CHAPTER XXI.

WHITE-HORSE FRED.

JULIAN, who had been congratulating himself upon the ease with which he was about to extricate himself from his perilous situation, was dismayed at this turn of events. He comprehended the matter perfectly. White-horse Fred, so called probably from the color of the animals he rode, was a member of a band of horse thieves and robbers, and it was his business to assist in moving the plunder from one point to another. The man Smirker belonged to the same organization, and it was his duty to receive and care for the booty until such time as the authorized agents of the band called for it. He had probably been on the lookout for his confederate when Julian arrived.

“But why didn’t he know that I wasn’t White-horse Fred as soon as he looked into my face?” thought the boy, so nearly overcome with terror that he did not hear the words that had been addressed to him. “And how does it happen that I was riding Fred’s horse? How did my uncle come by him? I can’t understand it?”

“Speak quick!” repeated Smirker, savagely, “and don’t try to draw no weapons. Who are you?”

He pulled back the hammer of his pistol with the thumb of his right hand as he spoke, and shifting his left from Julian’s collar to the butt of the revolver which the boy was on the point of pulling from his belt.

“Who should I be?” returned Julian boldly. “If I’ve no business here how came I by that horse I brought you? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“And if that fellow out there ain’t White-horse Fred how did he give Fred’s whistle so exact, and how did he come by Fred’s clothes? That’s what _I’d_ like to know.”

It was plain, both from Smirker’s tone and manner, that he began to believe that he had been a little too hasty. He let go Julian’s pistol, lowered the hammer of his own weapon, and stood gazing at our hero with an expression of great bewilderment on his face.

“Wouldn’t it be a good plan to ask him?” suggested Julian.

Smirker thought it would. He jerked open the door of the stable, and Julian, who was on the point of dashing his spurs into his horse and riding over the robber and making good his escape, found his way blocked up by a dashing young fellow, who rode gayly into the stable, but stopped short on discovering Julian, and checked the words of greeting that arose to his lips. For fully a minute no one spoke. The two boys sat on their horses staring at one another, and Smirker, after closing and locking the door, took his stand between them, looking first at the new-comer and then at Julian, apparently unable to come to any decision concerning them.

The strange equestrian was a youth about Julian’s age and size, only a little more robust, and had the two been dressed alike it would have been a matter of some difficulty for any one to tell them apart. Julian looked as if he had just come out of a lady’s bandbox, while the new-comer seemed to have bestowed but little care upon his toilet that morning. His dress consisted of a red flannel shirt, open at the throat and worn without a coat, coarse trowsers, which were thrust into a pair of high-top boots, and a broad-brimmed hat. A belt encircled his waist, supporting a knife on one side and a revolver on the other. He rode a small Indian pony, which, judging by its appearance, had been driven long and rapidly.

“Now, then,” said Smirker, who was the first to recover the use of his tongue, “one of you two fellows has got himself in the worst kind of a scrape—one that he will never get out of alive. Which is White-horse Fred?”

Julian had shown a tolerably bold front as long as a hope of escape remained, but now that he found the door of the stable locked upon him, and himself completely at the mercy of the two robbers, his courage gave way utterly, and he could not have made an intelligent reply to Smirker’s question even if he had had anything to say.

The new-comer was the genuine White-horse Fred—there could be no doubt about that, for he had given the signal when he approached the cabin, and more than that, Smirker had recognized him by the clothes he wore.

Giving himself up for lost, Julian waited almost impatiently for the strange horseman to speak, believing that the opening of his lips would be the signal for his own death. What, then, was his amazement when he heard the boy exclaim:

“White-horse Fred! If there is any one here that goes by that name, it must be you or that young gentleman over there.”

“Then you ain’t him!” said Smirker, growing more and more perplexed.

“No. Do I look like him!”

“You sartinly do, and act like him. What were you whistling out there for?”

“Oh, just to hear the echo.”

“And what made you come in here?”

“Because you opened the door.”

“You talk like White-horse Fred, too. But if you hain’t him you’re where you’ve got no business to be, and you’ll never get away, nuther.”

Smirker raised his revolver and pointed it at the boy’s breast. Julian, faint with terror, turned away his head and held his breath in suspense; but the stranger never flinched so much as a hair’s breadth.

“Don’t do anything rash,” said he calmly. “I have told you who I am _not_, and now you had better ask me who I _am_.”

“I don’t care who you are. You’re a dead man.”

“And you will be another in less than an hour,” replied the boy, without the least sign of alarm. “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer’s servant is close behind me. He will know that I came in here, and if I don’t go out again he will also know what has become of me.”

Smirker lowered his revolver, and falling back a step or two, stared blankly at the speaker, and then at our hero. The astonishment his face exhibited was fully reflected in Julian’s. The latter’s terror had all given way to surprise. He forgot Smirker and his revolver, the danger of his situation, and every thing else except the last few words the stranger had uttered: “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer.” Who was this fellow who was going about claiming Julian’s relative as his own?

“You have concluded not to shoot me, haven’t you?” asked the boy, whose coolness and courage were wonderful to behold.

“Who are you?” demanded Smirker.

“My name is Julian Mortimer. I am a stranger here, having but just arrived from the States. I came out this morning to take a ride, and it seems I have got into a place where I am not wanted. I beg pardon for my intrusion, and will thank you to open that door and let me out.”

“Julian Mortimer!” exclaimed Smirker.

“_Julian Mortimer!_” echoed the owner of that name, in a scarcely audible voice.

If our hero had been surprised before, he was doubly so now. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. If this stranger was Julian Mortimer, who in the world was _he_, Julian asked himself. Were there two boys of that name in existence, and was Uncle Reginald the guardian of both, and holding in his hands a valuable property to be surrendered to them when they reached their majority?

He rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and looked hard at the stranger, who seemed not a little astonished at the sensation he had created.

As for Smirker, he was as nearly beside himself as a sane man could well be; and, what was very singular, he seemed all of a sudden to have discovered some reason for wishing to keep as far away from Julian as possible, for he backed into one of the stables and stood eying him like a caged hyena.

“Well, what of it?” said the stranger. “Perhaps you don’t believe what I told you. If it is necessary that I should furnish proof, I can do so. Open the door and let me out.”

“You spoke that name just in time,” said Smirker fiercely, “for in a minute more you would have been done for. If you are really the captain’s cub, you are worth too much to us to be put out of the way yet awhile. But not much I won’t let you out-doors. Your story may be true, and it may not. I am going to keep you here till I can send to headquarters and find out.”

“All right,” replied the boy, swinging himself from his saddle and gazing about the stable as if everything he saw in it was full of interest to him. “I am easily suited. I’d as soon stay here an hour or two as not. I never was in a house like this before. What makes you call ’em all _ranchos_?”

“Look a here,” added Smirker, turning to our hero. “If this fellow is Julian Mortimer, who are you?”

“Are you not yet satisfied that I am White-horse Fred?” asked Julian in reply. “Perhaps you want me to prove it.”

Julian’s terror had all passed away now, and he was in his right mind again. There was still a chance of escape. Although he had not the remotest idea who the new-comer was, he had heard and seen enough to satisfy him that he was a stranger in that wilderness as well as himself, and that he was not White-horse Fred, consequently he ran no risk in continuing to personate the character he had been compelled to assume. Indeed, it was the only thing he could do. He was impatient to be off, too, for the real White-horse Fred might arrive at any moment, and then something would certainly happen.

“There’s a mystery at the bottom of this, and I’ll bet a horse on it,” said Smirker, shaking his fists in the air, and striding up and down the stable. “I know you are White-horse Fred,” he added, addressing himself to our hero, “but—but—what’s the rest of your name? Fred what?”

“Fred nothing. That’s all the name I’ve got. I never had any other.”

“Well, you have got another, and if it is the one I think it is, I don’t see how in the world you come to be riding about here. You had ought to be at the bottom of the lake. I’ll see the fellows below this very night, and have a new runner put on this route, or I’ll give up the station. I ain’t a going to have no such fellow as you coming about me. You can’t get out of here any too sudden.”

This speech was all Greek to Julian, except the last sentence. That he understood perfectly, and was quite ready to act upon the suggestion it contained. The moment Smirker opened the door of the stable he dashed the spurs into his horse, which sprung forward like an arrow from a bow, and tore down the path with the speed of the wind, the bay following. In a few seconds he was out of sight.

Scarcely waiting for Julian to get fairly out of the stable, Smirker slammed the door and locked it, and turning fiercely upon his new prisoner disarmed him by jerking off the belt which contained his knife and revolver. Having thus put it out of the boy’s power to do any mischief, Smirker suddenly seemed to become unconscious of his presence. He had much to think about, and for the next quarter of an hour he gave himself up entirely to his reflections, never once casting a single glance toward his companion. He paced up and down the stable with long strides, shaking his head and muttering, and trying in vain to find some explanation for the strange, and to him bewildering, incidents that had just occurred. They were more than bewildering—they were absolutely terrifying, as the expression on his face and his whole bearing and manner abundantly proved. He walked with a very unsteady step, his burly frame trembled like an oak in a storm, and now and then he raised his hand to dash away the perspiration which stood on his forehead like drops of rain.

The prisoner was as cool and collected as ever. Being left to himself, he strolled carelessly about the stable, examining every object in it, and occasionally directing his gaze toward the open door leading from the stable into the living-room of the cabin. Finally he leaned against one of the stalls, and when Smirker’s back was turned hastily pulled something from his pocket and tossed it into the manger—something that gave out a ringing, metallic sound as it fell. The noise, slight as it was, caught the man’s ear and aroused him from his reverie. He turned and confronted his prisoner at once.

“What you doing there?” he demanded.

“Nothing at all,” was the reply. “I am waiting as patiently as I can for you to explain why you have robbed me of my weapons, and are keeping me here. I assure you that my Uncle Reginald will have something to say to you about this before you are many hours older.”

“What you doing there?” repeated Smirker fiercely; “I heard something chink.”

“Perhaps it was my persuaders,” said the boy, lifting his boot and exhibiting a huge Mexican spur, ornamented with little silver bells, which tinkled musically as he moved his feet about.

“P’raps it was, and p’raps most likely it wasn’t. Haven’t I lived long enough to tell the difference between the rattling of spurs and the jingling of money? I have, I bet you. I’ll soon find out what you’ve been up to.”

Smirker walked into the stall in front of which the boy was standing, and then for the first time the prisoner began to show signs of anxiety. He closely watched the man’s movements, and cast frequent and impatient glances toward the door of the living-room, as if he were expecting and earnestly desiring the arrival of some one.

Smirker was in the stall but a few moments, and when he came out he carried in his hand a small canvas bag, at the sight of which the prisoner turned white with terror. Taking his stand under the lantern, Smirker untied the string with which the bag was fastened; but no sooner did his eyes fall upon its contents than he dropped it as if it had been a coal of fire, and his face grew livid with rage and alarm.

“Betrayed!” he roared, stamping his feet furiously upon the ground, and flourishing his fists in the air. “And, fool that I was, I might have known it! I suspected it from the beginning.”

“What’s the matter?” asked the boy, and his voice was as firm and steady as ever.

“What’s the matter?” shrieked Smirker, driven almost insane by his intense passion. “Do you stand there and ask me what’s the matter? It’s the last question you will ever ask me, for you are as good as a dead man already. Didn’t I say that there was something at the bottom of all this? _You_ are White-horse Fred—that bag proves it. It contains nuggets, and gold-dust, and money—my share of the swag which I have received and sent to the fellows below. I expected to get it from that other boy, and asked him for it; but of course he couldn’t give it to me, being an imposter. And I allowed him to go off scot free, and even told him some secrets that nobody outside the band ought to know. How long will it take him to ride to the fort and tell what he has seen and heard, and lead a squad of soldiers back here? And you helped him out in it—you, a sworn member of the band! Now, you shall tell me what you mean by acting as you have done. Speak in a hurry, or I’ll choke it out of you!”

Smirker, howling out these words with a fierceness and energy which showed that he was terribly in earnest, advanced toward his prisoner in a low, crouching attitude, something like that a wild beast would assume when about to spring upon its prey.

The boy’s face was very pale, but he bravely stood his ground. Knowing that escape was impossible, he was prepared to fight desperately for his life.

“Will you tell me?” asked the robber, creeping forward with a slow, cat-like motion.

“I have nothing to tell,” replied the boy, “except this: I have friends close at hand, and they ought to be here now.”

“Then I will have this business over before they arrive.”

“Come on, and I will show you what a Mortimer is made of.”

Before the words of defiance had fairly left the boy’s lips, Smirker bounded forward, and the two closed in a death struggle.