CHAPTER II.

IN THE HANDS OF CIMARRON BILL.

A shout quickly brought an answer.

"Gentlemen," said Frank, "I'm for a parley. What say you?"

"We're willing. Parley away."

"If you were to get those papers I suppose you would feel yourselves perfectly well satisfied?"

"I reckon you've hit it good an' fair."

"Such being the case, if I come forth with hands up and empty, I take it you won't take the trouble to shoot me up any?"

"None at all," was the a.s.surance promptly given. "If you comes out like that, you has our promise not to do any shooting whatever."

"And how about the gentlemen below?"

"They'll do no shootin' unless you goes that way."

"Is this all on the square?"

"You bet! Bring out that old redskin with ye, an' let him keep his hands up, too."

"I think you've made a mistake, gentlemen; there is no redskin with me.

I am quite alone."

"We knows better! Ye can't play any tricks on us!"

"I am willing to convince you. Just keep your fingers off your triggers. Watch me as close as you like. I'm coming!"

Having said this, he left his rifle lying on the ground and rose to his feet with his hands held open above his head.

It must be confessed that he did not do this without some doubt concerning the result, for he knew those ruffians were very treacherous; but somehow he was satisfied that they had been instructed to obtain the papers, if possible, without killing him, and that belief led him to run the risk that he now faced.

He was ready to drop instantly if they fired as he arose into view. A moment he stood quite still, and then, as no shot rang out, he stepped through amid the boulders and walked boldly up the ravine.

In this manner, Frank walked straight into the midst of a party of nine thoroughbred frontier desperadoes, who were waiting for him, with their weapons in their hands.

The leader was a thin, dark-faced, fierce-looking man, who covered Merry with a revolver.

"I rather 'lowed you'd come to it," he said, in satisfaction. "But I told ye to bring that old Injun along."

"And I told you there was no Indian with me. I spoke the truth."

"Say, youngster, did you ever hear of Cimarron Bill?"

Frank looked the fellow over with his calm eyes. He saw a cruel, straight slit of a mouth, a thin black mustache, with traces of gray, and sharp, cruel eyes, set altogether too near together. He had heard of Cimarron Bill as the most dangerous "man-killer" in all the Southwest.

"Yes," he said quietly, "I have heard of him."

"Well, you're lookin' at him. I'm Cimarron Bill. The b.u.t.ts of my guns have seventeen notches in 'em. You may make the eighteenth."

Merriwell knew what the ruffian meant, yet he showed no signs of fear.

"I have heard," he said, "that Cimarron Bill has never yet shot a man in cold blood or one who was unarmed."

"I opine that's right, young man; but this case is a leetle different.

It's not healthy to irk me up under any conditions, and so I advise you to go slow."

Frank smiled.

"I have no desire or intention of irking you up, sir," he said. "I am giving you straight goods. There is no Indian with me."

"There was last night."

"Yes."

"Well, I don't opine he's melted into the air or sunk into the ground, an' tharfore he has to be yander behind them rocks."

"I give you my word, sir, that he is not there, and has not been there since last night."

The ruffians had gathered about and were listening to this talk.

Picturesque scoundrels they were, armed to the teeth and looking fit for any job of bloodshed or murder. They glared at the cool youth standing so quietly in their midst; but he seemed perfectly at his ease.

"Sam," said the leader, turning to one of them, "go out yander to them thar rocks an' look round for that redskin."

Sam, a squat, red-headed desperado, seemed to hesitate.

"What ef the Injun is waitin' thar to shoot me up some as I comes amblin' along?" he asked.

"Go!" said Cimarron Bill, in a tone cold as ice. "If the Injun shoots you, we'll riddle this here young gent with bullets."

"Which won't do me good none whatever," muttered Sam; but he knew better than to disobey or hesitate longer, and so, dropping his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, he stepped out and advanced toward the spot where Merriwell had been ensconced behind the boulders.

The brutal band watched and waited. Cimarron Bill surveyed the face of Frank Merriwell, more than half-expecting the youth would call for Sam to come back, knowing the fate that would befall him in case the Indian began to shoot.

But Sam walked straight up to the boulders, clambered onto them, and looked over into the hiding-place that had served Frank so well.

"Derned ef thar's ary livin' critter hyer!" he shouted back.

"Make sure," called the leader, in that metallic voice of his, which was so hard on the nerves. "Don't make no mistake."

Sam sprang down behind the boulders. They saw his head moving about, but, very soon, he clambered back over them and came walking rapidly away.

"The varmint is sartin gone," he averred.