The Project Gutenberg eBook, Frank Reade, Jr., and His New Steam Man, or, the Young Inventor's Trip to the Far West, by Luis Senarens

Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

“Noname’s” Latest and Best Stories are Published in This Library.

The Subscription Price of the Frank Reade Library by the Year is $2.50: $1.25 per six months, post-paid. Address FRANK TOUSEY, Publisher, 34 and 36 North Moore Street, New York. Box 2730.

Frank Reade Jr., and His New Steam Man;
OR,
THE YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.

By “NONAME”,

Author of Frank Reade Jr.’s Electric Cyclone; or, Thrilling Adventures in No Man’s Land, etc.

CHAPTER I.
A GREAT WRONG.

Frank Reade was noted the world over as a wonderful and distinguished inventor of marvelous machines in the line of steam and electricity. But he had grown old and unable to knock about the world, as he had been wont once to do.

So it happened that his son, Frank Reade, Jr., a handsome and talented young man, succeeded his father as a great inventor, even excelling him in variety and complexity of invention. The son speedily outstripped his sire.

The great machine shops in Readestown were enlarged by young Frank, and new flying machines, electric wonders, and so forth, were brought into being.

But the elder Frank would maintain that, inasmuch as electricity at the time was an undeveloped factor, his invention of the Steam Man was really the most wonderful of all.

“It cannot be improved upon,” he declared, positively. “Not if steam is used as a motive power.”

Frank, Jr. laughed quietly, and patted his father on the back.

“Dad,” he said, with an affectionate, though bantering air, “what would you think if I should produce a most remarkable improvement upon your Steam Man?”

“You can’t do it!” declared the senior Reade.

Frank, Jr., said no more, but smiled in a significant manner. One day later, the doors of the secret draughting-room of design were tightly locked and young Frank came forth only to his meals.

For three months this matter of closed doors continued. In the machine shop department, where the parts of machinery were secretly put together, the ring of hammers might have been heard, and a big sign was upon the door:

No admittance!

Thus matters were when one evening Frank left his arduous duties to spend a few hours with his wife and little boy.

But just as he was passing out of the yard, a darky, short in stature and of genial features, rushed excitedly up to him.

“Oh, Marse Frank,” cried the sable servitor, “Jes’ wait one moment!”

“Well, Pomp,” said Frank, pleasantly, “what can I do for you?”

The darky, who was a faithful servant of the Reades, and had accompanied both on their tours in foreign lands, ducked his head, with a grin, and replied:

“Yo’ father wants yo’, Marse Frank, jes’ as quick as eber yo’ kin come!”

“My father,” exclaimed Frank, quickly. “What is it?”

“I don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout it tall, Marse Frank. He jes’ say fo’ me to tell yo’ he want fo’ to see yo’.”

“Where is he?”

“In his library, sah.”

“All right, Pomp. Tell him I will come at once.”

The darky darted away. Frank saw that the doors to the secret rooms were locked. This was a wise precaution for hosts of cranks and demented inventors were always hovering about the place and would quickly have stolen the designs if they could have got at them.

Not ten minutes later Frank entered the library where his father was.

The elder Reade was pacing up and down in great excitement.

“Well, my son, you have come at last!” he cried. “I have much wanted to see you.”

“I am at your service, father,” replied Frank. “What is it?”

“I want you to tell me what kind of a machine you have been getting up.”

“Come now, that’s not fair,” said Frank Jr. with twinkling eyes.

“Well, if it’s any kind of a machine that can travel over the prairies tell me so,” cried the elder Reade, excitedly.

Frank, Jr., was at a loss to exactly understand what his father was driving at. However, he replied:

“Well, I may safely say that it is. Now explain yourself.”

“I will,” replied the senior Reade. “I have a matter of great importance to give you, Frank, my boy. If your invention is as good as my steam man even, and does not improve upon it, it will yet perform the work which I want it to do.”

A light broke across Frank, Jr.’s face.

“Ah!” he cried. “I see what you are driving at. You have an undertaking for me and my new machine.”

Frank, Sr., looked steadily at Frank, Jr., and replied:

“You have hit the nail upon the head.”

“What is it?”

“First, I must tell you a story.”

“Well?”

“It would take me some time to go into the details, so I will not attempt to do that but give you a simple statement of facts; in short, the outline of the story.”

“All right. Let us have it.”

The senior Reade cleared his throat and continued:

“Many years ago when I was traveling in Australia I was set upon by bushmen and would have been killed but for the sudden arrival upon the scene of a countryman of mine, a man of about my own age and as plucky as a lion.

“His name was Jim Travers, and I had known him in New York as the son of a wealthy family. He was of a roving temperament, however, and this is what had brought him to Australia.

“Well, Travers saved my life. He beat off my assailants, and nursing my wounds brought me back to life.

“I have felt ever since that I owed him a debt which could not be fully repaid. At that time I could make no return for the service.

“Jim and I drifted through the gold fields together. Then I lost track of him, and until the other day I have not seen or heard from him.

“But I now find that it is in my power to give him assistance, in fact to partly pay the debt I owe him. This brings us to the matter in hand.

“Six months ago it seems that Jim who is now a man of great wealth, still a bachelor and for a few years past living at a fashionable hotel in New York went to his club. When he returned in the evening he found a note worded like this:”

Mr. Reade laid a note upon the table, Frank read it:

“Dear Travers:—I would like to see you to-night upon a very important matter. Will you meet me in twenty minutes at the cafe on your corner. I must see you, so be sure and come.

“A Friend.”

“Of course Jim wondered at the note, but he did not know of an enemy in the world, so he felt perfectly safe in keeping the appointment. He started for the cafe.

“The night was dark and misty, Jim walked along and had got near the cafe when somebody stepped out of a dark hallway and grasped his arm.

“‘Come in here,’ a sharp voice said, ‘we can talk better here than in the cafe.’

“Before Jim could make any resistance he was pulled into a dark hallway. Two men had hold of him and something wet was dashed across his face and over his hands, then he felt some liquid poured over his clothes and some object thrust into his pocket.

“Then the door opened again and he was flung out into the street. Jim was unharmed, but amazed at such treatment. He had not been hurt and was at a loss to understand what it all meant.

“The incident had taken but a few moments in its course. At first a thought of foul play had flashed across Jim. Then it occurred to him to look at his hands which were wet with some substance.

“He gave a great cry of horror as he did so. There was blood upon them.

“In fact his hands and face and clothes were almost soaked in red blood. For an instant he was horrified.

“What mystery was this? But he quickly changed his opinion and actually laughed.

“It occurred to him as a practical joke upon the part of his club friends. Satisfied of this he resolved to get even with them.

“He tried to open the door, through which he had been pulled. It was locked and would not yield.

“Then he decided to go back to his room and wash off the blood. But he had not gone ten steps before he was met in the glare of the lamplight by one of the club men.

“‘Thunder! What’s the matter with you, Travers?’ asked his friend.

“‘Oh, nothing, only a little practical joke the boys have been playing on me,’ replied Jim with a grin. Two or three others come along and Jim explains in like manner. Then he goes to his apartments.

“When he arrives there he is amazed to find the door open and a fearful scene within. The furniture, the light carpet and the walls in places are smeared with blood. Jim now got angry.

“‘This is carrying a joke a little too far!’ he cried, testily. ‘This spoiling the furniture is too much.’

“But he went to washing the blood from his hands. This was a hard job and took time. Suddenly half a dozen officers came into the room and seized him.

“‘What do you want?’ cried poor Jim in surprise.

“‘We want you,’ they replied.

“‘What for?’

“‘For murder!’

“Instead of being horrified, Jim was mad, madder than a March hare. He just got up and swore at the officers.

‘I don’t like this sort of thing,’ he declared. ‘It’s carrying a joke too far.’

“The officers only laughed and slipped manacles upon his wrists. Then they led him away to prison. Not until brought into court did poor Jim know that he had been made the victim of a hellish scheme.

“Murder had really been committed in that house into which he had been dragged, and where he was smeared with blood. A man unknown, was there found literally carved to pieces with a knife.

“Blood had been found upon Jim in his room. A trail led from the house to his room. A knife was found in his coat pocket. The evidence was all against him and his trial had just come off and he had just been sentenced to death by hanging with only three months of grace.”

Frank Reade, Jr., listened to this thrilling tale with sensations which the pen cannot depict. It was so horrible, so strange, so ghastly that he could hardly believe it true.

He arose and walked once across the floor.

CHAPTER II.
THE NEW STEAM MAN.

Then the young inventor paused before his father, and in a deeply impressed manner said:

“Then an innocent man stands convicted of murder?”

“Yes.”

“In that case it is the duty of every philanthropic man to try and save the innocent.”

“It is.”

“We must do it.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“But the question now arises as to how we shall be able to do it. Is there no clew to the real assassins?”

“No definite clew.”

“That is very strange. Of course there must have been a motive. That motive would seem to be to get Travers out of the way.”

“Yes.”

“And he has no enemies?”

“None that he knew of.”

“Ah, but what would any one gain by putting him out of the way——”

Frank Reade, Jr., paused. He gazed steadily at his father. Much passed between them in that glance.

“His fortune is a large one,” put in the senior Reade, “the right to inherit would furnish the best motive. There is but one heir, and he is a nephew, Artemas Cliff, who is a stockman, somewhere in the Far West. It could not be him.”

“Could not?” Frank Reade, Jr., sat down and dropped into a brown study. After a time he aroused.

“I am interested in this case,” he declared. “And my Steam Man is at the disposal of justice at any time. But you spoke of the prairies. Is there a clew in the West?”

“The only clew possible to obtain at present,” declared Mr. Reade, Sr. “You see detectives tracked two suspicious men to Kansas. There they lost track of them. Everybody believes that they were the assassins.”

“Well, I believe it,” cried Frank Reade, Jr., with impulse. “I can see but one logical explanation of this matter. Either Artemas Cliff has employed two ruffians to do this awful deed for the sake of Travers’ money, or—the case is one not possible to solve with ease.”

Frank Reade, Sr., did not display surprise at this statement of his son.

“Now you have the whole thing in a nutshell, my boy,” he said. “Of course, you can do as you please, but if you wish to take any kind of a journey with your new invention, here is a chance, and a noble object in view. That object should be to track down the murderers, and clear Jim Travers. It may be that the nephew, Artemas Cliff, is the really guilty one, but in any case, I believe that it is in the West you will find the solution of the mystery.”

“That is my belief,” agreed Frank Reade, Jr., “but now that this matter is settled let me show you the plans of my steam man.”

Frank Reade, Jr., drew a roll of papers from his pocket and spread them upon the table.

Upon them were the blue print plans and drawings of the mechanism of the Steam Man.

Frank Reade, Senior, examined them carefully and critically. From one piece to another he went and after some time drew a deep breath saying:

“Well, young blood is the best after all. I must say, Frank, that I am beat. There is no doubt but that you have improved upon my Steam Man. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” said Frank Reade, Jr. with gratification.

“But I am anxious to see this marvel at work.”

“You shall,” replied the young inventor. “To-morrow the Steam Man will go out of the shop upon his trial trip.”

A few minutes later Frank Reade, Jr., was on the way to his own house.

He was in a particularly happy frame of mind. He had achieved great results in his new invention, and here, as by design, was a chance afforded him to use the Steam Man to a philanthropic and heroic purpose.

The idea of traveling through the wilds of the West was a thrilling one.

Frank could already picture the effect of the Steam Man upon the wild savages of the plains and the outlaws of Western Kansas and Colorado.

Also the level floor-like prairie of that region would afford excellent traveling for the new invention.

Frank Reade, Jr., was a lover of adventure.

It was an inborn love. The prospect before him fired his very soul. It was just what he desired.

That evening he unfolded all his plans to his wife.

Of course Mrs. Reade was averse to her husband undertaking such a dangerous trip. But after a time she overcame her scruples and reconciled herself to it.

The next morning at an early hour, Frank was at the engine house of the steel works. The wide doors were thrown open and a wonderful sight revealed.

There stood the Steam Man.

Frank Reade, Sr., and a great number of friends were present. Pomp, the negro, was also there, as well as a queer-looking little Irishman with a genuine Hibernian mug and twinkling eyes, which bespoke a nature brimming over with fun. This was Barney O’Shea.

Barney and Pomp had long been faithful servants of the Reades. In all of their travels with their inventions they had accompanied them. Of these two characters we will say no more, but permit the reader to become acquainted with them in the course of the story.

The senior Reade examined the mechanism of the new Steam Man with deepest interest.

“Upon my word, Frank,” he cried, “you have beaten me out and out. I can hardly believe my eyes.”

Frank Reade, Jr., laughed good humoredly.

Then he went about showing a party of friends the mechanism of the new Steam Man.

The man himself was a structure of iron plates joined in sections with rivets, hinges or bars as the needs required.

In face and form the machine was a good imitation of a man done in steel.

In no wise did he look ponderous or unwieldy, though his stature was fully nine feet.

The man stood erect holding the shafts of a wagon at his hips.

The wagon itself was light but roomy with four wheels and a top covering of fine steel net work. This was impervious to a bullet while anyone inside could see quite well all about them.

There were loop-holes in this netting to put the rifle barrels through in case of a fight.

A part of the wagon was used as a coal bunker. Other small compartments held a limited amount of stores, ammunitions and weapons.

Upon the fender in front was a brake to regulate the wagon on a steep grade, and a slit in the net work here allowed of the passage of the reins, two long lines connecting with the throttle and whistle valves. A word as to the mechanism of the man.

Here was really the fine work of the invention.

Steam was the motive power.

The hollow legs and arms of the man made the reservoir or boilers. In the broad chest was the furnace. Fully two hundred pounds of coal could here be placed, keeping up a fire sufficient to generate steam for a long time.

The steam chest was upon the man’s back, and here were a number of valves. The tall hat worn by the man formed the smoke stack.

The driving rods, in sections, extended down the man’s legs, and could be set in motion so skillfully that a tremendous stride was attained, and a speed far beyond belief.

This was the new steam man. The improvements were many and manifest.

All the mechanism was more nicely balanced, the parts more strongly joined, and the steel of finer quality. Greater speed was the certainty.

Fire was burning in the furnace, steam was hissing from the retort, and smoke was pouring from the funnel hat of the man.

Frank Reade, Jr., suddenly sprung in the wagon.

He closed the screen door behind him. Pomp was engaged in some work in the coal bunker.

Frank took up the reins and pulled them. The throttle was opened and also the whistle valve.

Three sharp shrieks the new Steam Man gave and then he was away on the trial trip.

Out of the yard he went and out upon the highway.

Everybody rushed to the gates and a great cheer went up. Down the highway went the Steam Man at a terrific gait.

His strides were long and powerful. So rapidly were they made that a tremendous amount of surface was covered.

It was a good smooth road.

Just ahead was a man riding a horse. Near him was a bicycler who was noted as a fast rider.

Both had heard that the Steam Man would make his trial run that morning.

Bets had been made by both that they could beat the Man.

Frank guessed the truth at once.

“Ki dar, Marse Frank,” cried Pomp, with a chuckle and a shake of his woolly head. “Dem two chaps ain got a pile ob gall. Jes’ yo’ show dem dat dey ain’t in it. Won’t yo’?”

Pomp had more than one reason for beating the horse and bicycle. He had made a small bet of his own on the result.

It was evident that the parties ahead were ready for the fun.

Frank Reade, Jr., smiled grimly, and opened the throttle a little wider.

The next moment the Steam Man, the bicycle rider and the trotter were all flying neck and neck down the road.

Heavens! what a race that was!

Down the road they flew like a whirlwind. The dust flew up behind them in a cloud.

But the Steam Man just trotted by his competitors with seemingly no exertion at all. Frank turned with a laugh to see how easily they were distanced.

After a good trial, the new Steam Man returned to the foundry yard. As Frank stepped down out of the wagon, his father came up and grasped his hand in an ecstasy of delight.

“Bravo, my son!” he cried. “You have eclipsed my Invention. I wish you luck, and I know that you will succeed in clearing Jim Travers.”

“I shall take only Barney and Pomp with me,” said Frank Reade, Jr. “There will not be room in the wagon for more.”

“Well, they will be useful companions,” said the Senior Reade. “My son; may God be with you in your enterprise.”

Frank Reade, Jr., at once proceeded to make preparations for his western trip.

He visited Travers in prison and talked with him.

“To tell the truth, I am distrustful of my nephew, Artemas Cliff. He is an avaricious villain, and a number of times has tried to swindle me out of money. I know that he has led the life of an outlaw out there on the border.”

“But if he aspired to gain your wealth, why did he not attempt your life in some direct manner?” asked Frank.

“I presume he may have feared detection,” replied Travers. “If I am hung for the murder of this unknown man, the mystery will be sealed forever. The real murderer will never be known.”

“I believe you are right,” agreed Frank Reade, Jr. “Well, I will find this Artemas Cliff, and do the best I can toward clearing up the mystery and setting you right.”

“Thank you!” said Travers with emotion. “I feel that you will succeed.”

CHAPTER III.
ON THE PLAINS.

The scene of our story now undergoes a great change.

We will transfer the reader from Readestown to the plains of the Far West. Fully five hundred miles from civilization, and right in the heart of the region of the hostile Sioux.

Frank Reade, Jr., had transported the Steam Man as far as possible by rail.

From thence he had journeyed the rest of the ways overland.

Nothing of thrilling sort had as yet marked their journey. But they were upon the verge of the most exciting adventures as the reader will hereafter agree, possible to be experienced by man.

With the broad expanse of rolling plain upon every hand, one morning in June the Steam Man might have been seen making its way along at a moderate gait.

Frank Reade, Jr., with Barney and Pomp were in the wagon.

Frank held the reins and his keen gaze swept the prairie in every direction.

As far as the eye could reach there remained the same broad expanse. There was little to break the monotony.

Barney and Pomp had taken advantage of a lull in their duties to play a social game of poker in the rear of the wagon.

These two unique characters, although the warmest of friends, were nevertheless always engaged in badgering each other or the perpetration of practical jokes.

“Bejabers, I’ll go yez ten betther on that, yez black ape,” cried Barney, throwing down a handful of chips. “I’ll take me worrud it’s a big bluff yez are playin’. Yez can’t fool me.”

“Youse will jest find out dis nigger neber plays a bluff game,” retorted Pomp with a chuckle. “Jest yo’ look out fo’ yo’sef, Pish.”

“Begorra, I ain’t afraid av yez an’ I’ll go ye the tin,” cried Barney.

There was a broad grin upon Pomp’s face. He quietly picked up ten chips and then put in ten more.

“Hold on, Pish, I’ll go youse ten better.”

“Call yez, be hivens!” cried Barney, chucking in ten more.

Then he threw down his hand.

“Can yez bate that?” he cried, triumphantly. “Give us the pot, naygur. Yez are no good.”

But Pomp put one black paw over the pile of chips.

“‘Jes’ wait one minnit, Pish.”

“Whurro! Yez can’t bate it!” cried Barney, confidently.

He had thrown a good hand containing four kings and two aces. But Pomp quietly laid down four aces!

The picture was one well worthy of an artist. For a moment the two card players gazed at the six aces in amazement. It was a very curious anomaly that there should be six aces in one pack of cards.

Then Barney sprang up furiously.

“Begorra, it’s a big cheat ye are!” he cried, angrily. “Whoever saw the loikes av that? Be me sowl, the hull pile is mine!”

“Don’ yo’ put yo’ hands on dem chips, Pish!” cried Pomp, angrily.

“P’raps yo’ kin tell me wharfore youse got dem two aces, maybe youse can?”

“Bejabers, they war in the pack, but yez kin tell me perhaps where yez got those four aces yez put down there?”

“I tell yo’, Pish, dey was in de pack.”

“Be jabers it’s the fust pack av cards I ever saw with six aces in it,” retorted Barney.

“Now don’ yo’ gib me any mo’ ob yo’ sass, Pish!” blustered Pomp. “I’ll jes’ make yo’ sorry if yo’ does.”

“Bejabers yez ain’t the size!”

“Look out fo’ yo’self, Pish!”

“Whurroo!”

Over went the table leaf, down went the chips in the bottom of the wagon, and the two angry poker players closed in a lively wrestle.

For a moment Barney had the best of it, then Pomp tripped the Celt up and both fell in a heap in the bottom of the wagon.

They chanced to fall against the wire screen door in the rear of the wagon.

It was unlocked and gave way beneath the pressure, and the two practical jokers went through it and out upon the hard floor of the prairie.

They were rolled about in a cloud of dust, and had they not been of something more than ordinary composition they would have suffered from broken bones.

But as it was both picked themselves up unhurt.

The Steam Man had gone on fully one hundred yards before Frank Reade, Jr., perceived that his companions were missing, and at once closed the throttle and brought the Man to a halt.

“Serves the rascals right,” muttered Frank, as he saw them pick themselves up from the dust. “They are always skylarking, and no good comes of it.”

Frank had stopped the Steam Man. He waited for the two jokers to pick themselves up and return to the wagon.

But at that moment a thrilling thing occurred.

Barney and Pomp had fallen near a clump of timber.

From this with wild yells a band of mounted Sioux Indians now dashed.

They were a war party—painted and bedecked with feathers, and in the full paraphernalia of war.

The peril which threatened the two jokers was one not to be despised.

It was quite evident that the savages meant to cut off their rejoining the Steam Man. In that case their fate would be sealed.

But Barney was quick-witted, and saw the situation at a glance.

With a wild howl he broke into a mad run for the Steam Man. It was a question of life or death and he ran as he had never ran before.

Pomp was not so lucky. While Barney was distancing his pursuers, and actually succeeded in reaching the wagon, the darky suddenly found himself cut off.

Indian ponies were circling about him, the red riders whooping and yelling like veritable demons.

The poor darky was beside himself with terror and perplexity.

“Golly sakes alibe!” he yelled, with his wool literally standing on end. “Whatebber am dis yer nigger gwine fo’ to do? I’se a gone coon fo’ suah.”

It certainly looked that way. The savages circled nearer and half a dozen of them dismounted and rushed upon Pomp.

Now the darky was unarmed.

He had not even a pistol or a knife. Of course he was at their mercy.

In less time than it takes to tell it, the savages had closed in about the terrified darky, and he was quickly thrown upon his back and bound.

Then he was laid across the back of a pony and tied on securely.

Then a lariat was attached to the pony’s bridle, and the savages with their prisoner in their midst dashed away.

Barney had reached the Steam Man and climbed into the wagon.

Frank Reade, Jr., had seen the whole affair, and for a moment was too astounded to act.

Then as Barney came tumbling into the wagon, Frank turned the man around and sent him flying toward the savages.

This move was quickly made, and the Steam Man ran forward rapidly. But quick as it had been, the savages had yet succeeded in making Pomp a prisoner and getting away with him.

“Be jabers, they’ve got the naygur bound to a horse,” cried Barney, wildly. “Wud yez luk at the loikes, Misther Frank. We must catch the omadhouns and give them a lessin of the right sort.”

“I hope we may,” replied Frank, with great anxiety, “but I fear the red fiends will get to cover before we can overtake them.”

“Whurroo! It’s mesilf as will sphoil the loike av some av thim,” cried Barney, as he picked up his rifle.

The savages were racing like mad across the prairie.

They had caught sight of the Steam Man, which was to them some fiend incarnate, some evil spirit which would seek their certain destruction.

Terror of the wildest sort made them whip their ponies to the utmost.

It was a mad race.

But the Steam Man was gaining.

He took tremendous strides. Frank pulled the whistle valve, and the shrieks sent up on the air were of a terrifying kind.

The savages had all gazed with wonder upon the white man’s iron horse that followed its steel track across their prairies.

But this latest appearance, the Steam Man, was too much for their nerves. They could not bear it, and fled.

The Steam Man would certainly have overtaken them.

But, not visible until one had turned the timber line and made a rise in the prairie was a distant range of hills.

Toward this the savages were going. If they reached them, they would certainly succeed in eluding their pursuer.

And the chances seemed good.

Frank saw, with a peculiar chill, that they were really liable to reach the point aimed at.

He sent the man on at full speed.

Barney placed himself at a loop-hole, and commenced firing as rapidly as he could at the fleeing foe.

The result was that many of them fell, and the others redoubled their exertions to make an escape.

On went the chase toward the distant range of hills.

Nearer and nearer drew the ponies to the objective point.

With sinking heart Frank saw that the Indians were likely to reach them before the Steam Man could overtake them.

Of course this would mean safety for the savages, for the Steam Man could not hope to follow the ponies over the rough surfaces there encountered.

“Heavens, we are not going to save Pomp!” cried Frank, with a thrill of despair in his voice. “What shall we do, Barney? Is it not awful?”

Barney was busily engaged in placing fresh cartridges in his Winchester.

“Begorra, it’s save the naygur I will if I sacrifice me own loife!” cried the big-hearted Celt. “It’s me own fault, for sure, that he iver fell troo the door and got picked up by the red min.”

Frank put on all the steam he dared, and the man took tremendous strides forward.

“We will make a mighty effort,” he gritted, as he piled on the steam.

“Bejabers, here goes for wan av the spalpeens!” cried Barney.

Then the Irishman’s rifle cracked.

One of the savages tumbled from his pony’s back.

Barney continued to load and fire as fast as he could. But the opportunity was not long granted him.

Suddenly the cavalcade of savages dashed into the mouth of the pass.

They were out of sight in a twinkling. The Steam Man was obliged to come to a halt.

There were huge bowlders and piles of stones to block the passage. Barney and Frank Reade, Jr., exchanged glances of despair.

“That is the end of Pomp,” declared the young inventor, with a chill. “I have no doubt that is a part of Black Buffalo’s band, and he never spares a life.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE COWBOYS.

Frank had spoken truthfully. The band of savages was really a part of the tribe of which Black Buffalo was the chief.

Throughout all the Kansas border this blood thirsty fiend was known and feared.

He had ravaged more wagon trains, burned more settlements, and committed more massacres than any other Sioux chief in the Far West.

His name was a synonym of terror among the settlers, from Dakota to the boundary line of Texas.

By many he was claimed to be a white man or renegade. Others averred that he was a recreant Pawnee chief.