Part 6

Releasing her ankles was more difficult. The anklets were of heavier construction and harder to break without injuring the girl. However, by placing a rock under the anklet and being careful, Ross finally managed to shatter the cast iron without more than bruising the girl’s slender ankles.

In an instant he had jerked the pack from one of the burros and spread his blanket roll out on the ground. Picking up the unconscious girl, he placed her on the blankets and improvised a pillow from his coat.

Almost opposite where the girl had been chained the tiny trickle of water had formed a miniature pool in the rocks. Seizing a tin cup from his camp outfit, Ross hurried to this pool, scooped up a cup of water, and in an instant was kneeling at the girl’s side.

Dipping his fingers in the water, he flicked it across her face, then carefully bathed her forehead, and then set to chafing her wrists.

It was fully ten minutes before the girl showed any evidence of returning consciousness. Then her eyelids began to flutter. Finally she sighed deeply, and her eyes slowly opened.

Stanley Ross thought he had never seen such a look of abject terror as now appeared in the girl’s eyes. It was as though she had just awakened from a terrible dream and was still laboring under its terrorizing influence. Such a look might have appeared in the eyes of a slave girl when Nero ruled in Rome.

For a moment, consciousness battled with that nightmare that had been seething through the girl’s brain and finally won. Her eyes opened wide. A half smile slowly crossed her face. Whatever might have inspired her terror, the girl evidently recognized in Ross a friend.

Her lips, dry and parched, moved with difficulty, but Ross saw that they framed the word “Water!”

Lifting her head, he dampened the girl’s lips from the cup and then allowed her to drink her fill. But weakness still held sway over her body, and she sank back on the blankets, exhausted. Her eyes closed again.

“Don’t try to talk,” advised Ross. “You just lie there and rest until I fix something for you. Then you can tell me about this thing.”

For once in his life, Ross was glad that he had taken another man’s advice. When he had started his desert pilgrimage an old prospector had advised him to include a few cans of soup in his outfit. Ross had demurred, seeing no use in packing superfluous weight, but the old desert rat had insisted.

Ross had included the soup. So far, he had had no use for it, but now it was to show its worth.

Collecting a few dry sticks from the stubby willows that grew around the pool, Ross soon had a tiny fire going. Opening a can of soup, he heated it over the fire and carried a cup of it to the girl.

“Oh, that’s so good!” she murmured after she had drained the cup. “Thank you.”

“Do you feel like talking?” asked Ross.

For a moment the girl regarded him with frank eyes. Then she shook her head wearily.

“Not—not just yet—please. I’m—so—tired.” She sank back onto the blankets.

Realizing that, for the present, rest was the most important thing for her, Ross covered the girl with a blanket and set about his camp duties.

He finished unpacking his burros and turned them loose to pick at the scanty tufts of grass that grew along the seeping stream. This done, he set about preparing his own meal.

It was already dusk, and by the time he had cooked and eaten his supper darkness had settled down over the little canon. Washing his few dishes in the pool, Ross set them aside and turned his attention to finding enough firewood to keep the fire going.

In the darkness this was somewhat of a task, and Ross was absent from the camp for some little time. When he returned he saw that his strange guest had evidently fallen asleep.

Ross threw some wood on the fire and sat down with his back against a rock. Filling his pipe, he lighted it and leaned back to contemplate the events of the afternoon and evening.

His first mental reaction on finding the girl had been one of intense rage that any one, no matter what the cause or conditions, could be so utterly inhuman as to perpetrate such an act. He was still angry now, but he had cooled off to the extent that he could consider the affair calmly.

There seemed to be no off-hand explanation whatever. As far as Ross knew, there was no human habitation in all this desert waste, yet this trail up the little canon had been used frequently and recently, so somewhere up the winding trail must lie a solution to the mystery. But what it could be, or whether he could ever solve it, Ross could not imagine.

The whole affair was grotesque, bizarre. Why any one should chain a young girl to a rock wall in the midst of a heat-scorched desert was utterly incomprehensible. The girl was not gross or criminal-looking. On the contrary, she was pretty, delicate, and obviously refined. Her clothes bespoke a far different environment. How any one could be so inhuman as to subject her to such treatment was unfathomable.

Sitting there, smoking and watching the girl, mulling the strangeness of the affair over in his mind, Ross could offer himself no explanation. The only thing to do, apparently, was to wait for the girl to awaken and then wait for her to talk.

At any rate, the adventure which he had craved seemed to be at hand. Where it would lead him he had no idea.

The fire gradually burned low. The girl slept on. Ross removed the pipe from his mouth. His head nodded. In half an hour the campfire had wasted to an ember.

The man’s head had sunk forward onto his breast; his body had relaxed comfortably against its support. He, too, was asleep.

Hours crept by....

With a start, Ross awoke. The first faint glow of dawn was creeping down into the little canon. It was morning.

Sheepishly, Ross rubbed his eyes, aware that he had allowed the healthy fatigue of a day in the desert to conquer his senses and bring sleep when he had intended to watch throughout the night.

Gradually the events of the evening before came back to him, and he looked across to where he had wrapped the girl in his blankets. The bed was empty!

_The girl was gone!_

_CHAPTER THREE_

ADVENTURE WITH A VENGEANCE

In an instant Ross was on his feet, the sleep fog automatically cleared from his brain.

One glance was enough. The dawn was far enough advanced so that he could see both up and down the canon. It was patent that the girl had vanished during the darkness.

The whole affair was so utterly impossible, so unreal, so like an Arabian Nights adventure, that Ross was almost prone to believe that it had been merely a dream, a desert hallucination. Not until his eyes again sought the canon wall did he convince himself that he had not been laboring under some mental aberration.

There could be no denying his eyes, though. There were the four heavy chains fastened to the canon wall, and there were the four broken shackles, mute evidence that he had stumbled onto a situation as exotic as one of the desert’s own mirages.

No, there could be no question that the girl had actually existed. Nor could there be any question that she had disappeared. The only living thing in sight was Archibald, who stood with head bowed over the dead embers of last night’s fire in his usual state of ignoble dejection.

At first thought it seemed impossible that the girl could have left camp, unaided, and it seemed quite as certain that no one could have taken her away by force, without rousing Ross.

As he considered it, however, Ross realized that exhaustion would come quickly to one chained to the rock and exposed to the sun without food or water. Recuperation would probably come quite as quickly. The girl had had both water and nourishment the evening before, and it would have been quite possible for her to have gained sufficient strength to leave, had she so chosen. There seemed to be no other explanation.

“Well, Archibald,” said Ross, falling into his whimsical habit of addressing the burro, “when I started this trip I thought that you and Percy were the only asses in the party. Now I am convinced there are three of us. Here I have just been craving adventure for months. Yesterday I blundered right onto the craziest kind of a mystery, and then I go to sleep and let the whole thing get away from me! Fools can’t think, but I suppose they’ve got to eat,” he finished to himself.

He set about preparing his breakfast, meanwhile pondering the affair. The more he pondered the more mysterious it became.

Breakfast finished, he washed his dishes and then stepped over to gather up his bed-roll. Instantly he stopped short. There before him, scratched in the level sand of the canon floor, was a message:

“_Please go away. There is only great danger if you investigate further._”

There could be no denying the sincerity of that message. Coupled with the silent testimony of the inhuman shackles, it meant that the girl, whoever she might be, was in real peril.

Regaining her strength, she had quietly slipped away in the night, but before going she had left behind a warning to the man who had released her. It was evident that she did not wish to draw a stranger into a danger which she considered hers alone.

The warning, however, reacted on Ross like a red rag on a bull. It was a challenge to his manhood, to his thirst for adventure. Somewhere up that narrow canon was mystery; and somewhere, too, was a girl in unknown danger, a girl who patently enough needed assistance and a friend.

It took but a few minutes to round up the burros and rope on the packs.

“We will now proceed to rescue the fair maiden.”

“Stick ’em up, an’ do it quick!”

Ross whirled at the sound of the gruff voice—and found himself looking squarely into the muzzle of an ugly six-shooter. Behind it, was the most villainous-looking countenance Ross had ever seen.

“Come on! H’ist ’em up!” again jerked out the owner of the gun.

The situation was too unreal to be taken seriously.

“Ah, Archibald, the plot thickens! First we meet Beauty; now we meet the Beast. Point that gun the other way, my friend. It might go off and frighten my long-eared friend here. He’s delicate, and I don’t like to have his nerves shocked.”

“H’ist them mits before I drill ya!”

Ross felt the muzzle of the gun jammed into his ribs, and a practised hand quickly searched his body. His automatic, carried for the sole purpose of exterminating rattlesnakes, was transferred to the other’s pocket.

The vicious attitude of the gunman was far too real to be taken lightly. There was no doubt that he meant business.

“Ya can let ’em down now,” said the gunman, stopping back.

Ross turned and surveyed his captor.

“If you don’t mind telling me,” he asked coldly, “to whom am I indebted for this early morning call?”

“Stow the flip gab. All I know is tha big boss said to bring ya in, an’ I’m bringin’ ya.”

“Then I’m to understand that I’m a captive?”

“Understan’ anythin’ ya please. Now git travelin’.”

Resistance was hopeless. His air of reckless bravado gone, boiling inwardly at the indignity forced upon him, Ross swung and trudged off up the canon trail.

For perhaps a quarter of a mile the narrow canon cleaved straight through the rock. Then it suddenly began a series of intricate turns, as though it had attempted a passage and had been baffled and forced to take a new direction about every fifty feet.

For a while, Ross stalked on without speaking. Suddenly he turned his head and spoke.

“Just where are you taking me, and who is the ‘big boss’?”

“Never mind askin’ dam’ fool questions. Keep movin’!”

After another quarter mile of sharp turns, the canon suddenly broadened, and Ross found himself looking out into a basin bounded on all sides by high, perpendicular rock walls, smooth and straight.

The basin was oval in shape, and near the center was a group of ’dobe buildings, five in number. Toward these the captor directed their progress.

As he advanced, Ross looked keenly for signs of life, but though he sought every possible nook and cranny with his gaze, he could see neither man nor beast. The place seemed to be absolutely deserted.

At the first building, a small ’dobe structure that stood somewhat apart from the others, Ross was ordered to halt. Opening a heavy door, the man motioned with his gun for him to enter. Ross stepped over the threshold, and instantly the door clanged shut behind him.

He heard the heavy bolt drop into place. Then he heard his captor walking away.

Then, for the first time, it dawned on Ross that he was actually a prisoner, and that he had been captured with some definite object in view.

The room in which he found himself was about twelve feet square. The walls were of ’dobe; the floor was of the same material, hard packed and smooth. There were two small windows, but both were heavily protected with thick iron bars, set deep in the hard-packed ’dobe. The furniture consisted of a crude table and chair.

A single test of strength showed Ross that he could never hope to open the door. A crowbar or an axe would be necessary for that, and there was no implement of any kind in the room. The walls were fully eighteen inches thick. Under the fierce heat of the desert the ’dobe had grown as hard as cement. Unless he received help from outside, there seemed to be no possibility of escape.

Time passed. Finally he ceased his idle wandering about the room and sank into the chair.

His pipe and tobacco still remained in his pocket. He took out his pipe, lighted it, and fell to considering his strange predicament.

It seemed that ages had passed before he detected approaching footsteps. The bolt was raised. The heavy door swung on its hinges. His captor stood outside, gun in hand. Behind him was a Chinaman, carrying a tray on which was food.

The Chinese entered the room, placed the tray on the table and arranged the food. As he was performing this service, he said in a low whisper, so low that his companion could not hear, “Missee say Wong flix good dlinner.”’

“Come on, Chink, make it snappy!” snapped the man with the gun.

The door slammed. The bolt fell into place. Ross was alone again.

Dubiously, he surveyed the food. The words of the Chinese came back to him, “Missee say Wong flix good dlinner.”

So the girl knew that he was a captive. Well, all he could do was wait. But who was she? And what did his imprisonment mean?

In the meantime there was no reason for wasting a good dinner. Ross was hungry, and in twenty minutes the last scrap of food had disappeared.

Settling back in his chair, he again filled his pipe and prepared to await developments with as good grace as possible.

It was hours later that he heard footsteps nearing his prison.

_CHAPTER FOUR_

ROSS IS INVITED TO DINE

Ross heard a key in the lock, and a moment later the heavy door swung open. It was the gunman again. He was evidently not mindful to take any chances with his prisoner, for he again was holding his revolver ready.

“Come on out!” he barked, motioning with the gun for Ross to step out of the room. “Tha big boss wants ya.”

“Oh, he does?” returned Ross. “Maybe I’ll find out now what all this is about.”

“You’ll find out all right. Mebbe find out more’n ya want.”

“You know, I don’t think I’m going to like you at all. I shouldn’t be surprised if I had serious trouble with you yet. But lead on!”

Ross’s persiflage was far from pleasing to the gunman. He glared malevolently at Ross for a moment, as if half minded to inflict physical punishment, finally thought better of it, and then jerked out, “I ain’t leadin’; I’m followin’. Git movin’!”

Ross was conducted to the largest of the group of ’dobe buildings, evidently used as a dwelling, and was ushered directly into a bedroom.

He had expected anything except what he now saw. The room was such as might have been found in a brown-stone mansion on Fifth Avenue. The floor was covered with a deep soft rug. There was a mahogany bed, with a spotless white spread, and a dressing-table of the same wood. To one side of the latter stood a full-length plate mirror.

“The big boss said ya was to shave, an’ then ya was ta dress fer dinner. Yo’ll find all tha togs there on that bed.” The gunman directed Ross’s attention to the bed with a flourish of his gun.

Ross looked. The garments on the bed comprised a complete evening outfit, from studded shirt to patent-leather pumps.

He was surprised to find that the clothes fit him well. The pumps were a trifle tight and the suit was a bit snug, but a half hour later, when he surveyed himself in the long pier glass, he was well satisfied.

“All right, keeper, let’s be on our way. I’m curious,” he said.

His captor conducted him down the long veranda, and a moment later he was ushered into a large room where a table was laid for dinner.

_CHAPTER FIVE_

A STRANGE DINNER

By this time Ross was prepared for almost anything, yet the room that he now stepped into was even more astounding than the bedroom.

In the center stood a table arranged for four. It fairly sparkled with glassware, silver and spotless linen. At one side of the room stood a huge buffet. Its top was well covered with glasses, liquor shakers and sundry bottles, the contents of which were obvious.

The occupants of the room chiefly held his attention, though. They were three, two men and a woman. Here, at last, he was to know the meaning of the strange events of the preceding twenty-four hours.

The two men were standing close together and had evidently been conversing. Both were in faultless evening dress. The girl stood apart; aloof, so it seemed. Despite her evening dress, Ross instantly recognized her as the girl he had found in the canon.

One of the men was young and exceedingly well built. His wide, heavily muscled shoulders suggested out-of-the-ordinary strength. His hair was wiry and red; its color was amply reflected in his ruddy complexion. The face was strong and would have been attractive but for one feature—the eyes. The eyes were small, deep-set, and far too close together. They might have been said to be piggish. The dull glint in them was not reassuring. Ross knew at once that he did not like this man.

It was the second of the two men, however, who was really striking. He was, in fact, an amazing figure. His stature was above the average height, over six feet, and he was thin to emaciation. Ross thought he had never seen so tall and yet so slender a man. He was so thin as to be ludicrous, yet there seemed to be a remarkable whipcord strength about him.

His face was narrow and as lean as his body. A thin, high nose divided a pair of piercing black eyes. It was the eyes that struck instant attention. Their everchanging lights fairly gleamed. They seemed to be alive with a thousand fires.

The impression was instantly registered with Ross that here was a man who was possessed of unusual personal power, or who was stark mad. Those eyes could allow of no other conclusion.

As Ross was ushered into the room it was this strange individual who instantly stepped forward.

“Ah, our guest has arrived,” he said. His voice was soft as velvet, yet it carried an irritating quality that was thin-edged and biting, and scarcely concealed. “Step right up, Mr. Waring; dinner will be served at once. Wong, the wine.”

From somewhere the Chinese, Wong, had glided forth and, drawing out a chair, indicated Ross’s place at the table. Immediately he had filled the glasses with a sparkling liquid. Ross recognized it as champagne.

There was no chance to reply. In fact, Ross was too bewildered to think of anything adequate to say. In a moment he would be himself again, but just now his wits were all at cross purposes.

As the elderly man greeted Ross, the girl and younger man took their places at the table as if they had only been waiting his arrival to proceed with the meal. As Ross stepped forward, at the servant’s indication, his host reached out and lifted the wine glass at his plate.

“We will drink to the health of our guest,” he said evenly.

Automatically, Ross lifted his glass. The others did likewise. For an instant the four glasses were held aloft, the lights playing on their sparkling depths. Then the elderly man turned to Ross with a rather elaborate low bow and said in a voice that was like gray steel:

“Mr. Waring, allow us to drink to your most excellent good health——_for tomorrow you hang_!”

The words were like an icy blast. Up to that moment the whole affair had been rather ludicrous to Ross. He had realized that he was in danger at times, but that this danger would involve the loss of his life he had not for a moment imagined.

Now he realized that his very life was at stake; more than that, unless he could find some way to extract himself from his predicament, that he was sure to forfeit it. There could be no denying the import of the toast. Ross did not know why, but he did know that this tall, lean stranger with the mad eyes meant to kill him as sure as he stood there.

For a moment, the young New Yorker lost his complacency. He stood with the glass poised in his hand, his brain whirling. But this was only for a moment. In a second he had regained his poise. Raising the glass to his lips, he drained it to the bottom and turned to his host.

“Thank you, sir,” he said carelessly, “for your kind wishes for my good health. I hate to dispute you, but I _don’t_ believe you will hang me in the morning. And my name is not Waring, either. It happens to be Ross.”

“As you will, Mr. Waring, as you will. Any name would do as well. And I assure you I shall have the pleasure of hanging you in the morning. Let me warn you, too, Mr. Waring, not to attempt anything. I want this dinner peaceful. It is an engagement dinner,” turning with an exaggerated bow to the girl, “the occasion of the betrothal of my dear niece to Mr. Beebe here. I _know_ you will be interested in that, Mr. Waring. But just to forestall any idea you might have of providing any unnecessary entertainment I have stationed my friends, Mr. Garfin and Mr. Poole, at the door with instructions to shoot if you get unruly. Now, let us eat.”