have found himself in the power of Don Carlos, than in the hands of the man who was bending over him.
“Ah! You know me, do you?” exclaimed the Mexican, glancing triumphantly down at his captive. “I’m glad to meet you again.”
“Pierre Costello!” cried Frank, in dismay.
“Ay! It’s Pierre, alive and well, no thanks to you or your friends!”
Frank gazed long and earnestly at the Ranchero. The last time he saw him he was on his way to the prison at San Diego, bound hand and foot, and guarded by trusty men; but here he was, in full possession of his liberty, and ready to carry out the scheme in which he had been foiled a few weeks before.
“Oh, it’s I,” said the robber, seeing that his prisoner was looking at him in utter bewilderment. “We were pretty well acquainted at one time, and it is strange that you do not recognize me.”