CHAPTER XXV.

HOW IT RESULTED.

WHEN PEDRO took charge of Julian’s horse he did not lead him directly to the stable, but to the back part of the house, where he left him until he could run into the kitchen and procure another lantern. When he came out again he made a thorough examination of the animal, and having at last satisfied himself that he made no mistake, he ran into the house and pounded loudly upon the door of Uncle Reginald’s bed-room. The summons quickly brought that gentleman to his feet, and when the numerous bolts and locks had been undone, Pedro pushed open the door and entered without ceremony. The excitement and alarm depicted upon his features must have been contagious, for no sooner did Mr. Mortimer glance at his face than his own assumed a very anxious look.

“Did Julian ride Snowdrop away this morning, or did I dream it?” asked Pedro, before he was fairly inside the door.

“You did not dream it,” was the reply. “He did. Why do you ask the question?”

“Because here’s the very mischief to pay. I told you just how it would be if you turned that boy loose to run about the country like a wild colt. I shouldn’t be surprised if your little game was brought to an end in less than twenty-four hours.”

“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Reginald in alarm. “Speak out plainly.”

“I mean that if Julian rode Snowdrop away he has brought Bob back—that’s what I mean.”

Pedro’s employer was utterly confounded by this intelligence. His under jaw dropped down, and he looked at his companion without saying a word.

“It is the truth?” continued the Mexican. “Now where did he leave Snowdrop, and where did he get Bob? Either at Smirker’s or at the _other place_; and if he has been _there_, it proves something.”

“It does, indeed,” cried Reginald Mortimer, turning white to the lips. “It proves that some of my trusted men have turned against me; for he could never have gained admittance to either place except through treachery. I must talk to him, and see if he has learned anything he ought not to know.”

Uncle Reginald threw on his clothes with all possible haste, and hurried along the hall to Julian’s room. The door opened when he turned the knob, and entering without attracting the boy’s attention, he found him in the act of reading a letter. When Uncle Reginald saw the letter all his worst suspicions were confirmed. He knew where Julian had been, and he knew, too, by whom the missive had been written, and what it contained. Approaching the boy’s chair with a cat-like tread, he leaned over his shoulder and made an attempt to take the paper out of his hand; but Julian detected the move in time to defeat it. He sprung to his feet, and for a moment the two stood holding the letter between them, and glaring at one another like wild beasts at bay. Uncle Reginald was astonished at the look of defiance and determination he saw in the eyes that were fastened upon him. It taught him something of the spirit of the youth with whom he had to deal.

“Julian,” said he, in a tone of voice which he intended should frighten the boy into obedience to his commands, “I have a good deal to say to you; but, in the first place, give me that letter.”

“I would as readily give you my life,” was the prompt reply.

“Let go, I tell you,” said Uncle Reginald, in a still sterner voice, making a vain effort to unclasp the sinewy fingers that were closed upon the letter.

“Let go yourself. It is from my father. I have more right to it than you have, and I will not let go.

“I am your guardian, Julian, and have the right to control you, as you will quickly learn to your cost, if you do not obey me.”

“I don’t care if you are the King of the Sandwich Islands, you shan’t have this letter. I don’t believe you are my guardian. You have done nothing but tell me one falsehood after another ever since I have been here. You said my father was dead, and he isn’t. He is alive, and I have seen him—seen him, too, in prison and chained to the floor. You say you are my uncle, and you are not. You have no more right to the name you bear than your Mexican servant has—not a bit.”

“Who told you all this?” asked Uncle Reginald, making a strong effort to keep back the tempest of passion which was almost ready to break forth.

“Your man Smirker. I am going to have him arrested as soon as I can go to the fort. He killed a miner and stole his money; he told me so.”

“He told you so!” repeated Reginald Mortimer.

“Yes. He mistook me for a rascally accomplice of his—White-horse Fred.”

“Did Smirker introduce you into Hale’s rancho—I mean the place where you saw this prisoner?”

“No. The horse he gave me in exchange for mine introduced me there.”

“Well, go on. What else do you know?”

“I know you had better let go this letter instantly; for if you don’t——”

Julian finished the sentence by placing his hand upon the butt of his revolver; but before he could draw it from his belt Reginald Mortimer released his hold upon the letter, and bounding forward, seized the boy by the throat, and attempted to throw him to the floor.

Julian was neither surprised nor frightened. He retained his presence of mind. His first thought was not of defense but of the letter; and having secured that by thrusting it into his bosom he was ready for the struggle. How the contest would have ended if he had been left to himself it is hard to tell; but help was close at hand. The hangings at the foot of the bed were thrust cautiously aside, and a pair of eyes appeared and looked into the room. They watched the combatants a moment and then disappeared, and shortly afterward the hangings were again raised and three figures sprung from behind them. The foremost was Silas Roper; close at his heels followed the strange horseman whom Julian had met at Smirker’s cabin; and the rear was brought up by the feeble old man, who, by simply walking across the cellar the night before, had saved our hero from being carried away captive by Richard Mortimer.

At this moment the door through which Uncle Reginald had entered was cautiously opened, and another head was thrust into the room. It was the head of Pedro, the Mexican, who, after just one glance at what was going on inside the apartment, drew back out of sight.

“The jig is danced at last,” said he to himself, as he ran along the hall, “and those of us who are found in these parts in the morning will be called upon to settle with the fiddler. It is nothing more than I expected, but I know how to block this little game.”

Pedro went straight to the stable, led out the horse Julian had brought there a short time before, and springing upon his back, rode off toward the mountains.

Silas and his friends had come into that room on business, and their actions indicated that they were disposed to waste no time in carrying it out. The trapper walked straight up to Reginald Mortimer, and seizing him by the collar and tearing his hand from the boy’s throat, threw him at full length on the floor. Julian staggered to his feet as soon as he was relieved of the weight of his antagonist, to find a pair of strong arms clasped about his neck, and to hear himself addressed in terms of endearment, to which he listened like one in a dream. Then he felt himself forced into a chair, and knew that Silas came up and shook hands with him, and that he was followed by the feeble old man, who said something that was doubtless intended for a welcome; but Julian’s mind was in such a whirl of excitement that he could not understand a word he uttered.

“What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” asked White-horse Fred, bringing his hand down upon Julian’s shoulder with a force that fairly made the boy’s teeth rattle. “Can’t you say you are glad to see me, or are you above owning a brother who belongs to a band of robbers?”

“Let me collect my thoughts a little, and then I will talk to you,” replied Julian. “I can’t quite understand all this.”

“And there’s another as much in the dark as you are,” said Fred, pointing to Reginald Mortimer. “You perhaps imagine you are dreaming, and I know he wishes he was, don’t you, captain? There are two of us here whom you never expected to see in the flesh again; are there not? Take your time, Julian, and think the matter over, and while you are about it I will look around and pack up a few articles that may be of use to you, for we are going to find new quarters for you now.”

Julian settled back in a chair and gazed long and earnestly at all the persons in the room—at the old Mexican who stood at his side leaning upon his staff; at Silas, sitting upon the bed and smiling complacently at him as if he enjoyed his bewilderment; at Reginald Mortimer, lying bound and helpless on the floor, and who, like Julian, was almost overwhelmed with astonishment; and then at his brother, who was skipping about the room, overhauling the bureau, wardrobe and book-case, now and then depositing some articles which he took from them upon a blanket he had spread on the floor.

“_My brother!_” said Julian aloud. “How strangely it sounds.”

“Doesn’t it!” replied Fred, pausing in his work and looking over his shoulder at Julian. “But it is the truth. I don’t know what you think about it, but I am delighted to claim the relationship. A brother is something worth having out here in this wilderness, I tell you.”

“What is your name?” asked Julian.

“Fred—White-horse Fred, if it suits you better—sworn agent for a band of outlaws and rascals of which our worthy uncle here is the acknowledged leader. Any objections to my company?”

“Then you are not dead?”

“Do I look like it?”

“And you are not _Julian_ Mortimer?”

“By no means. How could I be when you are that lucky individual?”

“Then why did you tell Smirker so?”

“To help you out of a scrape,” replied Fred, picking up the bundle he had made and throwing it over his shoulder. “But I say, Julian,” he added, a shade of anxiety overspreading his merry countenance, “of course you are not aware of the fact, but you have jeopardized the life of one who is very dear to both of us by getting into this fuss with Uncle Reginald.”

“How?” asked Julian.

“Why, our father has been a prisoner in the hands of the band of which I am a member for eight years, and if anything happens to the captain—Uncle Reginald—his jailors have orders to shoot him as soon as word comes to their ears.”

“The news is on the way to them now,” said the robber chief, with savage emphasis, “and he will be shot before daylight. Pedro is already on his road to the mountains.”

“Who sent him?” demanded White-horse Fred.

“I expect he sent himself,” cried Julian, starting from his chair in great excitement. “I saw him put his head in at the door just as you came in. We must be off at once.”

“But where will we go, and what shall we do?” asked Fred. “We don’t know where father is; if we did, we should have released him before this time.”

“Well, I know where he is, and I have seen him. More than that, I’ve got a letter from him.”

“Hold hard thar!” exclaimed Silas, as Julian drew the letter from his pocket, and moved nearer the candle. “Don’t read a word of it here, for thar’s no knowin’ how many pairs of ears thar may be listenin’ to it. Come with us, an’ we will talk this matter over.”

Julian had never seen three persons more excited than the trapper and his companions were over the announcement he had just made. It did not take the form of words, but showed itself in their countenances, and in their hurried, nervous actions. They prepared to leave the room at once. Silas raised the captive robber to his shoulder as if he had been a sack of flour, while the old Mexican skipped before him like a boy of sixteen, and held up the hangings which concealed the entrance to the secret passage-way. White-horse Fred, who had looked into the muzzle of Smirker’s revolver without flinching or even changing color, was pale enough now, and the hand with which he extended Julian’s sombrero to him now trembled like a leaf. They left the room without saying a word, and followed Silas, who led the way along the passage to the cellar, where they found a man with a lantern waiting for them. It was Romez, the hostler. He was greatly astonished to see the trapper carrying Reginald Mortimer on his shoulder, but without asking any questions he turned and mounted a ladder which rested against the wall of the cellar.

While Julian was going up he had leisure to make an examination of the store-house. It was a natural cave in the mountain, and seemed to have no roof—at least there was none that could be seen. The wall against which the ladder was placed arose for the height of thirty feet, as smooth and perpendicular as if it had been fashioned by the hand of man, and terminated in a broad, level platform. When the parties stepped upon this platform they paused until Romez had drawn up the ladder, and then mounted to a second ledge of rock higher up the cavern. This ladder was also drawn up, and the journey resumed along a narrow, slippery path, that finally ended in a dark opening, which proved to be the mouth of a smaller cave.

The interior of this cavern presented a scene which filled Julian with astonishment. Almost the first object his eyes rested upon was Smirker’s burly form stretched out on a little pallet in one corner. He was securely bound, and did not look much now like the reckless desperado he had appeared when Julian first met him in his cabin. But the presence of this man did not occasion him so much astonishment as the sight of the gold that was scattered about the room. He saw it there in all shapes—in dust, nuggets, quartz and coin. It was stowed away in chests, tied up in little bags, and packed upon shelves and piled in corners as if it had been merchandise of some description. Julian had never dreamed that all the gold mines of California could produce as much of the precious metal as he saw collected in that one small room. The cave was also used as a receptacle for various odds and ends—rifles, revolvers, muskets, hunting-knives, saddles and bridles. As Julian glanced about him he told himself that he knew now what had become of some of the articles Uncle Reginald had missed from his rancho.

“During your travels to-day did you hear Smirker or anybody else say anything about some hidden treasure which he hoped to handle some day?” asked White-horse Fred.

Julian replied that he did.

“Well, here it is. This is the cause of all our trouble. If it hadn’t been for these yellow boys we might have been a united, happy family to-day.”

“I don’t reckon it’ll be very long afore we’re all together agin like we used to be,” said Silas, as he deposited his prisoner upon the pallet beside the other. “If the major is where we can get at him we’ll have him out this very night. How did you find him, Julian?”

“Smirker gave me a horse in exchange for mine that took me straight to his prison,” replied the boy. And then he went on to relate, in a few rapid words, how his curiosity had led him to walk about the rancho, and that while on his way to the kitchen he had found the prisoner. He described, too, how narrowly he had escaped discovery by the Mexican when he came in to remove the supper dishes, and told what had passed between Uncle Reginald and himself prior to the arrival of Silas and his friends.

“You are a lucky fellow, Julian,” said White-horse Fred, when he had finished his story. “I have been making regular daily journeys to that rancho for more than a year, and never saw or heard anything to lead me to suspect that affairs were not all right there. I used to wonder why there were four men at that station and only one, or at the most two, at the others, and have thought it strange that they should always be so particular to hurry me away. No matter how bad the weather was they wouldn’t let me stay all night. But what is to be done, Silas? Pedro has gone to the mountains to warn Hale and his crowd, and if he gets there before we do, the discovery Julian has made will be of no value to us.”

“‘Tain’t wuth while to do anything in a hurry,” replied the trapper. “Let’s hear what’s in that letter.”

Julian drew the letter from his pocket, and taking his stand near the lantern, began reading it aloud.

We do not reproduce it because its contents have no bearing upon our story. It was just such a letter as any one of us would have tried to write had we been placed in Major Mortimer’s situation. It described some events that happened long years before, and which we shall presently hear from the lips of White-horse Fred, and pleaded for assistance in language that would have wrung tears of pity from any but a savage.

Julian’s cheeks were wet long before he ceased reading, and once he stopped and turned toward the robber chief as if he had half a mind to take an ample revenge on him. The old Mexican wept like a child, and gave vent to his indignation by pounding on the floor with his staff; while Silas and White-horse Fred stood, with clinched hands and compressed lips, gazing at Julian with eyes that would grow dim in spite of them.

A dead silence succeeded the reading of the letter, which was finally broken by the trapper, who, after a short consultation with the two boys, determined upon a plan of action. This he explained in a few words, and preparations were at once made to carry it into effect.

Leaving the old Mexican to watch the prisoners, the rest of the party descended to the cellar and thence made their way into the stables. Julian mounted Snowdrop and Fred went in pursuit of her mate, but he was gone.

“Good luck attends us on all sides to-night!” said he gleefully. “Here were a dozen horses in the stable, and instead of taking a fresh one that blockhead Pedro selected an animal which has already traveled forty miles to-night. So much the better for us. We’ll overtake him before he has gone five miles.”

The party mounted in haste, and galloping out of the gate directed their course down the valley.