He saw a squad of fully a score of armed men congregated near the western verge of the plateau.
The two prisoners were led thither and into the center of a circle of the foe.
Sullen glances were bestowed upon them which Frank disregarded wholly. The young inventor knew that his life was sought by these men, and that he was never nearer death in his life.
One of the gang, a short, thickset fellow with lowering eyes and a brutish cast of countenance, advanced.
“Wall, what have you two pilgrims got to say for yourselves?”
Frank Reade, Jr., knew instinctively that this was the ruffian, Bert Mason, and he eyed him coolly.
“I have nothing to say for myself,” he replied, coldly.
“Ye haven’t, eh?”
“I said so.”
Mason glared savagely at the young inventor and hissed: