CHAPTER XI.

FRANK’S STRANGE FRIEND.

There was no misunderstanding the big fellow’s meaning. It was plain enough that he intended to interfere.

“What’s that?” snarled the leader, glaring through the slits in the hood, the blazing brand shaking in his hand. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say,” retorted the other, standing over Frank and returning the glare with interest. “This fellow’s all right. He’s got nerve and sand. I’m not goin’ to stand here and see him roasted in that style.”

Angry imprecations burst from the hidden lips of Merriwell’s would-be torturer.

“Stand back!” he shouted, shrilly, flourishing the brand at Frank’s defender.

“Well, I guess not! I helped lace Eli Gibbons, for he was a thief, a liar, a wife-beater, and everything mean; but this case is different.”

“And I know you were in the Gibbons affair, so it’s not best for you to interfere here. I could have a warrant out for your arrest to-morrow morning, and, by the Eternal, if you meddle with me now, I will! This is my business. You were paid for your part of the work, and you did it.”

“Why, blame your eyes!” roared the big fellow. “If you dared to blow on me, I’d skin ye alive! Since I’ve seen what you mean to do with this chap, whose little finger is more man than the whole of you, I’d like the job of tying you up to a tree and giving you the same kind of a dose Gibbons received!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why, my father--my father would have you sent to prison!”

The big fellow snapped his fingers and laughed.

“That for your father! He wouldn’t touch me, for if he did, I would land his son behind bars. Oh, you can’t make any bluffs with me, for they will not go.”

Dyke Conrad, for it was that worthless rascal, literally gnashed his teeth. With the cruelty of a savage, he had planned to torture Merriwell, whom he bitterly hated, and now he could not endure the thought of being robbed of his fiendish enjoyment by one of his hired tools.

He appealed to the others.

“Stand by me, fellows!” he cried. “I’ll double the amount paid you!”

He turned to make this appeal, and, in that moment, the big fellow reached down with one hand, grasped Frank and stood him on his feet. Then, with remarkable swiftness, he retreated to the wall, bearing Merry.

“I’ll have you free in a minute,” he declared.

“Thank you,” said Frank, quietly. “I’ll not forget it.”

“Oh, I’m not doing this for any reward. I’m naturally a mean cuss, but I couldn’t keep still and see a fellow with your grit roasted by that miserable sneak.”

He whipped out a jack-knife and opened it.

Seeing the revolter was about to set Frank free, Dyke Conrad uttered a howl of rage and rushed at him. There was a short struggle, and then, with a scream, Dyke staggered backward.

“I’m stabbed!” he gasped, and fell to the floor, blood spurting from a wound in his side.

“The fool ran right onto the knife!” panted the big fellow, hastily cutting the ropes that held Frank. “I didn’t mean to hit him with the knife. I could handle him with one hand.”

“It’s unfortunate,” said Frank; “but he brought it on himself.”

“You will testify to that if he dies?”

“Yes.”

“I can depend on you?”

“You may.”

The horrified whitecaps gathered about their fallen leader, who was groaning and moaning on the floor, his blood-stained fingers pressed to his side.

“I’m dying, fellows!” whimpered Dyke. “I have been murdered! Oh, dear! I can’t die now--I can’t die!”

Frank Merriwell stepped forward, boldly, moving the helpless whitecaps aside, and knelt beside the wounded youth.

Dyke saw him and tried to move away.

“Oh, don’t!” he whined. “Don’t hurt me now! I’m dying!”

“I will not hurt you,” assured Frank. “I have no desire to harm you now. I am here to help you--if I can.”

“To help me?” repeated Dyke, in wonder.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Let me look at that wound. It may not be so bad, and I may be able to check the flow of blood till it can be properly cared for.”

“Would you do that--for me?”

“Yes. I do not wish to see you die. As yet you have done me no great injury. It is your father who has injured me.”

Frank opened the fellow’s coat and vest, and then made a slit in his shirt and under-garment, exposing the wound, which was bleeding freely. The sight of the blood completely unmanned Dyke, who sobbed:

“Oh, I know I shall die! I am not ready to die! It is a terrible thing to have to die! Save me--save me somehow!”

“Keep still,” ordered Frank, sharply. “It’s useless to get so excited. From the looks, I do not believe this wound is serious, although it is bleeding profusely. I want this hood.”

He took it from Dyke’s head and tore it into strips. Then, with skill that set those who watched him wondering, he bound up the wound, aided by the big fellow.

“There,” said Frank, “that will stop the bleeding in a measure; but you must get to the nearest doctor as soon as you can, and have the cut properly treated.”

“Come,” said the big whitecap, touching Frank’s arm.

But Merry waited till he had seen Dyke assisted to his feet.

“I can’t walk!” whined the fellow.

“It is walk or bleed to death, and you have your choice,” said Frank.

It was wonderful how soon Dyke was able to walk.

As Frank and the companion who had befriended him were leaving, one of the other whitecaps spoke to their companion.

“Look here,” he said, “you are not going to blow on us?”

“Not on your life!” was the answer. “You need not be afraid of that. I shall not blow on any of my pals.”

“All right. We didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry.”

Then Frank and his strange friend set out through the woods and the darkness, Merry following the lead of the other.

They proceeded in silence till the edge of the woods was reached. There the big fellow halted, saying:

“We will part here.”

“All right,” said Frank, holding out his hand. “I want to thank you for your friendship.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“I think you do. But for you, I might have walked on crutches for some time to come, or been crippled for the remainder of my life. I was in a bad box, and I could not help myself.”

“That is true, but I helped put you in that box. Not till you showed your nerve was I ready to stand by you. If you had been a coward, I should not have had the least sympathy with you; but I couldn’t stand by and see Conrad torture a chap with sand.”

“Won’t you tell me your name? You may be sure of my friendship. You need not fear to trust me.”

“I do not fear to trust you, for I am sure that a fellow with your grit is on the level; but I do not deserve your friendship, and I will not tell you my name. It makes no difference who I am. You may be sure I am of no account, or I would not be in with such a gang.”

“Why don’t you cut clear from them? You have the making of a man in you--you are a man! It is a mistake for you to be associating with such a crowd.”

“Perhaps you are right. I never thought much about that, but I shall think of it in the future. You have made me ashamed of myself to-night, Frank Merriwell; and I believe I shall turn over a new leaf.”

“I hope you will. If you ever need a friend, come to me. All you will have to do is to mention this time.”

“I believe you. Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

Thus they parted.