Frank Allen at Gold Fork; or, Locating the lost claim - Graham B. Forbes

HE SNATCHED UP A BURNING BRAND AND SENT IT WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR
Frank Allen at Gold Fork Frontispiece (Page 121)

FRANK ALLEN AT
GOLD FORK

Locating the Lost Claim

GRAHAM B. FORBES

Author of "Frank Allen and his Motor Boat,"
"Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch," etc.

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.

1926

THE FAMOUS FRANK ALLEN SERIES

BY GRAHAM B. FORBES

See back of book for list of titles

FRANK ALLEN AT GOLD FORK

CHAPTER I

AT THE HORSE CORRAL GATE

"There he is again, Frank! The same queer chap we saw before!"

"That's a dead certainty, Lanky. But lower your voice a bit or he might take the alarm and vamoose."

"I sure wonder what he's prowling around Rockspur ranch-house for, and on a moonlight night, at that. But, Frank, it isn't our old enemy, Nash Yesson, is it?" cried Lanky Wallace explosively.

"No. And I'm just as sure it isn't Lef Seller," came from Frank Allen, referring to the bully of Columbia, Frank's home town.

The scene was the living room of Rockspur Ranch in the far West, where so many exciting things had already happened to Frank Allen and his chums, Lanky Wallace—whose folks owned the ranch—and Paul Bird. Paul was slumbering peacefully, totally unaware of what was taking place outside.

"There! You can see him plainer now, Frank!" went on Lanky. "He seems to be a runt of a man, with a big head and bushy hair. An ugly customer, I'd say. Do you reckon he's mixed up with the Yesson crowd?"

"Looks that way to me. See him wriggling along now, like a snake in the grass. He's up to some mischief, all right."

"He's wearing a cowboy hat, you can see now, Frank; must belong over with that tough gang at the Double Z Ranch."

"Whatever his game is, he'd better watch his eye or he'll find Lige Smith and his punchers hustling after him. Right now they're all radio hounds, and bunched inside the bunk-house, listening to jazz dance music."

"Say, I wonder, Frank!"

"What's struck you now, Lanky? Don't move, for that fellow's staring straight at this window! Gee, I'm glad our fire's died down! There! he's moving off again. What were you wondering about?"

Lanky Wallace snickered, as though amused by his thoughts.

"Why, don't you see, Frank? he's trying to find some way of getting hold of the map we grabbed, along with the gold nuggets when we watched Nash Yesson and Lef Seller dig up that rusty iron chest in the underground cellar."

Frank Allen considered the suggestion seriously, waiting a full minute before replying.

"Sounds reasonable, I must admit," he finally agreed. "We know that it was the crude map Josh Kinney left hidden there, that pair was so anxious to lay their hands on."

"Sure! It contains valuable clues that would help a prospector locate the long-lost gold claim Josh worked years ago."

"Now he's moving off, for some reason or other," went on Frank Allen. "It might pay us to slip outside and see if we can't get a line on his scheme."

"Bully! I was just wishing you'd say something that meant action," whispered Lanky Wallace. "But I hope you're not thinking of rousing a hornet's nest around his ears by poking a stick in the bunk-house and stirring up the Rockspur punchers?"

"Nope. We'll play this game by ourselves, Lanky. Sorry Paul happens to be asleep and nursing his lame ankle. He's going to miss all the excitement."

"Lucky for us we chanced to take a squint out of this window in the big living room before hitting the hay in our cubbyhole bedrooms." This being followed by a series of boyish chuckles, told plainer than any words could have done how pleased Lanky felt over the situation.

"Come along, and we'll slip out by the back door." Saying this, Frank led the way, with his chum trailing at his heels.

Mrs. Wallace and Minnie Cuthbert—a Columbia girl who had come West for the summer vacation, partly to be companion for Lanky's mother, and who was also a tried and true pal of Frank Allen's—had retired some time before, leaving the two boys to sit up and talk over their plans for the near future.

Softly Frank and Lanky passed into the kitchen, which they found empty at that late hour of the night, Charlie Gin Sing, the slant-eyed Chinese cook, having joined the bunch over at the bunk-house to listen as the loud-speaker sent out weird jazz, which seem to appeal to his sense of music.

"Wait while I take a peep first and make sure he didn't swing around to this side of the ranch buildings," Frank cautioned in his companion's ear.

"Coast Clear?" queried Lanky, with bated breath, a moment later.

"Yes. And I could just make him out moving toward the horse corral!" Frank informed him.

"Say, you don't reckon he's got some funny game up his sleeve, do you, Frank?"

"What kind?"

"Oh, such as would set the saddle band of broncos streaking it out on the prairie, mad with fear, to leave the Rockspur punchers without a single mount to saddle."

"What good would that do him, Lanky? Though perhaps he might hope to find a chance to steal that map while the men were all rushing after the stampeding ponies. But we'll try to look out for that sort of game. Come on!"

The chums crept outside. One thing Frank Allen had already noticed that seemed to be in their favor—the rear part of the house was in shadow. Even the keenest of eyes could not discover that the kitchen door had opened to give egress to a couple of bent-over figures.

"See him still?" asked Lanky eagerly.

"He ducked into that bunch of cottonwoods over there," Frank informed him. "Just the same, you must remember that the corral lies at the far end of that patch of woods. Now for some scout work! And it'll pay us to keep as close to the ground as we can."

"Whee! hope we don't run across any rattlers out here, Frank?"

"No danger," whiffed the other over his shoulder, for he was advancing steadily and cautiously; "those who ought to know say that snakes never move around during the night."

A soft sound like escaping steam told how greatly relieved Lanky felt; for from early childhood his one horror had been serpents of any kind. He had even been known to make a wry face when impaling an angleworm on his hook, as if it reminded him of his pet aversion.

Frank stuck to his original belief that the mysterious prowler was heading for the horse corral, and he shaped his course so as to come upon this fenced-in enclosure somewhere near the gate.

The stockade was of such a height that even a prize jumper among the broncos could never get its forelegs across the upper bar. Besides this, in order to further insure the safekeeping of the restless ponies, a hedge of thorny Osage orange had been cultivated, the mature trees giving the animals considerable shelter from the scorching rays of an August sun.

Every dozen feet or so Frank would come to a pause, and at such times seemed to be using both eyes and ears to discover any unusual movement or sound around the corral.

"You were right, Frank," whispered Lanky, catching hold of his companion's arm with his fingers and pinching harder than he intended. "I just glimpsed the fellow going inside. He's left the gate wide open too! Listen to the ponies snort and plunge, will you?"

"Get a move on, Lanky! We ought to be nearer the gate, so as to turn the horses back if they try to break loose."

Lanky was only too willing, since such a move promised to bring them to close grips with the possible horse-thief should the fellow start to rush from the corral after securing a mount.

The confusion inside the pen grew rapidly worse.

"He's trying to rope a pony he's picked out as a prize!" breathed the excited Lanky.

"We'd have him in a nice trap if we closed the gate of the corral and whooped for the boys to come on the jump!" suggested Frank, spurred on by the apparent necessity of doing something speedily.

"Good idea, too!" the other burst out, no longer caring who heard his voice, for the matter had by then about reached the crisis.

"Quick! He's coming full tilt, Lanky! Swing the heavy gate around this way and let me fasten it!"

It might have turned out better, if only they had conceived it a few seconds sooner. As it was, the rushing pony, urged on by savage kicks from a pair of spurred heels, was bearing down straight upon the two boys.

"Look out, Frank!" shrilled Lanky, as he saw a towering form between his eyes and the bright moon. At the same time he ducked in hopes of getting out of the way of the bronco's furious rush.

The frightened animal, seeing some moving object in its path, sheered to one side. That saved Lanky from the full force of a collision; but even as it was he received a push that sent him sprawling headlong to the ground.

Scrambling hastily to his feet, somewhat the worse for his upset, Lanky looked around to see what luck had befallen his partner in the mad attempt of trying to halt a frightened, galloping bronco.

"Oh, Frank!" he called out; and then his heart seemed to stand still with dread as he glimpsed a still figure huddled in a heap on the prairie some ten feet away, showing that Frank Allen had also been struck down.

CHAPTER II

THE SUDDEN ALARM

Just before Lanky Wallace was struck by the rush of the stolen bronco and knocked to the ground, he had let out the cowboy whoop for help.

It reached the ears of Hoptoad Atkins, the smallest rustler in the Rockspur bunch, as he was emerging from the bunk-house to see what the weather promised for the morning, he having a long gallop before him. At the same moment he heard the racket over at the horse corral, and sensing trouble of some sort sprang back into the house with a shout.

"Stampede of the ponies! Get out of here, everybody, with a rush!"

The cowboys came pouring out, and made for the corral in a string, the longest-legged being in the fore. Lanky, they found bending anxiously over Frank, who, having been knocked senseless, was just beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.

"Thief got away with one of our mounts," hurriedly explained Lanky. "He bowled both of us over when he came out of the corral like a tornado. Little critter with the biggest head you ever saw—been prowling around here at night, twice now. We tried to trap him in the circle, but he was too quick on the get-away!"

"Which way did he lope, Lanky?" demanded Lige Smith, the wiry and experienced foreman of the ranch.

"Reckon it was over west; but I'm a bit hazy after that knockout," returned the boy.

"I sure heard far-off hoofbeats in that quarter when I busted out of the shack!" announced Zander Forbes emphatically.

"Git ther ponies," broke in old Jerry Brime, a veteran puncher with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. "Mebbe we kin straddle him yet before he gits to the Double Z outfit! Whoopee!"

A rush was made into the corral, and lively hustling followed as each puncher picked out his special mount and roped him by the light of the moon's bright rays.

"Good luck, boys!" bellowed the still excited Lanky, as the cowboys galloped madly away. There was a little regret in his heart because he could not leave Frank Allen and join in the mad chase.

By this time Frank had pretty well recovered after his painful experience. He would feel a bit sore for some days, but could be thankful his injuries were no more serious than a few bruises.

"We made a fine mess of it that time, Lanky," he observed, when it was found that no bones had been broken by his nasty fall.

"Huh! didn't move quick enough! A matter of ten seconds; but that was plenty to queer the game, all right."

"He meant to stampede the whole bunch of ponies, looked like to me," Frank Allen remarked. "I wish we knew just what his scheme was, hanging around here and taking such big risks."

"I'm still thinking he wanted to have a try for that paper," affirmed Lanky doggedly, "and when he found he hadn't a ghost of a chance to lay his paws on the same, why, he got mad, and reckoned he'd have the laugh on our outfit by stampeding the range ponies."

The two boys made their way to the house, followed by Charlie Gin Sing. Here they found Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, as well as Minnie Cuthbert and Paul Bird, up and partly dressed, they having been aroused by the unusual clamor, and more than curious to understand what it all meant.

"No sleep for me with all this stuff going on," announced Lanky, as he sat before the resurrected fire in the big living room. "I mean to stay right here till the cows come home—I mean the cowboys—and have a close-up look at that skunk, if they overtake him."

None of the others evinced any desire to seek their beds; so half an hour afterwards when they heard the riders talking and laughing over by the corral both Lanky and Frank went out to learn what the result of the chase was.

"Shucks, he got clean away!" Lanky ejaculated, after hearing what some of the men had to say.

"But, anyway," announced the effeminate-looking puncher with the high voice, who had come West to build up his health and who rejoiced in the name of Sally Keating, "the joke is on that coyote, because he had the bad luck to pick out the worst pony in the whole outfit, with more mean traits than you can shake a stick at."

"You don't mean that white-eyed terror we call Whitey Knocker, do you Sally?" shrilled Lanky, in great joy. Upon the other's wagging his head in the affirmative, he continued with a bit of spite in his voice: "Then he's in for a peck of trouble! I only hope that bronc will break his own neck in the bargain when he goes down in a crash with his rider."

Lanky knew from experience what a pack of tricks Knocker had for all occasions. There were several sore spots on the boy's person that he could lay to his determination to beat the pony with that wicked white eye at his own game, his father having finally been compelled to forbid any repetition of the dangerous task.

By degrees the excitement died out, and there was an exodus of tired riders and others to their own quarters.

With the morning the boys went over the ground to revive their recollection of every incident connected with the previous night's thievery. They even followed the tracks of Whitey Knocker for some little distance, which could be done through a certain queer formation of the pony's off hind hoof.

"No use going any further, Lanky," said Frank finally. "The trail keeps on getting fainter right along, as the soil changes."

"Then, all we've learned," suggested his chagrined chum, "is that when he flew the coop he headed about as straight as the bee flies for Double Z Ranch."

"But our boys all say they've seen every puncher in that outfit, and what we could tell about this runt's looks with his big head didn't fit any of that rough bunch. Still, he may be a newcomer, playing a lone hand in hanging around Rockspur at night."

Frank Allen had always been a leader among his boy friends in the home town of Columbia in the East, as told in the first volume of this series called "Frank Allen's School Days."

Rockspur Ranch, a small cattle industry located on the plains, had been left to Mrs. Wallace by her bachelor brother, George Rockford, and the Wallaces had come out, partly for the banker's health, but also to inspect the newly acquired property.

Frank Allen and Paul Bird had been asked to become members of the party, and Minnie Cuthbert, the prettiest and most sensible girl in all Columbia—at least so Frank was firmly convinced—was along to keep Mrs. Wallace company.

A man by the name of Nash Yesson had tried to buy the property from the new owner. That failing, he had, with the assistance of Lef Seller, known as the bully and worst boy in Columbia, tried to get possession of a treasure he knew to be buried in a cellar under the ranch pantry.

The vigilance of Frank Allen and his chums defeated this effort, and the plotters were chased off, leaving the old rusty iron box they had dug up in the possession of the rightful owners. All of these happenings have been narrated in the pages of the book just preceding this, under the title of "Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch."

Lanky's uneasiness concerning the possible continued efforts of Yesson and Lef to steal the valuable paper and chart that, with gold nuggets, had lain in the iron box so many years, accounted for his suspicions that the mysterious nightly visits of the man with the big head were connected in some way with the long-buried treasure.

One of the papers yellowed by age that fell into the Wallaces' possession had been a rudely drawn chart of a mountainous section of country where years before gold had been found in paying quantities and a little mining settlement named Gold Fork was located.

It was understood that this place was now deserted, the shacks in ruins. So all hope of ever locating the long-lost mine worked in secret by Josh Kinney, former owner of Rockspur Ranch, died away.

This map had been drawn by Josh Kinney himself. Its existence was known, but no human eye had ever beheld it save the maker's up to the time it fell into the possession of Frank Allen and his two chums.

Jerry Brime knew something about the lost claim, for he had worked alongside Kinney at cattle raising and had himself tried, but without success, to follow the other when he disappeared. Jerry believed that Kinney was laying in a fresh stock of gold nuggets from the rich deposit, or "pocket," in his secret mine when this happened.

Brime and the three boys held many consultations as the days passed. The boys were bent on making an effort to locate Kinney's source of treasure-trove, and so asked a multitude of questions. Some of these Jerry answered readily, but in other cases his memory failed him.

"Wait till we-uns git up thar at Gold Fo'k," he would say. "Mebbe ole Jerry's mind'll be freshened a bit by seein' the ole place agin. Thet map's a-goin' to help a heap; an' I do reckon we'll git our paws on the stuff thet's hidden away in the five-fingered cave."

In the end Frank and Lanky came to believe that they must wait until Mr. Wallace gave the word for the little expedition to set forth. Then, if luck favored them, all might yet turn out well.

"There's only one thing that bothers me," Lanky said the afternoon they gave up trying to squeeze more information from the willing but helpless Jerry Brime.

"I can guess what it is," chucked Frank. "Nash Yesson?"

"And his crony, Lef Seller," admitted the smiling Lanky Wallace. "They may be hanging around here; for they are stickers, all right. Then again, for all we know, the pair may be up at Gold Fork raking the ground over with a fine-tooth comb, looking for the lost claim."

"What of it?" Frank asked complacently. "A heap of others did that same thing years ago and only found themselves up against a blank wall. I tell you, Josh Kinney was a cute one and knew how to keep a secret."

"Glad to see you feel so confident, Frank. With Jerry along to revive his memory of things and that little chart to help, I guess we've got a better chance to spot that claim than anybody ever had before. But that was startling news you had in the last letter from Buster Billings, our fat chum back in Columbia."

"Well, I'm not much surprised about Lef," said Frank, shaking his head as he spoke. "We always knew he was a bad egg, up to every kind of mischief he could think of."

"But to make away with something like two-hundred-and-fifty dollars which his father had given him to pay some bills!" exclaimed Lanky. "They said he lost it at the races, betting on losing nags," he added musingly.

"And now," Frank went on to say, "Buster tells us Mr. Seller reports five thousand dollars in Liberty Bonds missing; and he adds that suspicion strongly points to his own son, Lef, as the one who robbed the home safe."

"Well, Lef is in a section of country right now where Lynch law often overtakes a rascal; and believe me, Frank, if he's caught red-handed in any of his ugly tricks out here he'll not have an indulgent dad to help him out of the fix."

"As long as we have any reason to believe that precious pair still hang out around here, Lanky, we've got to keep our eyes peeled for trouble. What under the sun are you sniffing like that for? Think you smell a skunk around?"

"Made me think of the way we smoked that mountain lion out of his den—smell of dried grass, all right. I wonder if the boys are burning off a piece of meadow that's turned brown in this dry spell?"

Frank himself was now busily engaged in "sniffing."

"Well, there must be a fire where there's smoke," he said finally, at the same time showing a trace of uneasiness. "Strikes me, it comes from over that way."

"Look at that burst of smoke shoot up on the other side of the house!" cried Lanky. "Some fire, that must be as sure as— There, listen to Charlie Gin Sing giving tongue! The cook's as scared as a singed cat. Let's scoot over that way, Frank, and see what they're doing. Now others are yelling to beat the band! We were longing for excitement, and, sure enough, here she comes full tilt!"

"Lanky, it's the barn on fire, I do believe!" Frank managed to say as the pair of them went at full speed, swerving so as to pass around the house, when they would have a full unobstructed view.

"With all that hay and the straw from last year in it, too!" added the other.

Then as the boys turned the corner where Gin Sing was now beating wildly on a monster frying pan and making a dreadful din, Lanky finished with a whoop, and increased his pace, if such a thing were possible.

No question about its being the barn that was ablaze, for vast volumes of smoke were already pouring out from several places. These continually grew in density, while wicked looking red tongues of flame could be seen playing amidst the dense belching billows.

Frank had gone as white as chalk.

"Your mother—Minnie!" he gasped.

"What of them?" cried the agitated Lanky.

"I saw them go in some time ago! Oh, Lanky! what if they are still inside the old barn, trapped like rats and blinded with all that smoke?"

CHAPTER III

TRAPPED IN THE BURNING BARN

Lanky Wallace apparently could find no words to express the feeling of horror that gripped his heart. Never did any boy have a dearer mother than his own "Mom." No wonder the possibility of losing her in such a terrible tragedy seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins.

It was indeed an exciting time at Rockspur Ranch. Men were shouting as they ran toward the burning barn as only big-lunged cow-punchers can shout. The excited cook meanwhile continued to whang away with his big spoon, as though the frying pan he held might be a dinner gong and he meant to summon those who were a full mile away.

Too, the crackling of the leaping flames told that they were gathering fresh headway with every passing second, and these sounds began to be a factor in the conglomeration of noises that had so suddenly sprung into existence on that sunny afternoon in early summer.

Barns were not always to be found on cattle ranches, for it had usually been the habit of cattlemen to let their herds shift the best they could during ordinary winters. Usually there are sheltered nooks on the range where forage may be found with unusual efforts by the stock.

But George Rockford, Lanky Wallace's deceased uncle and the late owner of these hundreds of acres, had a mind of his own. He was not to be governed by what had been good enough for his predecessors.

So he had built a big barn, though lumber was difficult to secure and had to be brought many miles, even from the mountain gorges. In this barn he always kept a certain amount of hay and straw, for emergencies, he explained to the scoffers.

Several times during his occupancy of the place his forethought had been rewarded. When an unusually severe winter rolled around, during which stock out on the ranges suffered grievous losses through deep snows and blustering blizzards, that reserve stock of feed had saved the Rockspur herd from much privation.

Lanky could see some of the cowboys bringing up a hose that was attached to the tank of water meant for household use. The stock were driven to a never-failing creek about two miles away for watering, or, if they were loose on the range, they found their way there by themselves.

In his excitement Lanky made a dive for a bucket, and then gasped in dismay when a furious burst of angry looking flame darted out from a crack in the side of the barn, for all the world like the tongue of some gigantic serpent.

"Oh, Frank! what can we do?" he moaned. Even as he said these words he realized that Frank was no longer at his side.

Some instinct caused Lanky to turn his anxious gaze once more on the doomed barn. Knowing Frank Allen as well as he did, he understood what the other would be doing about that time.

"He's gone—right inside—and I've got to follow my leader!"

Lanky would have dashed blindly forward and despite the peril involved enter the door where that choking smoke was pouring forth, only that his father caught hold of him just in time.

Mr. Wallace, on learning that his wife and Minnie had been seen entering the barn some time before fire was discovered, had become greatly alarmed and had tried to go in after them, only to be driven back by the fierce flames. Now he would not listen for a moment the wild plea of Lanky to be allowed to follow Frank.

"I should have stopped Frank, too," said the gentleman, in a quivering voice, "had I guessed what he meant to do when I saw him running forward and taking off his coat. If he is lost it will be terrible! And your mother, too! The boys have already done everything possible for human strength and skill to accomplish. We can only pray they may all be spared."

"Zander Forbes is in there too, they say," blubbered the badly shaken Lanky.

"I shall never forget his heroism, and Frank's, too," said Mr. Wallace. "If I thought I could make it—" His voice broke. "I tried it before you came, but the flames drove me back."

"There's one of the boys coming out now!" quavered Lanky, pointing his finger as he spoke. "Why, he's leading Bessie, our pet milk cow! He has put a blanket over her eyes to blind her." The cowboy had used this covering as a blinder to the cow, knowing that otherwise it would be utterly impossible to urge her along past shooting lances of flame.

Lanky's voice died away in a low groan, for his suddenly aroused hopes had been just as speedily shattered. Only a cow saved, while precious human lives were hanging in the balance!

When Frank was gripped by the feeling that he must make a desperate attempt to find and save Mrs. Wallace and Minnie Cuthbert, he lost not a second in debating whether it was safe or not.

He could see that he would be met with considerable of that smothering smoke the instant he stepped past the open door of the burning barn. That was why he commenced to tear off his coat as he ran. Frank wrapped his coat about his head in the endeavor to protect his mouth, eyes, and nostrils as much as possible.

He knew the die had been cast as soon as he entered the place, since his retreat was cut off by a fresh burst of scorching flames and all he could do was to make his way forward.

From time to time he called at the top of his voice, but was staggered to find what a small amount of noise he could make, owing to the pungent smoke of the burning hay and straw.

The covering his head gave him some relief at first; but in a very short time he found his eyes smarting fearfully and tears helping to blind his vision.

Groping his way and trying as best he could to avoid those places where the hay was fully in the grip of the fire, Frank presently found himself falling.

The boy did not know what sort of a hole he had incautiously stepped into, for he had taken but a cursory view of the inside of the old barn during his sole visit there. Throwing out both hands, he sought to find some support, so as to stop the sickening downward movement. He came to a halt with a thump, one of his feet becoming fast between two upright timbers.

His situation was now much more desperate than before, since, try as he did, he seemed utterly unable to get his foot free from that clutch of the V-shaped timbers. It was as though he had become enmeshed in the tentacles of some unseen monster, which, gifted with enormous powers, was bent on holding him there a prisoner until the oncoming flames reached the spot.

CHAPTER IV

A CLOSE SHAVE

Frank Allen was not one to give up easily. He continued to strive to free the snared foot, his efforts being accentuated by the fierce heat of the roaring furnace that ate its way through the tons on tons of combustibles. In his extremity he shouted at the top of his voice, at the same time doubtful whether his cries could reach outside of the barn, with all that noise of crackling flames and roaring draughts. Still he continued to call.

"Help! Help!"

Although calling for assistance, the youth did not cease his frantic efforts to dislodge his trapped foot. He knew only too well what a slender chance there was that any one should be close enough to hear his cries and come to his rescue, even in the doubtful event of being able to get through the flames.

Then what was close to an inspiration flashed through his excited brain, and he lost no time in trying anew to break loose.

Luckily, he was able to bend over far enough to get at his shoe. With eager fingers he tore the laces open, and then made a last desperate effort to free his right foot.

A thrill ran through the boy when he found that he could draw the foot out of his shoe! He was saved—least, he was given a fresh chance to escape the dreadful fate that threatened to overwhelm him!

Sensible even in such a situation, Frank next tore his shoe loose, and managed to get it on after a fashion. Then he turned away from the furious blast of fire and groped through the dense smoke, heading he knew not in which direction, only that he was fending off the threatening catastrophe a little longer by fleeing.

The fact that he was not acquainted with the interior of the barn brought him fresh trouble. An avenue of escape might be close at his elbow, an opening such as would afford him exit, and Frank would not be aware of the fact.

He was experiencing for the first time in all his life the sensation that grips one who realizes he is lost. In the woods or among the hills, with a sky overhead to give him the points of the compass, no one could be better than Frank Allen at making his way to safety. But it was vastly different in that smoke-filled structure.

Once more he gave tongue, in the hope that if Zander Forbes or any other of his cowboy friends were close by he would catch the call and cheer the groping wanderer with an answering whoop. Meanwhile, what of Mrs. Wallace and of Minnie? At thought of Minnie his heart sank.

Once the situation took on new threats. A burst of flame straight ahead warned Frank that he must sheer aside if he wished to escape being singed. His heart seemed to be in his throat with the suspense that continually gripped him. And, oh, how he yearned for a breath of fresh air!

Then he thought he caught the sound of a husky voice calling his own name. Could Lanky have followed him into the barn, and was even then wandering this way and that, chased by the fire, and in as great a predicament as himself?

Again Frank let out a whoop, and was cheered to catch an answering cowboy yell. Then it was not his chum after all, but one of the punchers. Somehow, this thought gave Frank renewed courage, for every one of the Rockspur outfit must be well acquainted with the barn's angles that had proved so confusing to him, and could thus lead the way to an exit.

Nearer came the booming voice, heard despite all the clamor around him. Now the boy could glimpse a moving figure, pushing in a beeline for the quarter where he chanced to be.

"Jerry! is it you?" Frank shrilled, somehow touched by this evidence of affection on the part of the old rustler who did not hesitate to risk his own life in the endeavor to save that of his young friend.

"It sure is, Frank! I'm comin' to git yuh out o' this hot box. Hain't got much time to waste neither, 'case the hull pesky roof is shore to drap in on us right quick."

Jerry had taken hold of Frank's left arm while saying this, and immediately commenced moving backward the way he had come. What a feeling of confidence came over the imperiled boy when he felt those friendly fingers in contact with his person. It seemed as though a tremendous load rolled off his shoulders in the magic of that touch.

Apparently Jerry was leading him toward what looked like a danger point to be avoided; but, somehow, Frank felt no apprehension. Jerry must know the barn like a book; indeed, possibly he himself had helped build it in those days when as a much younger man he had worked on this ranch.

Sure enough, by a sudden turn they managed to put the worst of the fire behind them. Frank even believed he felt the first whiff of fresh air, and, oh! how eagerly did he draw it into his tortured lungs.

"Hyar we are, younker!" exclaimed the veteran cowboy as they pushed past a last nest of fire and reached the open air.

"Look, Dad! There's Frank, safe and sound!" a voice bellowed, and Lanky, followed by the limping Paul, came rushing toward the pair who had just emerged from the roaring furnace.

How the other boys did squeeze Frank's hands and almost cried, such was the tense condition of their strained nerves!

Frank turned and looked back, shuddering. It was not his own narrow escape that made him feel so weak, but the still haunting dreadful fear that perhaps Lanky's mother and Minnie had been swallowed up in the pitiless conflagration.

"Oh! Lanky—is there any news—have you heard—Minnie—your mother?"

His whole soul was in that cry, and although his eyes were still burning and smarting from the effects of the smoke, he fastened his gaze on his chum in a most entreating way.

"Cheer up, Frank!" exclaimed Lanky, slapping his chum's shoulder in what was intended to be an encouraging way. "We've reason to believe Mom and Minnie weren't in the barn after all when the fire started."

Frank drew a long breath and leaned on Lanky, his sensation of relief leaving him weak and wobbling.

"But I don't see them anywhere around here!" he exclaimed, looking to the right and to the left, where the punchers were standing in groups watching the barn and its contents go up in flames, for no puny human efforts could now stay the march of destruction.

Lanky was beckoning, and Frank saw that it was Charlie Gin Sing who started toward them. The Chinaman had apparently managed to get over the worst of his emotion at seeing such a sight for the first time in his life; he looked more like his grinning self, Frank noticed, as he trotted up to where the three boys were standing.

"Charlie," said Lanky, taking hold of the cook's thin arm, "tell Frank here what you say you saw. He's been afraid the ladies were caught in the fire. That was what made him rush in there at the risk of his life."

"Me see Missy Wally—young lady come out side door—yep, long time back till I smell smoke and see barn he ketch fire."

That was lucid, and positive enough to convince Frank that his fears had after all been groundless. Charlie Gin Sing could be depended on to tell a straight story.

"Where were you when you saw them come out?" asked Frank.

"Me standee kitchen door—get lungs full air—wave hand at Missy Wally—she like Charlie his cooking—wave hand back—finest lady in all land, Missy Wally."

"Which way did they go after coming out of the barn?" continued Frank, bent on getting at the full facts, for if those who were missing had returned to the ranch house, it was strange they had not appeared on the scene, with all that racket going on.

"Walk away—hab lit basket 'long—come from China—ginger like all Chinese eat."

"Show me the direction they were heading when last you saw them, Charlie. It's queer they haven't shown up by now, no matter where they went."

"That's straight goods, Frank," interrupted Lanky, his forehead wrinkled with anxiety.

"Think Missy Wally she go them woods—me tell her wild flowers grow there where cattle drink at spring! Look! What tell you? Here come runnin', you savvy, like in big hurry!"

Lanky gave a whoop.

"He's right, Frank—Paul! There they come, and running, too. Oh! I'm so glad I could yell my head off. All this while they've been there in that patch of trees they say Josh Kinney planted fifty years ago."

Frank was about as much relieved as his chum; but, just the same, he noticed something that apparently Lanky had missed.

"Your mother acts as though exhausted, Lanky," he said. "See how Minnie tries to buoy her up. Was it because of their fears the ranch house was burning up and some lives in danger, or did something else happen to frighten them?"

Mr. Wallace was already hastening toward the approaching pair, and the three boys started on the run, Paul hobbling bravely along, although his ankle gave him frequent stabs of pain.

The "woods," as the big clump of trees was called by the punchers, were some distance away from the ranch buildings, and it took the boys an appreciable length of time to draw near Mrs. Wallace and Minnie.

"I was right," Frank kept telling himself, as he noted the looks of both Mrs. Wallace and the girl. "Something dreadful has certainly happened to make them act that way! Mrs. Wallace seems ready to drop, and Minnie, too, is as pale as a ghost. But, anyway, they are safe enough, and not caught in that fire-trap!"

Now they reached the pair, and Lanky threw his arm around his mother.

"Oh, what a scare we've had!" he told her. "We believed you had both been caught in the burning barn. But Charlie Gin Sing gave us the right stuff when he said he had seen you come out and head for the woods."

"But we have been in danger, after all," said his mother, in quivering tones. "I shall never, never want to visit those awful woods again. Only for Minnie's presence of mind I might have lost my life!"

"Why, what happened?" asked the astounded and anxious Lanky.

"Snakes—rattlesnakes! A whole den of them!" gasped the still shuddering Mrs. Wallace.

CHAPTER V

A RATTLESNAKE ROUND-UP

Frank Allen could see now where Lanky got his horror of snakes, since his mother seemed to have the same detestation and fear of them.

He looked at Minnie, as though wondering whether she would back the older lady up in that astounding assertion. One prairie rattler would be bad enough, but to speak of a whole den, and so close to the ranch house as that, seemed a bit as though Mrs. Wallace unconsciously magnified things.

But to his surprise Minnie immediately nodded her head.

"Yes, there were ever so many of the nasty wriggling things, Frank," she assured him in her convincing way. "Some were monsters, and others teenty little bits of snakes, but full of fight just the same, big or little."

Frank could suspect there might be a story connected with their adventure in which Minnie had played the part of heroine. He realized, however, he must depend on Lanky's mother to tell the facts, for Minnie had never been one to boast of anything she did.

"What happened to stir them up so, do you know?" he asked Mrs. Wallace.

"Oh! it was my ignorance—foolishness I'd better call it," she told him frankly. "I certainly did think it was a locust buzzing, and stepped over to see the little drummer, when—I almost stood on a bunch of curled-up baby snakes. Why, Frank, there was a dreadful monster all coiled with its head drawn back, ready to strike at me and that buzzing sound going harder than ever."

She shut her eyes as though once again seeing the fear-inspiring sight.

"But—it didn't strike you Mom?" asked Lanky weakly.

"No," replied Mrs. Wallace, turning a fond look on her companion. "Just in the nick of time this brave girl snatched me back, exactly as if she had all the strength of Lige Smith in her arm!"

Frank felt prouder of Minnie than ever before—to hear how in time of an emergency she could act promptly, instead of squealing as some girls certainly would have done.

"Then I fainted from the shock," the lady continued, "but not before I saw that snake dart out of coil in the effort to reach me and, failing, draw back again on the defensive. Minnie actually dragged me, with all my weight, some distance away from the reptiles' den, and when later on I came to, there was not a single snake in sight."

"Min, you're just the finest trump ever," exclaimed Lanky. "I sure take off my hat to a girl like you. But didn't you two hear all the noise that was going on up around the ranch house?"

"Yes, I heard it, and was puzzled to know what the shouting and all that black smoke could mean," Minnie admitted. "But your mother still lay in that swoon, and my first duty was to her."

"She actually went past the den again, so as to get some cold water from the spring," explained Mrs. Wallace, turning to her husband, who arrived just then. "It was that that revived me. But I felt so weak and shaky that although both of us were greatly concerned on account of the dreadful sounds we heard and all that black smoke, we were some time in getting started for the house."

Minnie had left the group, knowing that Mrs. Wallace would be telling it all over again to her husband, and of course repeating her praise. Frank understand the modesty that could not bear to hear her own heroism praised, and he hurried after Minnie, walking with her to view the now almost gutted barn, which would soon be only a blackened pile, never to be rebuilt.

Great was the surprise of Lige Smith and the other punchers when they learned from Frank what had happened to alarm the ladies.

"Did you ever hear of such colossal nerve as those snakes showed in locatin' so close to human beings and actually fixing up a vipers' nest?" burst out Lige. "Boys, I take it that looks like a deadly insult. Reckon as how we ain't no use around these diggings, since the ole barn's a goner. Let's get busy and clean out that snake hole."

Nothing could please the punchers better, and there was an immediate scurrying around for poles and anything else that was likely to prove useful in bringing destruction to the "owdacious rattler crowd," as Jerry Brime remarked.

Of course, all three boys went along with the crowd to see how the extermination of the prairie rattlesnakes progressed. Lanky smothered his abject dislike and vowed he would be the death of that big reptile because of which his mother had just passed through such suffering.

"I'd like to say I'd given one of the wrigglers a stiff crack on the head so's to break his scaly neck," he confided to Paul, who limped along, bent on seeing all the fun there was to see.

"And you could get the rattles to show when you tell the yarn," suggested Paul. "I've got three of the same at home—used to hunt snakes every spring, just to know there was one less poisonous creature laid out stiff."

The crowd were soon on the spot. They found that the nest of snakes was not a creature of the imagination. Several "bouncers," as Lanky called them, set up a droning buzz as the party approached, and being quickly located were attacked with the poles and pistols.

Frank and Lanky were in the midst of the fray. A big rattler came for Frank, but he caught the reptile in the head with a rock.

"Look out!" yelled Lanky suddenly.

Frank whirled around, to see a medium-sized snake in the act of dropping from a bush just behind him. He flung another rock and at the same instant Lanky hit the snake with a club he carried.

"On your guard, boys!" yelled one of the cowboys. "We're in a nest of 'em."

"This is too much for me!" gasped Paul, and lost no time in limping to a distance.

"Take that!" yelled Frank, and struck at another snake with a pole he had picked up.

"There you are," came from Lanky, and he quickly dispatched three small snakes squirming from between some rocks. He had hardly done this when he gave a mad yell as another snake wound itself around his ankle.

Crack! It was the report of Lige Smith's pistol. He had aimed at the snake's head. His aim was true and the reptile dropped to the ground and went whipping out of sight in the bushes.

"Gosh, but that was a narrow escape," murmured Lanky, his face growing pale.

"I'll say so," was the reply. "But come on, there are more snakes over yonder."

The work of fighting the reptiles went on, and when the big ones had been settled even Paul took a hand in cleaning out what remained.

"Say, Frank, did you see me get a crack at that corking big one?" Lanky exclaimed, beaming with excitement and the knowledge that he was gradually overcoming his excessive fear of the entire snake family.

"It may be the granddaddy of the whole bunch," Frank told him, "and, as like as not, the very one that struck at your mother."

"I'm believing in that way, anyhow," affirmed the tall boy. "And now for getting his rattle box."

"Be sure to cut his head off first," warned Frank. "I've known of cases where a rattler believed to be done for was able to coil up and strike a fellow's leg with his poisoned fangs."

When the punchers and the boys got through with their self-imposed job there was not a live snake, small or large, in all that patch of woods.

"We'll sure keep our eyes peeled after this," said Lige Smith, as they started back to the ranch house "and it's a pipe cinch no snakes are ever going to hole out again in our wood patch."

Of course, Mr. Wallace was sorry to lose all the hay and straw that had gone up in smoke and flames, for it might prove useful during the coming winter season.

"But for one thing," he told Frank, when on another day they were talking over numerous plans, "we'll never think of rebuilding that barn, not having the same apprehension of forage shortage that haunted Uncle George. Besides, Lige assures me the winters are getting milder every season up here in the shadow of the Rockies, and that there will always be plenty of grass for our small herd."

The three boys were by degrees preparing to start on the long cherished trip to the mountains. Gold Fork and all its traditions of former glories before the diggings panned out, lured them more and more every day.

Lanky had persisted in his endeavor to prove himself of real cowboy caliber. He could ride any bronco that came his way, sticking on as he called it "like a burr in a darky's wool."

But one thing Frank noticed that roused his curiosity a bit. Somehow, the often expressed intention on Lanky's part to own and proudly wear as natty a pair of fringed and decorated "chaps" as any puncher could boast, seemed to have died out completely.

"What's happened to make you change your mind about those gaudy chaps, Lanky?" Frank asked one day, as their preparations for their trip neared completeness.

Lanky grinned good-naturedly.

"Shucks! I've only been looking around and observing some things that I didn't know before, Frank."

"As what, for instance?" demanded the other smilingly.

"First off the bat, it isn't the chaps that make the genuine puncher. I've noticed that generally the greenhorn has the niftiest outfit you ever laid eyes on and struts around when decked out like he owned the whole world."

"But, Lanky, every puncher does have chaps, and often more than one pair."

"Sure does, Frank. But—and here's where my argus eyes came in good—the finest rig he owns he keeps for extra occasions, like going to a dance or when taking cattle to the station for shipment; because, don't you see, on those special events he's apt to run across some of the girls."

Frank laughed at that, and wagged his head in appreciation.

"Your sagacity does you credit, Lanky."

"Look at our bunch at work on the range, rounding up strays, branding the youngsters, or doing any sort of work like that. Why, some of 'em even wear plain faded jean overalls, and the only things that would tell you they were punchers are their cowboy hats and the ropes they always carry."

"I can see you're making the grade, all right, old chum," chucked Frank. "And I give you a heap of credit for taking note of such happenings. Not much gets past your eyes—while they're open, I mean, Lanky."