Frank Merriwell's Bravery Part 3

"H'm! Ha! I am; I am very sociable."

"So I observed."

"I have been wondering what we would do if a band of robbers was to hold up this train."

"I am sure I cannot tell what I would do. I scarcely think any person can tell what he would do in such a case till he meets the emergency."

"I presume you go armed?"

"In the West--yes."

Walker's thin nose seemed to resemble a wedge which he was driving deeper and deeper with each question.

"Would you mind permitting me to look at your revolver?"

"Yes."

The boy uttered that word, and remained silent, without offering to take the weapon out.

Walker coughed.

"H'm! Ha! I think you misunderstood me."

"I think not."

"I asked you if you would mind letting me look at your revolver."

"And I said I would mind."

"Oh!"

The Jew's voice sounded in Walker's ear.

"I haf a revolfer vat I vill sell you sheep. Id vas a recular taisy, selluf-c.o.c.ker, und dirty-dwo caliber. Here id vas, meester. Id vas loated, so handle id vid care. Vat you gif vor dat peautiful revolfer, meester?"

Walker took the weapon, glanced into the cylinder, to see that it was actually loaded, and then suddenly thrust it against the head of Frank, crying, sharply:

"Hands up, Black Harry! You are my prisoner!"

CHAPTER III.

A THRILLING ACCUSATION.

The words rang through the car, startling the pa.s.sengers, and causing them to stare in astonishment at the man and the boy.

The man with the revolver was quivering with excitement, while Frank, at whose head the weapon was held, seemed strangely calm.

Exclamations were heard on all sides.

"Black Harry!"

"Is it possible?"

"Not that beardless boy!"

"It's a mistake!"

"If that's Black Harry, his Braves are near, and there is liable to be some shooting before long."

"Sufferin' Moses!" came from the Jew, who owned the revolver. "Ish dat der ropper vat ve read apout der baper in? Stop der cars! I vant to ged off!"

"What do you mean by this crazy act?" calmly demanded Frank, looking straight into Mr. Walker's eyes.

"I mean business, and I am not going to fool with a fellow of your reputation a minute! If you don't put up your hands, I'll send a bullet through your head immediately!"

"Then I shall put up my hands, for I have no fancy for having the top of my head blown off."

Up went the boy's empty hands.

"That's where you are sensible," declared the man with the foxy face. "I have dealt with your kind before, and I know better than to let 'em monkey with me. I am a man with a reputation for catching criminals. At the sound of my name, the professional crooks in the East tremble."

"Walker does not seem to be such a very terrible name."

"Walker--bah! That's not my name!"

"No?"

"Not much!"

"Pray, what is your name, then?"

"I am Burchel Jones, the famous detective," declared the owner of the gimlet eyes, swelling with importance. "Out in this country the fools call me a tenderfoot, but I will show them the kind of stuff I am made of. When they want to catch their desperadoes and robbers, they should send for a tenderfoot detective."

The boy laughed outright.

"You are more sport than a barrel of monkeys," he said, merrily. "What do you think you have done, anyway?"

"I have captured Black Harry, the terrible desperado, who has been giving them so much trouble out here of late."

"You think I am Black Harry?"

"I do not think anything about it--I know it."

"How do you know it?"