"I will save you, mother," said Frank, firmly.
"Drive on!" shouted Sharpley, savagely.
"Look a here!" exclaimed a new voice, that of Jonathan Tarbox, who was now peeping into the carriage. "That is the skunk that tried to murder you."
"What do you mean, fellow?" demanded Sharpley.
"If you don't understand, come out and I'll lick it into you, you skunk! Tell your mother to come out, and let that skunk stop her if he dares!" and Mr. Tarbox coolly drew out a revolver and pointed it at Sharpley.
"I'll get out, too," said Mr. Craven, faintly.
"No, you won't. I've got a letter of yourn, written to that skunk, advisin' him to pitch Frank over a precipice."
"It's a lie!" ejaculated Craven, pallid with fear.
"It comes to the same thing," said Mr. Tarbox, coolly. "When he's tried for murder, you'll come in second fiddle."
Sharpley saw his danger. Mr. Craven was already out of the carriage. He made a dash for the door, but found himself in Jonathan's powerful grasp. In a moment he was sprawling on his back in the yard.