CHAPTER VII.

THE VIGILANTS.

“W-what’s the matter?” gasped Frank, sleepily arousing himself.

“Whist now, Misther Frank! There’s a quare loight out yonder on the perairy, an’ I thought I’d jist call yure attintion to the same, sor.?”

“A light?” muttered Frank, now fully awake.

He got upon his feet, and rubbing his eyes, stared at the distant blaze.

“That is odd,” he muttered. “It will do to investigate that.”

“Sure, it may be a camp fire,” ventured Barney.

“If so, then we must find out who the campers are,” declared Frank.

It was but an instant’s work to arouse Pomp.

Then the fires in the furnace were started, a line of hose was run to a creek near, and the boiler was filled.

In an incredible short space of time steam was got up, and the Steam Man moved ahead.

Frank held the throttle reins and directed the Steam Man’s course toward the distant camp fire.

For such it was, as became evident as they drew near.

At first no movement was made by the camping party, and Frank fancied that they had nobody on guard.

But as the Steam Man with clanking tread came within one hundred yards of the camp, a wild shout went up and a gun was discharged at the Steam Man.

Frank was now able to see the circle of the camp as revealed by the firelight.

Men had been rolled in blankets upon the ground to the number of a score.

But these were now upon their feet. Just beyond it could be seen that mustangs were corralled.

Frank Reade, Jr., had no way of knowing whether the campers were friends or foes.

He had fancied them a part of Cliff’s cowboys. Still there was a possibility they were not.

At any rate he could not treat them as foes until he learned positively that they were such.

So he brought the Steam Man to a stop just fifty yards from the camp.

The scene in the camp now was a ludicrous one.

The men were filled with mingled fear, amazement and stupefaction at the sight of the Steam Man.

The fiery eyes and nostrils and mammoth proportions of the man in the darkness made him look like a monster from the infernal regions.

The startled cries of the campers came to the amused hearing of those in the wagon.

“Great Jericho! What d’yer call that thing?”

“It’s the devil hisself!”

“He’s arter us!”

“That last drink at ther cross trails was too much for us boys. We’ve got ‘em bad.”

“I reckon we’d better fix up a prayer. Ther old gentleman has cum to git us.”

Barney and Pomp exploded with laughter. It was very funny.

But as soon as the pandemonium had for a moment subsided, Frank Reade, Jr. hastened to shout:

“We’re human beings the same as you. Have no fear. Who are you?”

The words had an astounding effect upon the campers. After a moment of stupefied silence the answer came back.

“Who the dickens are you?”

“I am Frank Reade, Jr., and this is my new invention, the Steam Man,” replied Frank. “You have nothing to fear.”

The campers now saw the three men in the wagon as Barney turned on the light of the calcium and illuminated the vicinity.

At once their fear fled and a comprehension of all dawned upon them.

“A steam Man, by thunder, and built all of iron!”

“Wall, that beats all!”

“What’ll come next?”

“That beats the iron hoss all holler!”

The campers now came thronging about the wagon. As the number was limited, Frank did not feel particularly uneasy, though he held the throttle ready and Barney and Pomp had their repeaters at hand.

But the fears of our three adventurers were quickly allayed.

One of the men, a tall, powerful framed man, came forward, and said:

“Wall, cap’en, we’re glad to meet you an’ yer Steam Man. My name is Sim Harmon, an’ I’m captain of this band, who are all Vigilants from Poker Gulch. We’re out on the trail of a gang of ruffians.”

“Vigilants!” cried Frank Reade, Jr., with joy. “Then you are not members of the Artemas Cliff gang?”

“Artemas Cliff!” cried Harmon. “He is the chap we want. If we can lay hands on him we’ll stretch his neck, you bet. D’yer know whar we kin find him?”

“I am on his trail myself.”

“The deuce ye are?”

“It’s the truth.”

“What for?”

Frank opened the door of the wagon, and descending shook hands with the Vigilant captain.

He told him explicitly of the mysterious murder of which Jim Travers had been adjudged guilty, but which it was believed was the work of Cliff.

Harmon listened with interest.

“So that’s another game of ther cuss!” he cried. “Wall, that’s a bad one, but I reckon we’ve a wuss count agin him, stranger.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Frank.

“Did ye cum across ther ruins of a ranch out hyar on ther perairy some miles?”

“I did.”

“Wall, that was onct Rodman Ranch, an’ Ralph Rodman was one of the best men in this part of ther West. But that ornery cuss Cliff fell in love with pretty Bessie Rodman, his darter, an’ when Ralph denied him the right to come a-courtin’ her, ther scoundrel jest brought down a gang of hoodlums an’ burned down the ranch, toted off ther gal, an’ killed all ther rest about ther place.”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Frank. “But you have not told me of Rodman. What became of him?”

“Wall, that illustrates ther villainy of ther cuss. Just previous to burnin’ ther ranch, two men, Sid Bowen an’ Jem Ducey, hired by Cliff, enticed Ralph to New York by bringin’ him a bogus message from a brother, who was represented as bein’ in great distress. That’s the last seen of Rodman. What they did with him we don’t know. But I’ve heard that Bowen an’ Ducey have returned, an’ Rodman didn’t cum with ‘em. It’s my belief he’s been done away with, an’ it’s all a game of Cliff’s to get the gal Bessie into his possession.”

A great cry broke from the lips of Frank Reade, Jr.

This story of Harmon’s he had listened to eagerly, and, as it was unfolded, bit by bit, a clear, concise comprehension of all now came to him.

He saw the hideous details, the cold, scheming construction of a deep and awful plot, involving murder and abduction and terrible wrong.

“Great heavens!” he gasped, wiping cold perspiration from his brow. “Your story throws a great light upon the matter which I have in hand, Mr. Harmon.”

“The deuce you say!” gasped the captain of the Vigilantes.

“It is the truth,” cried Frank. “I think I can tell you the true fate of Ralph Rodman, and you will agree that Cliff is the projector of one of the most awful double plots of crime that human being could be capable of.”

The Vigilantes all gathered around the young inventor, agog with interest.

“Ye don’t mean it?” gasped Harmon, with amazement. “Ye’re huntin’ Cliff then ther same as we are?”

“Yes.”

“What fer?”

“To force a confession or explanation from him of a mysterious murder of which his own uncle, James Travers, of New York, has been adjuged guilty and who is now in prison awaiting his sentence of hanging about a year from now.

“Oh, this villain is a deep one. But I have told you of that mysterious murder and, as Heaven is my judge, I believe the victim of that murder which was purposely thrown upon Travers was Rodman. You see Cliff’s object in throwing the murder upon Travers was to see him hang and thus inherit his vast wealth.”

For a moment after this statement silence reigned.

Appalled with the magnitude of the villain’s plot all remained silent. But the mystery was cleared up at last.

All understood now exactly the deep game of Artemas Cliff.

But one sentiment reigned supreme in the breasts of all. Artemas Cliff should be brought to justice.

It was easy enough to see how the wretch in planning to win Bessie Rodman had enticed Rodman to the East and there murdered him. Then to kill two birds with one stone he had caused the awful crime by clever circumstantial evidence to be thrown upon his wealthy uncle, James Travers.

Of course, with Travers’ death, he would inherit the millions left by him.

Ralph Rodman was dead. The ranch was a heap of ashes.

For these crimes Artemas Cliff was responsible. But Bessie Rodman was yet in his power. Travers was near the gallows.

These two people must be saved.

Frank Reade, Jr., saw the mission, as did Harmon.

Instinctively they clasped hands.

“I reckon we both know what to do,” declared the Vigilant captain tersely. “P’r’aps we kin work together. I’ll help you all I kin.”

“And I will help you,” replied Frank. “We will bring Cliff to justice if the Steam Man can help us to do it.”

“He will hang if I kin get my hands onto him.”

“But we must make no mistake. He is strongly backed up. You have only twenty-five men with you.”

“But they air all men,” replied Harmon, pluckily.

“I will not question that,” replied Frank, “but the weight of numbers would defeat you. Cliff has several hundred men in his command.”

“We’re not afraid of ‘em. Yet ye’re right enuff. It’s well fer us to go easy.”

“It is well to be careful,” said Frank. “I think that you had better keep along with us for a time.”

“All right!”

“I think there is no doubt but that the young girl whom Pomp saw in the hills was Bessie Rodman.”

“In course it was her.”

“They were taking her to Ranch V. Do you know where it is?”

“Yas,” replied Harmon, quickly, “that’s on Stone River, an’ it’s a pesky big place too. Thar’s a big stockade around it an’ armed men are allus a-watchin’ for fear an outsider will git in. So that’s ther place, eh? Wall, it will be hard to git Bessie out of Ranch V.”

“She shall be got out or I will give my life in the attempt!” cried a tall, handsome young plainsman with flashing eyes.

He looked much in earnest. Frank gazed at him critically. A little later he was introduced to him as Walter Barrows, a rising young stockman, and the lover of pretty Bessie Rodman.