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.

However this was, certainly no red warrior was better known and feared than Black Buffalo.

And it was into his hands that Pomp had fallen.

Small wonder then that Frank Reade, Jr., was much alarmed, and even inclined to believe his faithful servitor’s life lost.

The merciless Black Buffalo would not be likely to spare Pomp’s life. The savages had captured him alive simply to drag him into the hills and torture him to death.

Barney began to bemoan the situation in violent terms.

“Och hone, the poor soul,” he cried, “he was a black naygur but he had a white heart jist that same. Be jabers av’ we cud only get near enough to the red omadhouns I’d loike to shoot ivery mother’s son av thim.”

“Well, I don’t see why the red fiends haven’t the best of us,” declared Frank.

“It luks that same, Misther Frank,” wailed Barney.

“I don’t see how we can ever get through that pass. The Steam Man might go there, but the wagon won’t.”

This was true enough.

The Steam Man on the level prairie was invincible, but on rough ground like this wholly useless.

Frank and Barney were beside themselves with solicitude and perplexity.

Frank even thought of going forth on foot to try and overtake the redskins. But of course the folly of such a course was quickly apparent to him.

Barney even attempted to carry out literally this plan.

He went so far as to open the door in the wire screen and leap down to the ground.

But Frank cried sternly:

“Barney, come back at once. You can gain nothing by such a course.”

“Shure, Mr. Frank,” cried the Irishman, “if yez will only let me go——”

“Come back,” was Frank’s terse command, which was reluctantly obeyed by the Celt.

Frank took a careful look at the hills.

He chanced to see a smooth pathway up the height, and which seemed to follow the course of the canyon or pass.

Up this the Steam Man cautiously advanced. As they continued to ascend higher a good broad view of the prairie was obtained.

And suddenly reaching an elevation from which a southward view could be obtained, Frank gave a sharp cry, and taking a glass from a locker, sprung to a loop-hole in the netting.

He scanned a number of objects upon the prairie far beyond.

At that distance they looked like a herd of buffaloes.

But with the glass Frank saw that they were mounted men and white men at that.

They looked like a roving band of cowboys. In any event they were white men and it was quite enough for the young inventor to know this.

“We can depend upon them to help rescue Pomp!” cried Frank, exuberantly. “Luck is yet with us, Barney.”

“Be jabers I hope so,” cried the excited Celt. “If they be white men and have a heart they’ll shurely do it.”

Frank instantly turned the wagon about and sent the Steam Man rapidly down to the prairie.

He blew shrill blasts upon the whistle to attract the attention of the white men.

In this he was successful.

As the Steam Man reached the prairie floor, the cavalcade or cowboys came dashing up.

They did not seem surprised at sight of the Steam Man somewhat singularly and drew up fifty yards distant while one of their number rode forward.

He was evidently the leader, and was a tall, dark, evil-looking fellow. Frank Reade, Jr. was not favorably impressed with his appearance.

As the young inventor noted that the whole gang had a forbidding appearance and with a chill Frank realized that he could hardly expect any assistance from such a cut-throat looking band.

The tall, dark leader doffed his sombrero as he rode forward and made a low bow.

“Buenos Senors!” he said with a Spanish accent. “I wish you a fair day. Do you travel far with your Iron Man?”

“I am glad to meet you,” replied Frank, eagerly. “We come from the East and we are here upon an important mission.”

The stranger smiled and bowed again with a peculiar affectation of politeness.

“I am pleased to hear it. Are you not the gentleman called Frank Reade, Jr.?”

Frank gave a start of surprise.

“I am,” he replied, quickly, “then you have heard of me.”

“I have, Senor Reade,” replied the cowboy chief, with another exaggerated bow and smile.

“Perhaps you know of my mission here?”

“I do,” was the reply.

Frank was more amazed than words can express. What mystery was this?

How had this fellow, who bore the stamp of a Spaniard, learned of his mission to the Far West? The young inventor was staggered for a moment.

“Your mission here,” replied the cowboy chief, politely, “is to hunt down two men who you believe are guilty of a murder which they skillfully foisted upon a certain man by the name of Jim Travers.”

“You are right!” cried Frank. “But how in the name of wonder did you know that?”

“I prefer not to say. It is enough that I know it.”

“It is strange that you should have learned it,” said Frank, “but I will ask no more questions just now in the face of a terrible exigency.”

“Ah!”

“I want to ask your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes”

“Pardon, senor, but I cannot see in what manner I can serve you.”

“You must assist me. One of my men—a colored man—has fallen into the hands of the Indians. They have made him prisoner and have just escaped with him into these hills. I ask your assistance in effecting his rescue.”

A peculiar smile played about the cowboy’s lips.

“Is he not the one you call Pomp?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And that man with you in your cage there is called Barney?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I see—Barney and Pomp. Well, Senor Reade, pray accept my compliments and the wish that you may see civilization again alive, which I do not believe will be the case. Ha—ha—ha! You have blundered into a death-trap!”

Something like a correct comprehension of affairs now began to dawn upon Frank.

“What do you mean?” he gasped in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Well, since you ask me I will tell you,” replied the cowboy chief with a laugh. “I am no Spaniard, as you might have thought. I am as good an American as you, and you will have good cause to remember my name in the near future, provided you escape from this trap. I am the man you are so eagerly looking for—I am Artemas Cliff.”

“Heavens!” gasped Frank Reade, Jr., “the man I am looking for!”

“The same,” replied Cliff, mockingly. “You have undertaken quite a daring deed, my fine inventor, but you will find that you have bitten off a very much larger slice than you can masticate.”

“We will see,” began Frank.

“You see these men?” continued Cliff. “They are my followers, tried and true. What is it to you whether my uncle, Jim Travis, should hang for murder? You can never prove him innocent—at least, never will, for you will never go from here alive.”

“Scoundrel!” cried Frank. “You are the real murderer!”

“Ha, ha, ha! Prove it if you can!” laughed the cowboy chief, derisively.

“I will prove it, if I have to drag the confession from your lips!” cried Frank, resolutely.

“Pshaw! Talk is cheap. Attention, men! Grab the throttle rein of the Steam Man and you can destroy him! Forward! Charge!”

Frank Reade, Jr., heard the command and knew well the danger. He was at a loss to account for Cliff’s knowledge of him and his invention.

The young inventor was not aware of the fact that for weeks previous to the starting forth of the Steam Man spies had been busy in Readestown.

But such was the truth.

Artemas Cliff had covered his tracks well. He knew that Frank Reade, the young inventor’s father, was a friend of Travers and would see him through, if possible.

Therefore he had provided well for giving Frank Reade, Jr., and the new Steam Man a hot reception on the plains.

With hoarse cries the cowboys descended upon the Steam Man. They urged their horses forward at a full gallop.

Frank Reade, Jr., knew well that it was possible for them to greatly injure his invention, so he made quick action to defeat their plans.

He shouted to Barney:

“Give it to them, Barney. Shoot every man you can.”

Then Frank opened the throttle, and let the Steam Man out for all he was worth.

It was an easy matter to outstrip the horses, and the Steam Man kept ahead, while the cowboys came thundering on in the rear.

Then Frank slackened speed so as to keep up a uniform distance between the Man and the horses.

While Barney poured in shot after shot into the midst of the gang of pursuers.

The cowboys began to drop from their saddles one by one. It was a destructive and telling fire.

And they strained every nerve in vain in an effort to reach the Steam Man. Frank kept the Man just far enough ahead to ensure safety and enable Barney to pick off the cowboys with ease.

It took Cliff some time to tumble to this little game.

When he did, and realized that he was simply decimating numbers without gaining ground, he called a halt.

The cowboys were now near the banks of a wide river which was really the Platte. Frank Reade, Jr. saw his advantage and brought the Steam Man to a stop. Then he seized a rifle and joined Barney.