He would arrive at Lee's Falls after the bank was closed, but he was instructed to call at the residence of the cashier and leave the bonds.

Ernest had walked three miles when he met with an adventure.

On the borders of a small pond he caught sight of a small Indian boy playing. He was probably not more than three years of age. A stick he was playing with fell into the pond, and the little fellow reached over to recover it. In doing so he lost his balance and fell into the water; there was a scream and a splash, and Ernest no sooner saw the accident than he ran up, threw off his coat and vest, lest he should wet the bonds, and plunged into the pond.

The young bank messenger was an expert swimmer, and in an instant had seized the child and placed him out of danger. The little Indian boy clung to him instinctively, feeling safe with his young protector.

"Where do you live, little boy?" asked Ernest.

"Out yonder," answered the child.

Ernest had not been quite sure whether he would be able to understand or speak English, but having been brought up among white people he was as familiar with English as most white boys of his age.

Ernest looked in the direction pointed out by the boy. At the distance of a hundred rods he saw a rude log-house. Smoke was curling from a chimney. Outside sat an Indian about forty years of age smoking a pipe.

He seemed busily thinking, having the grave face characteristic of the average Indian. He did not immediately notice the approach of his little son. But when they were near the Indian boy uttered a cry, pronouncing some Indian word which possibly meant "father."

Then the red man looked up, and his grave face changed as he recognized his boy in the company of a young white stranger.

He rose hastily from his seat and advanced to meet the two who were approaching.

"What has happened?" he asked in clear and distinct English.

"Your little boy fell into the water," explained Ernest.

"And you saved him?"

"Yes," answered Ernest modestly. "I saw him fall and jumped in after him."

"Was the water deep?"

"About so deep," said Ernest, placing his hand about five feet from the ground.

"Then he would have been drowned if you had not been near?"

"Yes, if he could not swim."

"He is too young to swim. But you are wet," added the Indian, noticing for the first time the condition of Ernest's clothes.

"Yes, a little."

"Come in," said the Indian abruptly.

He led the way into the log-cabin.

There was a stove in the center of the room, and the air was so heated as to be uncomfortable. As he led the child in a stout Indian woman came forward with a cry and took him in her arms. Her husband rapidly explained what had happened. She instantly stripped the clothes from the child and put on a dry change.

"Now," said the Indian, turning to Ernest, "take off your wet clothes."

Though Ernest knew that it was wise to do so, he felt bashful about removing them in presence of the woman. But his Indian host brought from a nail on which they hung a pair of buckskin breeches of his own and offered them to Ernest for temporary use.

Ernest no longer hesitated, but made the substitution.

As the Indian was four or five inches taller than himself, the legs covered his feet. He laughed as he saw how they looked, and the Indian's serious face relaxed a little from the same cause.

"Now I will dry your clothes," he said.

He took a chair and, hanging the wet garments over the back, placed it very near the stove. Ernest hardly liked to lose so much time, but he knew that it would not be safe to wear the trousers in their soaked condition.

"You speak English very well," he said, turning to the Indian.

"Yes; I have spent much time with white people," was the answer.

"Do you support yourself by hunting?" went on Ernest.

"Yes, I am a hunter, but I go with rich white people from the cities and with Englishmen who want a guide."

"And do they pay you well?" asked Ernest, not quite sure whether he was not showing too much curiosity.

"Yes, they pay me well. I have some money in the bank."

Then Ernest remembered having seen the Indian one day at the bank. He was told at the time that his name was John Castro, and that he had several hundred dollars on deposit.



CHAPTER XV

JOHN CASTRO

While Ernest's clothes were drying the Indian woman was bustling about the stove. The boy did not suspect her object till she placed on the table a plate of Indian cakes hot from the oven and he was invited to partake.

It was the first time he had ever been a guest in an Indian family, and he hesitated, but saw that his refusal to partake might hurt the feelings of his new friends. He seated himself at the table, and found the cakes really very good.

When his clothes were dry he rose to go.

"Won't you stay all night?" asked Castro.

"Thank you. I cannot spare the time. I must push on."

"Where are you going?" asked the Indian.

"To Lee's Falls."

"I will go with you a short distance."

So they set out together.

At length John Castro stopped.

"That is your way," he said. "I wish you a pleasant journey. I will not forget what you have done for my little son. If ever you are in trouble send for John Castro."

"I thank you."

The Indian shook hands with him gravely and turned back toward his cabin.

All this had taken time. Ernest had no watch with him, but he estimated that the adventure had cost him two hours. However, he had saved a boy's life.

Again he had made a friend. The friend was an Indian, but Ernest was wise enough to consider that no friend, however humble, is to be despised.

It was clear that he would reach his destination late, and he began to wish that some carriage would overtake him in which he might ask for a ride.

But he walked two miles farther without encountering any team. At last, however, he heard the rumble of wheels, and turning round to see whether there was room in the vehicle, he saw that it was a buggy driven by a tall, thin man with dark hair, swarthy face and a long, aquiline nose.

The driver eyed Ernest sharply and brought the buggy to a standstill.

"Where are you going, boy?" he asked.

"To Lee's Falls."

"Where have you come from?"

"From Emmonsville."

"It is a long walk."

"Yes. Do you think you could give me a lift?"

"Perhaps so. Jump in."

Ernest lost no time in availing himself of the invitation.

"Where were you going in Lee's Falls?" he asked.

Ernest felt that it would be imprudent to mention that his destination was the bank, so he answered guardedly, "I am going to see the town. I may stop overnight."

"At the hotel?"

"Yes."

"It is not much of a place to see," said the driver, watching his companion curiously.

"It is larger than Emmonsville, isn't it?"

"Yes. How long have you been in Emmonsville?"

"Not long."

"Where do you live there?"

"At Mrs. Larkins'."

"Do you go to school?"

"No."

Meanwhile the horse was traveling very slowly, and it seemed to Ernest that he would go over the road quite as fast if he had continued to walk. He began to think it was his turn to ask questions.

"Are you going all the way to Lee's Falls?" he asked.

"I may go nearly there."

"I am very much obliged to you for giving me a lift. I was quite tired."

The driver smiled.

"Perhaps I have an object," he said.

Ernest looked an inquiry.

"The pleasure of your company," explained his companion with a smile.

"Thank you," answered Ernest.

"Now I come to look at you, I think I have seen you before," continued the driver.

"Where?"

"In Emmonsville—at the bank."

Ernest became alarmed. There was a significance in his companion's tone which excited his alarm. But he did not dare show his feelings. He remained outwardly calm, though inwardly disturbed.

"Very probably," he said; "I have been there."

His companion laughed. He was playing with the boy as a cat plays with a captive mouse. Ernest began to consider whether he could not think of some pretext for getting out of the buggy.

Suddenly the buggy stopped.

"I will get out here," said Ernest quickly.

"Not quite yet. I have not got through questioning you."

"I am in a hurry," said Ernest.

"You must wait till your hurry is over. Now tell me truly, are you not bound for the Lee's Falls bank?"

Ernest was startled.

"You see, I know more about you than you suppose. You are the bank messenger."

It seemed useless to deny it. The question now was, was his secret packet in danger?

"I have sometimes acted as bank messenger," he said warily.

"And you are acting in that capacity now. What are you taking to the Lee's Falls bank?"

Ernest turned pale. His worst fears were confirmed.

"Why do you ask?" he said.

"Because I want to know."

"What business can it be of yours?" demanded Ernest boldly.

"Don't be impudent, boy! Hand me the package of money."

"I have no package of money."

"Then you have bonds."

Ernest remained silent.

"I see that I have hit it. Now hand over the bonds, if you value your life."

He spoke sternly and looked so fierce that the boy messenger became more and more alarmed. He saw that he must give up the package, but determined to hold out in his resistance as long as possible.

"The package is not mine, and I have no right to surrender it," he said.

"I'll take the responsibility, boy. You can't be blamed, for you can't help yourself."

As he spoke he passed his hand over Ernest's vest, which he saw projected more than was usual, and discovered the hiding place of the important package.

Instantly he had torn open the vest and drawn out the envelope.

"I thought I should find it," he said in a tone of triumph.

Ernest felt very much dejected. It was a mortification to lose the first large sum with which he had been intrusted.

"Will you tell me who you are?" he asked abruptly.

"First let me know who you think I am."

As the driver spoke he eyed Ernest sharply.

"Is your name Fox?" asked the young messenger.

His companion laughed.

"I know Mr. Fox," he answered.

"You are either Fox or a member of his band."

"You seem to be a sharp boy; I won't tell you whether you are right or not."

"I suppose I may go now?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Ernest hesitated. This was a question which he could not at once answer. To go on to Lee's Falls without the packet would do little good. Yet the bank officers there ought to know that the bonds intended for them had been stolen.

"I will go to Lee's Falls," he said.

"Not at present; I have other views for you." As he spoke the robber turned his horse to the right. Wholly ignorant as to where he was to be carried, Ernest sank back in his seat and resigned himself as well as he could to the situation.



CHAPTER XVI

IN THE OUTLAW'S HOME

Where he was to be carried or what was to be his fate, Ernest could not conjecture, nor did he speculate much. It was enough for him to know that he was in the power of one of the notorious outlaws.

There was considerable difference between his appearance and that of the man at his side. He was silent and depressed, while James Fox, for it was he, seemed in excellent spirits. He turned to the boy with the remark: "You don't say much."

"No, for it would be no good."

"Brace up, boy! There is no occasion to look as if you were going to a funeral."

"Give me back the bonds and I will look lively enough."

"Come now, don't be foolish. These bonds don't belong to you."

"They were given into my care."

"Very well! You took as good care of them as you could."

"I shall be held responsible for them."

"No, you won't. I shall send your employers a letter letting them know that you did the best you could to keep them out of my hands. But perhaps they never heard of me," and he laughed.

"If your name is Fox they have heard of you."

"There is no need to beat about the bush. My name is Fox—James Fox."

"What made you take up such a business, Mr. Fox?" asked Ernest gravely.

"Well, I like that! You, a kid, undertake to lecture me."

"You were once a kid yourself."

The outlaw's face grew grave suddenly and his tone became thoughtful.

"Yes, I was a kid once. At sixteen—is that your age?"

"Yes."

"Well, at sixteen I was as innocent as you. I had a good mother then. If she had lived perhaps I would have turned out different. Why, it seems a great joke, doesn't it. I attended Sunday-school till I was fifteen. Are you afraid that you will come to harm?"

Ernest looked intently in the brigand's face.

"No," he said, after a pause. "I think you won't do me any more harm. But you can do me a great favor."

"What is that—return you the bonds?"

"I would ask that if I thought you would do it, but I don't expect it. I should like to have you release me and let me go home."

"I can't do that, for I want you to visit me. You may not think it, but I always liked young people. It will be quite a pleasure to me to have you for a visitor."

"Thank you, but I am afraid that I shall become an unwilling guest."

"Besides, it will be a pleasure to my little boy to meet you. He does not often meet other boys."

"Have you a son?" asked Ernest in surprise.

The outlaw's face softened.

"Yes," he answered. "He is a sweet little boy, as I can say even if he is my son. His name is Frank. Would you like to see his picture?"

"Yes," answered Ernest, with interest.

James Fox drew from an inner pocket a small card photograph of a young boy with a very winning face. Ernest was attracted, for unlike many boys of his age he liked younger children. He looked at the picture long and earnestly.

"It is a sweet face," he said at last.

"Isn't it?" asked the proud father.

"Is his mother living?"

"No."

"Was there no difficulty in getting it taken?"

"I suppose you mean on account of my profession. Well, there might be around here, but this was taken in Minneapolis—about a year ago. It was one of the few visits that Frank has made with me."

"Are you going to bring him up to your business?"

"Take care, boy!" said the outlaw, frowning. "Don't be impertinent."

"I don't mean to be. Do you think the question an improper one?"

"Well, perhaps I have no right to think so. Somehow the business, though it seems all right to me, I couldn't think of for my boy. No, I shall soon place him at school, where no one will know that he is related to the celebrated outlaw. I want him brought up to lead an honest life."

"I am glad you do. I respect you for that."

"My lad, you seem to be one of the right sort. As you will see my son I want you to promise me that you won't say a word about the business I am engaged in."

"I will make that promise. Then the boy doesn't know?"

"No, he has no suspicion. He is too young to think much about that. Perhaps if he had associated with other boys much he would have found out."

While this conversation was going on they had entered a wood, and the road became wilder and rougher. Indeed, it was hardly a road, but rather a lane, narrow and grass-grown.

Ernest began to wonder in what sort of a home his companion lived. His evident affection for his son gave Ernest a different feeling toward him. It was plain that he had a softer side to his nature, bandit though he was.

Ernest had never read the story of Jekyll and Hyde, but he felt instinctively that the man beside him had a double nature. On the road he was an outlaw, with corresponding traits, a rough and unscrupulous man, but at home and in the presence of his son, as Ernest judged, he was a warm-hearted and affectionate father.

In truth, the young bank messenger looked forward with interest to a meeting with the boy who was so dear to the heart of a man whom the world generally supposed to be a stranger to the softer emotions.

At length they reached a rocky hillside. Here the outlaw pulled up his horse and jumped from the buggy. Ernest looked at him in a questioning way.

"You can get out," he said. "We have arrived."

Ernest alighted and looked about him. He naturally expected to see a dwelling of some kind, but there was none in sight. If it was at a distance, why should they not have driven to it?

James Fox looked at him with a smile, enjoying his perplexity.

From his pocket he drew a large silk handkerchief.

"Come here, my boy," he said.

Ernest did not quite understand what he proposed to do, but he felt better acquainted with the outlaw now, and he knew that there was no cause for apprehension. He accordingly approached without question.

James Fox bandaged his eyes so that he could see nothing. Then he took him by the hand and led him forward.

Ernest could not tell what was being done, but he found himself walking on a rocky path, hand in hand with his guide. How far he walked he could not tell. It might have been two hundred feet. Then his guide stopped, and of course he stopped too.

Next the handkerchief was removed and he found himself in what seemed a rocky cavern. At any rate it was a large room of irregular shape, but the stone floor had been made smooth and was covered by a soft carpet. It was furnished like a sitting-room in a private house. There were comfortable chairs, including a rocking-chair and a capacious armchair. On one side of the room was an inviting-looking couch.

Of course there would have been perfect darkness but for artificial light. On a table was a large student's lamp and in a niche in the wall was another. Besides this there was a lantern hanging from the roof of the chamber, but this was not lighted.

Ernest looked about him with curiosity and surprise. It was something new to him and recalled a story he had once read in which a cave dwelling was described.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the outlaw, smiling.

"It is wonderful," said Ernest.

"You did not know where I was bringing you?"

"No. It is a cave, is it not?"

"Well, it looks like it."

"There are other rooms, are there not?"

"Yes, but this is my private apartment; my parlor, you may call it. This is my sleeping room."

He drew aside the hangings on the farther side and revealed an inner chamber of less size.

On a bed Ernest's attention was drawn to the figure of a sleeping boy—evidently the original of the picture which the outlaw had shown him.

"That is your son?" asked Ernest.

"Yes, that is Frank."

The outlaw's stern countenance softened as he regarded the sleeping boy.

Suddenly the boy stirred; he opened his eyes and when he recognized his father a glad smile lighted up his innocent face.

"Papa!" he said, and James Fox bent over and kissed him.



CHAPTER XVII

FRANK

After kissing his father the young boy looked inquisitively at Ernest.

"Who is that boy, papa?" he asked.

"I have brought him here to stay with you. Shall you like to have his company?"

"Yes, papa. You know it is very lonely while you are away. What is his name?"

The outlaw looked at Ernest significantly. He took the hint and answered: "My name is Ernest Ray."

"How old are you, Ernest?" went on the boy.

"Sixteen."

"I am only ten."

"Are you going to get up, Frank?" asked his father.

"Yes," answered the young boy briskly. "I got sleepy because I was alone. Where did papa find you, Ernest?"

"Oh, I met him outside and he took me to ride."

James Fox looked approval of this answer.

"I am glad you came with him."

By this time Frank had slid from the bed and put his hand in Ernest's.

"Come here," he said, "and I will show you my books."

Led by his small companion Ernest went up to a bookcase which he had not before observed in the main room. About thirty books stood on the shelves.

"Where did you get your books?" he asked.

"Papa bought them for me in Minneapolis. Were you ever in Minneapolis?"

"No."

"It is a nice place. Sometimes I think I would like to live there instead of here."

"You are not getting tired of home, are you, Frank?" asked his father half reproachfully.

"No, papa, but it is lonely here sometimes. Am I to live here always?"

"No, Frank. Some time I will send you to school. But you won't see me every day then."

"Then I don't want to go."

The outlaw stooped over and kissed the boy.

"Now, Frank, I have something to do, so you may amuse yourself with Ernest."

"Can you play dominoes?" asked Frank.

"Yes; have you a set?"

"Yes."

The boy opened a drawer in a bureau and drew out a box of dominoes. He poured them out on the table and they began to play the ordinary game. When they tired of that Ernest taught him a new one.

After they grew tired of playing Ernest read aloud to the boy from one of his favorite books.

They were sitting together in the armchair when James Fox, who had left the room, returned. He smiled approvingly at the picture. He was pleased to think that he had found a companion whom his boy liked.

"What have you been doing, Frank?" he asked.

"He has been reading to me, papa. He reads nicely and I liked it very much."

"I am sorry to interrupt you, but are not you young people hungry?"

"I think I could eat something," answered Ernest.

"Frank, you may bring him into the dining-room."

The drapery was lifted and they passed into a room as large as the one they were in. On a table in the center a substantial meal, consisting principally of roast beef, was set forth. An old colored woman hovered near, evidently the cook.

"Juba," said the outlaw, "this is a new boarder. His name is Ernest."

"Glad to see you, Massa Ernest," rejoined the old woman, nodding her turban. "Sit down here next to Massa Frank."

It seemed very strange to Ernest to reflect that he was the guest of one of the famous outlaws of whom he had heard so much. He was half inclined to doubt whether it was real. If he had been alone he would have pinched himself to see whether he was awake or dreaming. Here he was in the bowels of the earth on intimate terms with an outlaw and his family. How long was he to stay in the cavern? That was a question impossible to answer. Meanwhile he was hungry and the dinner was well cooked.

"Where is Uncle John, papa?" asked Frank suddenly.

Ernest remembered that one of the Fox brothers was named John, and he awaited the answer with interest.

James Fox seemed busily thinking and Frank had to repeat the question.

"Your Uncle John?" repeated the outlaw. "He went away on business."

"What kind of business, papa?"

It was a natural question, but it startled James Fox. He saw that as his son became older it might not be easy to evade embarrassing questions.

"You seem curious, Frank," he answered after a pause. "You wouldn't understand if I were to tell you."

"Will you teach me your business some day, papa?"

It was on the tip of the outlaw's tongue to say, "Heaven forbid!" but he only answered: "Wait till you are older, Frank. Then we will talk about it."

At length they rose from the table.

They went back to the main room and Ernest read a little more to the young boy. But Frank's eyes grew heavy and he finally dropped off to sleep.

"Shall I lay him on the bed, Mr. Fox?" asked Ernest.

"No, I will do so."

He took the boy tenderly in his arms.

"If I had known he would fall asleep I would have undressed him," he said.

After placing the boy on the bed he resumed his seat in the armchair and began to smoke. Finally he looked over at Ernest.

"Do you like my little boy?" he asked abruptly.

"He is a dear little fellow," answered Ernest.

"So he is," said the father in a soft voice. "You have no prejudice against him because he is my son?"

"No," answered Ernest. "Whatever you are he is not responsible."

"True, but all might not take that view of it. I don't know why I should speak so confidentially to you, lad, but if I ever regret my line of life it is when I look at him. I wouldn't like to have his future marred by his association with me. I wouldn't like people to turn from him because he was an outlaw's son."

"I hope you will forgive my boldness," said Ernest, "but don't you think you will ever change your mode of life?"

"It is too late; I am too well known. Yet who knows?" he said after a pause.

At nine o'clock Juba entered the room.

"Has John returned?" asked the outlaw.

"No, massa."

A shade of anxiety overspread the outlaw's face.

"He should have been here before this," he said. Then looking at Ernest he said: "I am going out a while. Lie down on the bed with Frank and if he wakes up undress him."

"Yes, sir."

An hour later Frank and Ernest were sleeping peacefully side by side.

When Ernest awoke the next morning Frank was still asleep on the bed beside him. In the large room adjoining, James Fox lay on the lounge. He had given up his bed to Ernest. He had not himself undressed, but had thrown himself on the couch in his ordinary clothes.

Breakfast was ready by the time they were, and the three sat down together.

"Where is Uncle John, papa?" asked Frank.

"He has not returned, Frank," said James Fox, soberly.

"What made him stay away all night?"

"Probably it was business," answered the outlaw, but Ernest noticed that he looked disturbed.

In truth he had been out till two o'clock seeking for his brother, who he feared had got into trouble. We know that he was in the prison at Crampton, whither he had been conveyed by Luke Robbins and Ezekiel Mason. Of course it was in the mind of James Fox that his brother might have been arrested, since this was a risk which he daily incurred.

Just as breakfast was over there was a new arrival. It was a tall, stalwart fellow whom James Fox addressed as Hugh.

"Do you bring any news, Hugh?" asked the outlaw eagerly.

"Yes," answered Hugh Humphries.

"Is it about John?"

Hugh glanced significantly at the two boys. Ernest he saw for the first time.

James Fox understood and followed Hugh out of the room.

"Well," he said inquiringly when they were out of hearing.

"Mr. John is in trouble," answered Hugh briefly.

"Go on," said James Fox. "Do you know where he is?"

"In Crampton jail."

"Go on. Give me the particulars."

"He was carried there by two persons."

"Who were they?"

"One I think was a farmer who lives in Claremont. The other seemed to be a Quaker."

"I don't remember any Quaker in this neighborhood. He must be a stranger hereabouts."

"I think I have seen him before."

"Where?"

"At the Emmonsville bank. I was passing there one day in disguise and, chancing to look in, I saw this man sitting on a bench near the paying teller's desk."

"Ah!" said James Fox, thoughtfully. "He may be a detective."

"That is what I thought."

"That is bad news, but the jail at Crampton is not very strong. I have been confined there myself and made my escape. However, John will need assistance from the outside."

"I see you have a new boy," said Hugh curiously. "When did you pick him up?"

"Yesterday, a few miles from here. He is a bank messenger."

"From what bank?"

"The Emmonsville bank."

"Then he may know something of this Quaker detective?"

"Well suggested. I will question him."



CHAPTER XVIII

FOX'S BAND

When James Fox returned to the apartment where the boys were still seated at the table he said: "Ernest, I should like to speak to you a minute."

Ernest followed him out of the room.

"Is there any person connected with the bank at Emmonsville who wears the dress of a Quaker?" began the outlaw.

Ernest hesitated a moment.

"Speak out, boy!" said Fox. "I must and will know."

"Yes, sir."

"Is he a detective?"

"He may act as such."

"Is he under pay at the bank?"

"I think he is."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"No."

"Was he at the bank when you left it yesterday afternoon?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know where he was?"

"I saw him ride away with a farmer."

James Fox and Hugh exchanged glances. Their suspicions were confirmed.

"Is he in any trouble?" asked Ernest, becoming a questioner in his turn.

"No. For aught I know he may be at the bank."

Ernest looked relieved and for two reasons. He was glad that Luke was not in trouble. Then he knew that when his disappearance was discovered Luke would leave no stone unturned to rescue him. It was a comfort to think that he had a powerful friend outside.

"That will do," said the outlaw. "You may return to Frank."

"How long are you going to keep me here?" asked Ernest anxiously.

"Are you tired of remaining with us?"

There was something in the outlaw's tone that savored of kindness. Ernest felt that in some way he had ingratiated himself with him.

"I would like my freedom. I am not used to confinement," he said.

"Very natural. I cannot let you go just yet, but I will not allow you to be harmed. Listen! I shall be away all day probably. Do what you can to amuse Frank."

"I will. I should be very lonely without him."

"That is a good boy, Hugh," said James Fox, as Ernest left them. "I should like to keep him with us."

"Why don't you then?"

"I am afraid he would be unhappy."

"I never knew you to take such a liking to a boy before."

"I never have. Indeed I have seldom met any. All my dealings have been with men. But, Hugh, we must lose no time. We must try to rescue John. It is no more than he would do for me if our cases were reversed."

"Very well, captain. I am ready to follow wherever you lead."

"I know that, Hugh. You have always been faithful to my brother and myself."

"I always will be, captain," said Hugh, with a look of loyal devotion.

"I know it. I am sure that we have no better friend than Hugh Humphries."

"You only do me justice, captain. Will you forgive me if I say something?"

"Say what you please, Hugh."

"What you have said of me is just, but I don't think you can say it of all in the band."

"Is there anyone whom you suspect?"

"I don't take much stock in Peter Longman."

"I am afraid you are suspicious, Hugh."

"Not without cause. I have noticed some things about him that I don't like. I think he is quite capable of turning against you."

"I have never remarked anything of the sort, but I know you would not speak without cause. Tell me what you want me to do."

"Only to be on your guard. Don't trust Peter as you trust me."

"I never have. And now have you any suggestions to make?"

"You might visit this farmer who helped the Quaker arrest your brother."

"It may be a good plan. Who is the farmer?"

"His name is Ezekiel Mason."

"I know where he lives. He is the last man I should suppose would be capable of such mischief."

"He could have done nothing without the Quaker's help."

"Very well, we will take the farm on the way. Still I don't know that we shall learn anything beyond what we already know."

Before leaving the cave they disguised themselves as farm workmen. In this dress they approached the farmhouse, but there was something that diverted them from their original purpose and led them to keep their distance.

Sitting on the portico was a tall man dressed as a Quaker.

"That's the man!" said Hugh quickly. "That's the man who drove up to the jail last evening with your brother."

James Fox looked at him closely.

"It is best to let sleeping dogs lie," he said. "We will push on to the jail."



CHAPTER XIX

LIVING WITH THIEVES

Meanwhile Ernest was left in the cave with Frank. He had been brought in blindfolded and was therefore ignorant as to the entrance or exit. He thought he might, without arousing the boy's suspicion, seek information from him on these points.

"Are there many rooms here, Frank?" he asked.

"Oh, a good many," answered the boy.

"Have you been in many?"

"I have been around with papa."

"I should like to go around," said Ernest. "Suppose we take a little walk."

The boy was quite ready to accept any suggestion from Ernest. So he took his hand and they went from the main room farther into the cavern.

Ernest found that only the portion near the entrance had been furnished. Beyond there was a large amount of empty space. Here and there a small light revealed trunks and boxes arranged without regard to regularity. These, Ernest conjectured, contained stolen articles which had accumulated during the years in which the dreaded outlaws had been a power and a menace in the neighborhood.

It occurred to him that he would like to open some of these boxes, but the companionship of the boy prevented.

He ventured to ask, however: "What is in those boxes, Frank?"

"I don't know. Something of papa's and Uncle John's."

As they kept on they reached parts of the cavern which were quite empty. The Fox brothers were in the position of householders who occupied a house too large for their needs.

By and by the lamps ceased and the portion farther on looked dark and gloomy.

"I am afraid to go any farther, Ernest."

"Why, Frank? What are you afraid of?"

"There may be wild animals there."

"But how could they live there?"

"I don't know, but papa told me there were some."

Ernest understood why the boy had been told this. It was to prevent his going too far. But it made Ernest all the more eager to continue his explorations.

"Even if there were any wild animals I would protect you, Frank."

"But we may not find our way back. It is so dark," said the child with a shudder.

"I won't go farther. But, see, it seems to be lighter."

At a point fifty feet farther on, through a rift in the roof, a gleam of light entered the cavern.

Ernest was anxious to trace this, for, as he judged, it came from some outlet, through which he might possibly obtain deliverance.

"Stay where you are," he said. "I will just go forward and see what I can."

"Don't stay long," entreated Frank nervously.

"No, I won't."

Ernest was just as well pleased to go forward alone, for if there were really, as he supposed, an outlet, it was as well that Frank should not have his attention drawn to it, lest he should speak of it to his father and so reveal the fact of their explorations. This might excite the suspicion of James Fox and put a stop to their further walks.

Continuing on alone, Ernest then saw, perhaps fifteen feet above him, an opening some three feet in diameter, through which he could obtain a glimpse of the clear sky above.

It made his heart beat with exultation and longing. There was freedom if he could only manage somehow to lift himself up to the outlet and make his way through it.

"What is it, Ernest?" asked Frank.

"Oh, it is nothing," answered Ernest with studied indifference. "It isn't anything you would care to see."

The little boy accepted this assurance, for he did not feel the interest that excited Ernest.

"Let us go back," he said, as he resumed his clasp of Ernest's hand.

"Yes, we will go back. Have you ever been as far as this before?"

"No."

"Then we had better not say anything about it. Your papa might not like it."

"All right, Ernest. Will you read to me when you go back?"

"Yes, Frank."

Ernest was glad to comply with the little boy's request, as he thought he might in this way put the thoughts of their exploration out of his mind.

They were fortunate enough to get back without exciting the attention of Juba, who was busy in the kitchen.

Her work, however, was soon over and she brought her sewing into the room where the two boys were seated.

"Well, Massa Frank, what am you doing?"

"Ernest is reading to me. Why don't you ever read to me, Juba?"

"O lor', chile, you know I can't read."

"But why can't you read? You're old enough."

"Yes, honey, I'm old enough, but I never had no chance to learn."

"Why didn't you?" persisted Frank. "Didn't you go to school when you was little?"

"No, chile, never went to school. They didn't have no schools where I was raised."

"Where was that?"

"In ole Virginny."

"Were you a slave, Juba?" asked Ernest.

"Yes, massa, I was a slave."

"And how did you get here?"

"It was all along of the war. Ole massa he went to the war and got killed. Then young massa went, and he got killed, too. Then one day there came an officer—one of Abe Linkum's officers—and he told us we were free and might go where we pleased."

"Weren't you glad to be free?" asked Ernest.

"No, honey, we didn't know where to go nor what to do. We'd allus had some one to look after us, but now there wasn't anybody."

"Were you married, Juba?"

"Yes, but I don't know whether my ole man is livin' or not. He was sold down in Georgie to a cousin of ole massa."

"Then he may be living yet?"

"Yes, honey."

"How old are you, Juba?" asked Frank.

"I don't know, chile. I's powerful old. S'pecs I's a hundred."

Ernest smiled.

"No, Juba," he said, "you are not nearly a hundred. You may be sixty."

"Juba, did you ever hear about Uncle Tom?"

"Yes, chile, I knew Uncle Tom," was the unexpected reply. "He was raised on Mr. Jackson's place next to ours."

Ernest asked some question about this Uncle Tom, but learned, as he expected, that it was quite a different person from the negro immortalized by Mrs. Stowe.

In looking over Frank's books Ernest found an old copy of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," and taking it down he read some portions, particularly those relating to Topsy. Both Frank and Juba were very much entertained.

"Did you know Topsy, Juba?" asked Frank.

"No, chile, never knowed Topsy. She must have been a no-account young nigga. If she'd lived on our plantation she'd have got flogged for her impudence."

"How did you come here, Juba?" asked Frank.

"One of them officers took me to Chicago. I lived out with a lady, but when she died, I went to a 'telligence office and there I met your papa. He brought me out here. I didn't at first like livin' down under the ground, but I don't mind it now. Massa Fox treats me well, and I ain't no wish to change."

This was the substance of what Juba had to communicate. The rest of the day passed quietly. At nightfall James Fox came home, looking very sober. But he came alone.



CHAPTER XX

ERNEST EXPLORES THE CAVE

James Fox had very little to say during the evening. He was evidently preoccupied and anxious and paid scant attention to the boys.

Frank knew so little of his father's business or occupation that he could conceive of no cause for worriment. When his advances met with little response he asked: "Have you got a headache, papa?"

"No—yes, child. My head troubles me some. Be as quiet as you can."

"Will it disturb you if I play checkers with Ernest, papa?"

"No, I should like to have you amuse yourself," answered the outlaw.

He directed the boys to go to bed early. They slept together and he threw himself on the lounge without taking off his clothes.

Ernest slept well. When he woke up at eight o'clock he saw that Frank was still sleeping, but his host was already up.

Juba came into the room.

"Get up, children," she said. "Breakfast is ready."

"Where is papa?" asked Frank.

"He took breakfast an hour ago, honey."

"What made him get up so early?"

"'Portant business called him away."

"Where's Uncle John?"

"He hasn't been home."

"Has he got 'portant business too?"

"'Specs he has, honey."

"It doesn't seem nice to take breakfast without papa," said the little boy.

"You may consider me your papa, Frank," observed Ernest.

"But you're not big enough to be a papa."

When breakfast was over there was the long day before them to be filled up in some way.

"Don't you ever wish to go out of the cave, Frank?" asked Ernest.

"Where?" asked the little boy.

"Into the bright sunshine, out on the green grass and under the trees."

"Yes, I think I should like it," answered Frank thoughtfully. "But papa does not want me to go. I don't know why. Do many little boys live in caves like me?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Can they walk about in the sunshine and play?"

"I always did."

"Do you like it better than living here?"

"Yes."

"Then what made you come here?"

This was an embarrassing question and Ernest felt that he must answer carefully.

"Your papa wanted me to make you a visit," he replied after a pause.

"And I am glad you came. It isn't so lonely for me. Before I had only Juba."

"Wouldn't she play with you?" asked Ernest with a smile.

"Juba is too old to play. I hope you will stay with me a good while."

Ernest could not echo this wish, so he answered evasively:

"I can't tell yet how long I shall stay. But the time will come when you will leave the cave and live like other little boys in a house."

"Did papa tell you that?"

"He told me that he should send you to school before long."

"What is a school like?" asked the little boy anxiously.

"There will be a good many boys, some older, some younger than yourself. You will study lessons together and play together."

"I think that will be nice."

"Yes, I am sure you will enjoy it."

"Did you ever go to school?"

"Oh, yes; I went to school for some years."

"Perhaps you will go to school with me?"

"I can't tell," answered Ernest vaguely. "Perhaps Juba will go to school with you."

Frank laughed.

"She would look funny going to school," he said.

"What's dat you sayin' 'bout Juba, Massa Ernest?" asked the old woman.

"I told Frank you might go to school with him."

"Maybe I'd go and take care of him, honey."

"But you wouldn't want to study?"

"I wouldn't study nohow. I's a poor, ignorant nigger."

"Don't you think you could learn to read?"

"No, I couldn't. It takes white folks to read."

"No; Juba, when I went to school there was a colored boy in my class, and he was one of the smartest scholars we had."

"And was he a nigger?" asked Juba.

"We didn't call him that, but he was a colored boy. If he could learn to read I am sure you could."

"It's no use, chile. I'm too old now."

Much as he liked Frank, it was irksome to Ernest to remain all day in the cave.

They got through the forenoon somehow, taking dinner at twelve o'clock.

About two o'clock Frank complained of being sleepy.

"You won't mind if I go to sleep for an hour, Ernest?" he said.

"Oh, no," answered Ernest. "I can read."

Since his exploration of the day before Ernest had been longing to visit once more the same portion of the cave. But he wanted to go alone. He had a hope that through the aperture in the roof he might effect his escape. It would not do to have Frank with him, as this would interfere with his plan. Now the longed-for opportunity was almost at hand.

He took a volume from the bookshelf and sitting down beside the bed began to read. But his mind was not on the book, though at another time he would have enjoyed it. He watched Frank and in less than fifteen minutes saw that he was fast asleep.

Then he left the room, Juba being occupied in the kitchen. He secured his hat, as he would need it in case he effected his escape.

As he passed through that apartment in the cave where there were trunks and boxes it occurred to him to open one of them. He was rather surprised that it should be unlocked.

It was filled with a miscellaneous assortment of articles, but on top to his surprise and joy he recognized the envelope containing the bonds that had been taken from him.

If he left the cave he would want these, and therefore he had no hesitation in taking them. He put them in the inside pocket of his vest and kept on his way.

In a short time he reached the spot lighted by the aperture in the roof.

The opening was large enough for him to get through, but the difficulty was that it was fifteen feet above the floor of the cave. Ernest was something of a gymnast, but it was out of his power to reach the opening through which he could obtain deliverance.

He looked about to see if there were any articles he could pile upon one another to attain the aperture. But the cave was quite empty of articles of any description, nor could he find any that he could move in the portions which he had already traversed.

It was aggravating to be so near freedom and yet unable to obtain it. Just above him, he could see the blue sky and the cheerful sunshine, while he was a prisoner in a dark cavern.

Was there no way of reaching the opening? he asked himself.

If he had to give up hope he would feel obliged to return the envelope to the box from which he had taken it. Were its loss discovered he would of course be searched and kept in stricter seclusion than before.

In the room used by the outlaw as a sitting-room he might be able to find what he needed. But he could not remove anything without being detected, and should he return there he would possibly find Frank awake, which would spoil all.

It looked as if he would have to give up the chance that had come to him. In thoughtful mood he walked slowly back. All at once an idea struck him. In the room where the trunks and boxes were stored he had seen a long rope. Could he do anything with it?

Looking up at the aperture he noticed a jagged projection on one side.

"If I could attach the rope to that," he reflected, "I could draw myself up hand over hand till I reached the top, and then it would go hard if I didn't get out."

With new hope in his heart he retraced his steps rapidly till he reached the storeroom.

He knew just where to look for the rope. He examined it carefully and found it very stout and strong.

He took it back with him. Then making a loop at one end he stood under the opening and threw it up as he would a lasso. He had to try a dozen times before he contrived to circle the projection with the loop.

Then pulling it taut he began to climb hand over hand as he had many a time done in sport. Now his deliverance depended upon it.

Slowly, foot by foot, he approached the opening, not knowing whether if he reached it he would be able to draw himself through the hole.



CHAPTER XXI

OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN

Arrived at the opening, Ernest found that there was a trap-door, which through carelessness had been left open. It was, however, a serious problem to draw himself up so as to profit by what he had already done.

Twice he failed and nearly lost his grip on the rope. Then he caught hold of the projection from which the rope depended, and by a supreme effort he succeeded, helping himself by means of the trap-door in emerging from his subterranean prison.

Stretching himself he took a deep breath and realized joyfully not only that he was free, but that he had recovered the valuable bonds of which he had been placed in charge.

He began to look around him and tried to conjecture in what direction he must go to reach Lee's Falls. He was quite at a loss, as he had been carried into the cave blindfolded. But help seemed to be at hand. He saw at a little distance, rapidly approaching him, a man of middle height whom he concluded to be a resident of some place in the vicinity.

"Can you tell me in what direction I must go to reach Lee's Falls?" he asked.

The stranger paused and examined him.

"So you want to go to Lee's Falls?" he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Emmonsville."

"Direct?"

"No."

"I saw you just now coming out of some opening in the earth."

This alarmed Ernest. He felt that he might be called upon to explain where he had been.

"Who is this man?" he asked himself. "Is he one who is likely to be in the confidence of the outlaws? If so I have only got out of one scrape to fall into another."

He studied the face of the man with whom he was speaking and to his dismay noted a resemblance to James Fox. He began to suspect that this was his brother.

Whether it was or not Ernest deemed it politic to say as little as possible of his experiences and of what he knew about the cave and its occupants.

"Yes," he answered quietly; "there seems to be a cave underneath. I found the trap-door open and went down, but I regretted it, for I found it difficult to get out again."

His new acquaintance eyed him scrutinizingly, as if to see whether he knew more than he was willing to reveal.

"So there is a cave underneath?" he said.

"Yes."

"Have you any idea what it is used for?"

"I don't think it is used at all. The room below seems empty."

The man regarded him fixedly.

"When did you leave Emmonsville?" he asked abruptly.

"Yesterday," answered Ernest in some confusion.

"How does it happen that you have got no farther on your way to Lee's Falls?"

"I stopped at the cabin of an Indian," answered Ernest, making the only explanation he could think of.

The man smiled.

"Young man," he said, "didn't you pass last night in this cave?"

Ernest saw that there was no further chance for subterfuge.

"Yes," he answered.

"I thought so."

"You were captured?" the other went on.

"Yes."

"Have you any suspicion by whom this cave is occupied?"

"I presume by the Fox brothers."

"Correct. I am one of them."

"I began to think so."

"How were you able to escape?"

"I was left with the little boy. He fell asleep and then I began to explore."

"Where is my brother?"

"He went out quite early, I presume in search of you."

"Exactly. I suppose my brother heard that I was in trouble?"

"Yes."

"By the way, the Quaker detective through whom I got into difficulty you doubtless know?"

"I do."

"I was put into jail at Crampton, but I managed to effect my escape. Are you connected in any way with the Emmonsville bank?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"As bank messenger."

"Did my brother take anything from you?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"No, bonds."

"You are a sensible boy. You answer my questions freely. You are a smart boy, too. It isn't every lad of your age who would have managed to effect an escape from the cave. Do you remember the entrance?"

"No; I was carried into it blindfolded."

"I thought my brother would be prudent. So you couldn't find it again."

"No, I don't think so."

"Still I cannot run any risk. You will have to come with me."

"Where do you want to carry me?" asked Ernest, much disturbed.

"I will carry you back to the cave."

"Let me go free. I will promise not to reveal anything that I have discovered."

"I am sorry, boy, but you were made prisoner by my brother, and I owe it to him to prevent your escape."

It was intolerable to Ernest to think of having his captivity renewed. He determined that he would at least make an effort for freedom.

Accordingly he did not hesitate, but started to run, hoping that in this way he might save himself. He had always the reputation among his boy companions as a sprinter, and resolved to see whether this was a lost art.

"So that's your game, is it?" exclaimed the outlaw. "It will go hard with me if I don't catch you. Stop, or it will be the worse for you!"

But Ernest had no intention of giving up so soon. He only exerted himself the more.

The contest was not so unequal as might have been supposed. Ernest was tall for his age, and the outlaw was rather below the average height. So there was in reality only about an inch difference in their height.

On the other hand, John Fox had, as might be supposed, more strength and endurance. He was not over weight and therefore not scant of breath. Ernest got the start and this was an advantage. One ran about as fast as the other, so it settled down into a contest of endurance.

The outlaw, however, was irritated at the unexpected difficulty of his undertaking. He had thought that Ernest would surrender.

"I wish I had my revolver," he muttered.

Had the outlaw been aware that Ernest had in his possession the packet of bonds which had impelled his brother to make him a captive his zeal would have been increased. He knew, of course, that the bonds would be taken from him and he could conceive of no chance of the boy's recovering them.

They flew over the ground, maintaining the same relative distance. But there was an unexpected contingency that worked to the disadvantage of Ernest.

Directly in his path was a projecting root which in his haste escaped his notice. He tripped over it, and as a natural consequence he measured his length on the ground.

The outlaw's face lighted up with exultation. Now the issue was no longer doubtful.

Before Ernest could recover himself and rise to his feet John Fox was upon him.

He flung himself on the prostrate boy and clutched him in a firm grasp.

"Now I have you," he said. "You were a fool to run. You might have known that you could not escape."

"I came near it, though," gasped Ernest, quite out of breath. "Let me up."

"Will you promise to go with me without giving me any more trouble?"

"I will make no promises," said Ernest.

"Then it will be the worse for you," said the outlaw vindictively.

What he proposed to do must remain unknown, for as he spoke a hand was thrust into his neckcloth and he was jerked violently to his feet.



CHAPTER XXII

CASTRO TO THE RESCUE

Bewildered and angry, John Fox looked to see who was his assailant. He found himself confronted by a tall, muscular Indian, whom Ernest also recognized as the man whose child he had saved from a watery grave.

"What do you mean by this outrage?" demanded the outlaw angrily.

"Why are you hurting him?" said the Indian, pointing to Ernest.

"Because I choose to."

"Me stop you," said the Indian calmly.

"I have a great mind to shoot you."

This was an empty threat, for his weapon had been taken by the Quaker detective.

The only answer made by the Indian was to produce a revolver, which he pointed at the breast of the outlaw.

"Two play at that game," he answered.

John Fox shrank back, for it takes a man of nerve to face a revolver. He began to remonstrate.

"What interest have you in that boy?" he asked.

"He save my little boy from drowning," answered the Indian. "Will you go or shall me shoot?"

There was but one answer to make to this question. John Fox turned about and walked quietly away without a word.

Ernest grasped the Indian's hand gratefully.

"I can't thank you enough," he said. "You have perhaps saved my life."

"You save my little boy."

"Do you know that man?"

"No."

"It was John Fox, one of the Fox brothers, the famous outlaws."

"Humph! I have heard of him. How did he catch you?"

Ernest told the story. He also told of the commission he had from the Emmonsville bank.

"I am going to ask you a favor," he asked.

"What is it?"

"I want you to go with me to the bank at Lee's Falls. I have a package of bonds to carry there and I don't think it safe to go alone. I will see that you are paid for your time and trouble."

"I will go."

Under the guidance of his Indian friend Ernest reached Lee's Falls. The bank was closed, but the cashier was still in the bank building, having been detained after hours. Seeing him through the window, Ernest knocked and obtained admission.

"The bank is closed, young man," said the bank officer.

"I know it, but I have a package of bonds from the bank in Emmonsville. I hope you will take them from me, for I don't want the responsibility of them any longer."

"Oh, you are the young messenger. We had advice that you would be here yesterday."

"So I should have been, but for my capture by one of the Fox brothers."

"And how did you escape?" asked the wondering cashier.

"Please take the bonds and I will tell you. I spent two nights in the outlaws' cave. This afternoon I managed to get away."

"But were not the bonds taken from you?"

"Yes, but I recovered them."

Ernest, without waiting for further questions, told the story as briefly as possible.

"So, after all," he concluded, "I should have been taken again but for my friend here," laying his hand upon the Indian's shoulder. "I told him you would pay him for his trouble in accompanying me."

"So I will," said the cashier, and he took a five-dollar bill and tendered it to the Indian.

The latter objected to taking it, alleging that Ernest had saved his boy's life, but the cashier overruled his objections and he accepted it.

They were going out of the bank when the familiar figure of Luke Robbins came up the street. His face was clouded by an expression of anxiety and he seemed troubled. He had searched everywhere for Ernest, and thus far had failed to find him.

When he saw the boy emerging from the bank his face changed at once.

"So you are safe, Ernest? I thought I had lost you," he exclaimed. "Did you see anything of the outlaws?"

"I should say that I did. I was captured by James Fox and confined two nights in the underground haunts of the robbers. When I escaped this afternoon I fell into the clutches of the other brother."

"What! John Fox?"

"Yes."

"This cannot be, Ernest. I lodged him myself in Crampton jail."

"All I can tell you is that he is at liberty now. He must have escaped."

"Then I am afraid I shan't receive the reward offered for his capture."

"You ought to get it. You delivered him over to the authorities. If they could not keep him that was their own lookout."

"You ought to be right, lad. I hope you are. Who is this man?"

"My Indian friend, who proved to be a friend in need. It was he who saved me from John Fox."

"I am proud to know you," said Luke, grasping the hand of the red warrior. "If you have helped Ernest you are my friend."

"He save my little boy; I will always be his friend."

"You have saved my boy, my Indian friend, and you will always be my friend," returned Luke.

"Well, Luke, what shall we do? I have done my errand and delivered the bonds."

"We will go back. I have found you and have no more to do here."

"Shall we walk?"

"No, it is too far. There is a stable a little way from here; I will hire a conveyance and our Indian friend will perhaps be willing to drive us over."

The Indian expressed his willingness, and the three were soon on their way through the woods. They met with no adventure, nor did they fear any, for it would have required a brave man to attack two such stalwart men as the Indian and the Quaker detective.

Leaving them for the present, we will go back to the cave from which Ernest had made so unceremonious a departure.

Frank slept for two hours, but at length opened his eyes, expecting to see Ernest sitting at his bedside.

He looked in vain. There was no one in the room. This did not surprise him much, however. He thought Ernest might have gone into the next apartment.

"Ernest!" he cried, but his call received no response.

The little boy got out of bed and looked about, but his search was vain.

So he went into the kitchen, where he found Juba engaged in some domestic work.

"Juba," he said, "where is Ernest?"

"I don't know, chile. Isn't he in the big room?"

"No, Juba. I went to sleep and when I woke up he was gone."

"You look round and maybe you find him."

But Frank was doomed to disappointment. He sat down ready to cry. He felt very lonely. He had not realized how much he enjoyed Ernest's company.

"I don't know where he can have gone, Juba. Do you think he's gone and left me?"

"I can't tell, chile. Wait till your papa comes home. He will find him."

Frank had to wait an hour and a half before his father's return. All this time he was buoyed up by the hope that Ernest would come back. He was continually watching the portal to see if the runaway would not come.

James Fox entered the room with grave face and heavy step. He had not heard of his brother's escape and thought him still an inmate of Crampton jail.

He looked about for his young captive.

"Where is Ernest, Frank?" he asked.

"I don't know, papa. I miss him ever so much," said the little boy tearfully.

"But he must be somewhere about. When did you miss him?"

"He went away when I was asleep."

The outlaw's suspicions were aroused.

"I will look for him," he said.

But Ernest was in none of the rooms.

"Did you walk with him into the interior of the cave, Frank?" he asked.

"Yes, papa."

"Ha, that explains it. Go with me and tell me just where you went."

The little boy led the way through the vacant apartments till he reached the one through which the light came from above.

The rope was still hanging from the projection, and this explained Ernest's escape.

"He must have got out this way," said the outlaw.

"Won't he come back, papa?" said Frank.

"Yes," said his father resolutely. "I will bring him back."



CHAPTER XXIII

GIVEN IN TRUST

"Well, lad, have you had enough of Emmonsville?"

The speaker was Luke Robbins and the time was two days after the series of exciting incidents recorded in the last few chapters.

"Why do you ask, Luke?" replied Ernest. "Are you tired of it?"

"Yes, lad, I want to move on."

"But what about the reward you are entitled to for the capture of John Fox?"

"The cashier thinks I will only receive a part of it, as Fox has escaped."

"That is unlucky. You will have to wait until the matter is decided, won't you?"

"No. He has offered me an advance of a hundred dollars, and is authorized to collect whatever prize money may be awarded to me. You have some money left?"

"Yes, about seventy-five dollars."

"Then we both have enough to start on. I propose to go to California by train, getting there as soon as possible. When we reach there we will see what we can do to increase our pile."

"I like that plan. When shall we go?"

"We will start on Monday."

Before they departed there was some sensational news. Peter Longman, one of the Fox band, taking offense at some slight put upon him by James Fox, went to the authorities and revealed the existence and location of the cave, with other information of a like nature. The result was that a strong force was sent to surprise and capture the notorious outlaws.

The visit was made at night and under guidance of Peter himself. Wholly unsuspicious of treachery, the outlaws were captured in their beds and the valuable articles in the storeroom were confiscated.

James Fox was reclining on the sofa when the officers entered.

"Is your name Fox?" asked the leader of the invading party.

"Yes," answered the outlaw proudly.

"Then you are my prisoner."

"Who has betrayed me?" demanded Fox quickly.

There was no answer, but just behind the invading party the outlaw caught sight of Peter Longman, apparently trying to screen himself from observation.

"I need not ask," he said. "There is the treacherous hound. He shall not live to profit by his baseness."

Before anyone could interfere James Fox leveled his revolver at Longman, and a sharp scream showed that his aim was true. His treacherous follower fell to the ground, mortally wounded.

James Fox looked at him disdainfully, then threw the revolver upon the floor of the cave and held out his hands. "Now bind me if you will," he said; "I am your captive."

Little Frank was a terrified witness of this scene.

"What are they doing to you, papa?" he asked. "They are bad men."

In spite of his fortitude the outlaw showed traces of emotion. "That is my little son," he said to the lieutenant commanding.

"He shall be taken care of. Do not be anxious about him."

"There is an old colored woman here—Juba," went on the outlaw. "The boy is used to her. If possible let them be together."

Under a strong guard the famous robbers were carried to jail, and the cave which had been for years their meeting place was dismantled and was never again used for a criminal resort.

When Ernest read the story his feelings were mixed. He rejoiced that the outlaws were taken, but he felt a sympathy for little Frank, and understood what a shock it must be to the father and son to be separated.

He learned where Frank was and called upon him. He had been taken to his own home by the leader of the raiding force.

When he entered the room where Frank sat disconsolately at the window the little fellow uttered a cry of joy.

"Is it you, Ernest?" he said, running forward. "I thought I should never see you again."

Ernest stooped over and kissed him.

"You see I am here," he said.

"What made you go away? Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"I will tell you some time, Frank."

"Why did those bad men take papa away?"

"I do not think you would understand. Where is Juba?"

"She is in the kitchen. I will call her."

Juba came in and seemed pleased to see Ernest.

"I have got a letter for you, honey," she said, fumbling in her pocket.

She brought out a yellow envelope. It was directed to Ernest.

The contents ran thus:

Now that misfortune has come upon me my chief thought is for my boy. Whatever befalls me I want him cared for. You are scarcely more than a stranger to me, but when you were in the cave you seemed to love Frank. Poor boy, he will stand in need of some friend who loves him. So far as you can, will you be his friend and guardian? He has some property—a few thousand dollars—which you will hold in trust for him. It is not stolen property. It was left him by his mother.

Call upon Mr. Samuel Hardy, a lawyer in Lee's Falls, and he will make over to you the custody of the money, and look upon you as the authorized guardian of Frank. You know my wish that he should be sent to a good school and properly educated. Will you carry out my wishes in that respect? I do not wish to tie you down, but wherever you may go keep up an active interest in my boy, and from time to time write to him.

I do not know what my fate may be. I am not a coward, and shall not complain or beg for mercy. When you speak of me to Frank in after years, always paint me at my best, and let him understand that at least I loved him.

James Fox.

P.S.—Should Frank die before maturity I desire that his property should go to you.

Ernest read the foregoing with mingled feelings. He knew that the writer was an outlaw, deeply stained with crime; but this letter showed him at his best. Paternal love softened the harsh outlines of his character, and spoke of a nature that might have made him a blessing instead of a curse to his kind.

Ernest lost no time in communicating with Mr. Hardy.

The lawyer read the letter in some surprise.

"Mr. Fox seems to have appointed a young guardian for his son," he remarked.

"Yes, sir; but he appeared to have no choice."

"I am ready to assist you, however."

"I will depend upon you, then, for I shall start for California as soon as possible. Can you recommend a satisfactory boarding school?"

"I have a son at school in Lincoln. The school is under the charge of a clergyman, who is an efficient teacher."

"Can you arrange to enter Frank at his school?"

"I will do so, if you authorize me."

"I don't think we can do any better. Were you aware that Mr. Fox was the notorious outlaw?" asked Ernest, after a pause.

"I did not know, but latterly I have suspected it. You may be surprised that under the circumstances I should have consented to serve him. But I felt that I might be of assistance to the boy, and that my refusal would occasion him embarrassment. Your letter is satisfactory, as showing that the fortune of your ward is not made up of ill-gotten gains. Were it otherwise, he would hardly be allowed to keep it. Does Frank know his father's character and reputation?"

"I don't think so."

"It had best be kept from him. I will see that it does not become known at school. It would wound the boy to be twitted with it by his schoolmates."

Thanks to Mr. Hardy, Ernest found that the new charge imposed upon him would not materially interfere with his plans. A week later than he had originally intended he and Luke Robbins left Emmonsville.

As they rushed rapidly over the prairies, Luke Robbins turned to his young companion and said: "Our journey thus far has been adventurous. I wonder what lies before us."

"We won't trouble ourselves on that score, Luke. I feel hopeful."

"So do I, and yet we have less than two hundred dollars between us."

"That's true."

"Still, I have captured an outlaw, and you at the age of sixteen are the guardian of an outlaw's son."

"I don't think we shall meet with anything stranger than that."

Two days later, in a newspaper bought at an important station, there was an article that deeply interested both travelers. It related to the Fox brothers, recounting their daring attempt to escape from the jail where they were confined. John Fox got away, but James was shot dead by one of the prison guards.

So Frank was an orphan, and Ernest now felt that his responsibility was increased.



CHAPTER XXIV

STEPHEN RAY AND HIS SON

Leaving Ernest and Luke Robbins on their way to California, our attention is called to other characters who must play a part in the drama of the boy from Oak Forks.

A few miles from Elmira, upon an eminence from which there was a fine view of the surrounding country, stood the handsome country mansion of Stephen Ray, already referred to as the cousin of Ernest's father. It passed into his possession by inheritance from poor Ernest's grandfather, the will under which the bequest was made cutting off his son for no worse a crime than marrying a girl thoroughly respectable, but of humble birth.

Stephen Ray, since he came into possession of his uncle's estate, had improved it considerably. He had torn down the old stable and built an imposing new one. The plain carriage which had satisfied his uncle had been succeeded by an elegant coach, and the slow horse by a pair of spirited steeds.

Mr. Ray had become pompous, and by his manner made it clear that he considered himself a man of great consequence. He was a local magistrate, and had for years endeavored to obtain a nomination for Congress.

Had he been of popular manners, he would probably have succeeded, but he was not a favorite among the poorer classes, and their vote must be considered.

There is an old saying, "Like father, like son," and Clarence, now turned sixteen, the only child of the country magnate, was like his father in all objectionable qualities. He was quite as much impressed with ideas of his own consequence.

It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Ray sat on the piazza, the day being unusually warm, reading a newspaper. In the street near by, his son Clarence was moving swiftly on a new velocipede which his father had just purchased for him.

"Out of the way, there!" he called out, as a shabbily dressed stranger with a weary step plodded along the pathway.

Whether because he was hard of hearing or because his mind was preoccupied, the stranger did not heed the warning, and Clarence, who might easily have avoided the collision, ran into him recklessly. Had the wheel been moving at a greater rate of speed, he might have been seriously hurt. As it was, he was nearly thrown down.

But he rallied, and seizing the offending rider with no gentle grasp, dragged him from the wheel, and shook him vigorously.

"Let me alone, you tramp!" exclaimed Clarence furiously.

But the stranger did not release his hold.

"Not till you apologize for running into me," he answered sternly.

"Apologize to a man like you!" ejaculated Clarence, struggling furiously for his freedom.

"Will you apologize?"

"There is no need of an apology. You got in my way."

"You have no business on the sidewalk with your wheel. It is meant for foot passengers."

"Do you know who I am?" demanded Clarence haughtily.

"No, I don't, nor do I care."

"I am Clarence Ray, son of Squire Stephen Ray. He is a magistrate, and he can send you to jail."

These words of Clarence had the effect he desired. The stranger released him, and eyed him with close scrutiny.

"So you are the son of Stephen Ray?" he said.

"Yes. What have you to say now?"

"That you had no right to run into me, whoever your father may be."

"I shall report your insolence to my father. I shall charge you with violently assaulting me."

"I might have known you were Stephen Ray's son," said the stranger thoughtfully.

"Do you know my father?" asked Clarence.

"I am on my way to call upon him."

"I don't think it will do any good. He never gives money to tramps."

"I have a great mind to give you another shaking up," said the man, and in some fear Clarence edged away from him.

It was evident that this shabby-looking stranger had not a proper respect for those who were in a higher station.

"I will tell him not to give you anything," continued Clarence.

"Like father, like son," said the stranger thoughtfully, apparently not disturbed by the boy's threats.

Evidently he was no common tramp, or he would have been more respectful to the son of the man from whom he was probably about to ask a favor.

"You just wait till you see my father. He'll give you a lecture that you won't soon forget."

"You'd better get on your wheel, boy, and go right along," said the stranger calmly.

"Do you know where my father lives?"

"Yes, at yonder fine house. I see him sitting out on the piazza. Shall we go along together?"

"No, I don't keep such company as you."

"And yet some day you may be as poor and friendless as myself."

"That isn't very likely. My father is a very rich man."

"I knew him when he was poor."

More and more puzzled by the independent manner of this shabby stranger, Clarence made a spurt, and soon found himself in the grounds of his father's house.

"With whom were you talking, Clarence?" asked Stephen Ray as his son joined him on the piazza.

"One of the most impudent tramps I ever came across," answered Clarence. "He made an attack upon me, and pulled me from my bicycle."

Stephen Ray's cheek flamed with anger. An insult to his son was an insult to him.

"Why did he do this? How dared he?"

"Because I happened to touch him as I passed," answered Clarence.

"He actually pulled you from your bicycle?" asked Stephen Ray, almost incredulous.

"Yes."

"I should like to meet him. I should feel justified in ordering his arrest."

"You will have a chance to meet him. He told me he was going to call upon you—there he is now, entering the gate."

Stephen was glad to hear it. He wanted to empty the vails of his wrath on the audacious offender.

He was accustomed to seeing men of the stamp of this stranger quail before him and show nervous alarm at his rebukes. He had no doubt that his majestic wrath would overwhelm the shabby outcast who had audaciously assaulted his son and heir.

He rose to his feet, and stood the personification of haughty displeasure, as the poor man who dared his anger walked composedly up the path. He now stood by the piazza steps.

"It is well you have come here," began the squire in a dignified tone. "My son tells me that you have committed an unprovoked outrage upon him in dragging him from his wheel. I can only conclude that you are under the influence of liquor."

Stephen Ray waited curiously to hear what the man would say. He was prepared for humble apologies.

"I am no more drunk than yourself, if that is what you mean, Stephen Ray."

Squire Ray was outraged and scandalized.

"You must be drunk or you would not dare to talk in this way. Who authorized you to address me in this familiar way?"

"You are only a man, I believe, Stephen Ray. I have addressed you as respectfully as you have spoken to me."

"Respect—to you?" repeated Mr. Ray disdainfully. "Has the time come when we must be respectful to tramps?"

"A poor tramp is quite as deserving of respect as a rich rascal."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the squire suspiciously.

"It was a general remark."

"It is well that it was. But it has no application in the present instance. If you are poor I will give you a quarter, but only on condition that you apologize to my son."

The stranger laughed.

"Why should I apologize to your son?" he asked.

"You pulled him off his wheel. Do you deny it?"

"No, I do not. Do you know what he did?"

"He brushed against you with his wheel, he tells me, accidentally."

"So that is his version of it? He deliberately ran into me."

"I gave you warning. I said 'Out of the way, there!'" interrupted Clarence.

"Yes, but you had no right on the sidewalk."

"It seems to me, sir, that you are remarkably independent for a man of your rank. Even if it had been as you say, you had no right to assault my son. I might have you arrested on your own confession, but I will forbear doing so on condition that you leave town at once."

"I have a little business with you first."

"If you expect alms, you have come to the wrong man."

"I know very well that you are not charitable. I used to be acquainted with you."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Benjamin Bolton."

Stephen Ray looked startled.

"Benjamin Bolton!" he repeated, half incredulous. "I can't believe it."



CHAPTER XXV

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE

"Look at me closely, Stephen Ray," said the strange visitor. "I think you will see some traces of the Bolton you used to know."

Stephen Ray did examine his visitor closely. Against his will he was obliged to acknowledge the resemblance of the man before him to one who in past times had had an intimate acquaintance with his affairs.

"You may be Benjamin Bolton," he said after a pause, "but if so, you have fallen off greatly in your appearance. When I first knew you, you were well dressed and——"

"Respectable, I suppose you mean to say?"

"Well, respectable, if you will have it so. Now you look more like a tramp than a lawyer."

"True as gospel, every word of it. But it isn't too late to mend. That's an old proverb and a true one. It is quite in the line of possibility that I should get back to the position from which I fell."

"Perhaps so, but I'm not very sanguine of it."

"With your help nothing is impossible."

"You must not count upon that," said Stephen Ray stiffly. "It is a good while since we parted company. I don't myself care to renew the acquaintance."

"But I do," rejoined Bolton with emphasis.

"I have very little time at my disposal," said Ray, pulling out an elegant gold watch and consulting it.

"I think it may be well for you to spare me a little time," went on Bolton quietly.

There was something in his tone that sounded like a threat, and Stephen Ray could not wholly conceal his uneasiness.

"Well," he said, "I will give you ten minutes. Get through your business, whatever it is, as soon as possible."

"Hadn't you better send your son away?" suggested Bolton significantly.

"Why should I?"

But on second thoughts Mr. Ray concluded to act on the hint, and turning to Clarence he said: "Clarence, you might take another spin on your wheel."

This did not suit Clarence at all. His curiosity had been excited by his father's change of front toward the objectionable stranger, and he counted on finding out the reason for it.

"Why can't I stay?" he grumbled.

"This man and I have a little private business together."

He spoke firmly, and Clarence knew by his tone that further remonstrance would be unavailing, so with a dissatisfied look he left the room.

"Now, sir," said Stephen Ray sharply, when his son had taken his departure. "I gave you ten minutes. You will need to be expeditious."

"It will take more than ten minutes—what I have to say," returned Bolton coolly. "I am rather tired of standing, so you will excuse me if I sit down."

As he spoke he dropped into a comfortable chair three feet from his host.

"Confound his impudence!" thought Ray, much annoyed.

"I think we had better go indoors," he said.

He did not care to be seen in an apparently friendly conversation with a man like Bolton.

"I think myself it may be better."

He followed Ray into a room which the latter used as a library and office, and took care to select a comfortable seat.

"Really, Stephen Ray," he remarked, glancing around him at the well-filled bookcases, the handsome pictures, and the luxurious furniture, "you are very nicely fixed here."

"I suppose you didn't come to tell me that," responded Stephen Ray with a sneer.

"Well, not altogether, but it is as well to refer to it. I have known you a good many years. I remember when you first came here to visit your uncle in the character of a poor relation. I don't believe you had a hundred dollars to your name."

Such references grated upon the purse-proud aristocrat, who tried to persuade himself that he had always been as prosperous as at present.

"There is no occasion for your reminiscences," he said stiffly.

"No, I suppose you don't care to think of those days now. Your cousin, Dudley, a fine young man, was a year or two older. Who would have thought that the time would come when you—the poor cousin—would be reigning in his place?"

"If that is all you have to say, our interview may as well close."

"It isn't all I have to say. I must indulge in a few more reminiscences, though you dislike them. A few years passed. Dudley married against his father's wishes; that is, his father did not approve of his selection, and he fell out of favor. As he lost favor you gained it."

"That is true enough, but it is an old story."

"Does it seem just that an own son should be disinherited and a stranger——"

"A near relative," corrected Stephen Ray.

"Well, a near relative, but less near than an only son. Does it seem right that Dudley should have been disinherited and you put in his place?"

"Certainly. My cousin disobeyed his father."

"So he was left in poverty."

"I don't see how that concerns you, Benjamin Bolton. My uncle had the right to dispose of his property as he pleased."

"Probably Dudley Ray is living in poverty now."

"You are mistaken. He is dead."

"Indeed! Poor fellow! He was a generous and high-minded man."

"Whatever he may have been, he offended his father, and suffered the consequences."

"Too true!"

"But I fail to understand why you should have come to discuss this matter with me."

"When did Dudley die?"

"I can't be sure as to the year. I think it was about a year after his father's death."

"I presume that his father's injustice helped to hasten his end."

"I won't permit any reflections upon my dear uncle and benefactor. He did what he liked with his own. He felt that the estate would be better in my hands than in Dudley's."

"Admitting for a moment that this was so, did your heart prompt you to bestow a part of the estate on your unfortunate cousin?"

"No; for I am sure my uncle would have disapproved of such action on my part."

"Do you know if he suffered much from poverty?"

"No; I did not concern myself with that, nor need you."

"I would like to comment on one of your statements. You say that your uncle had a right to dispose of his estate as he pleased."

"Do you dispute it?"

"No; I agree with you. Stephen Ray, was his estate disposed of according to his wishes?"

Mr. Ray started, and his face became flushed.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that he bequeathed the estate to his son, and you took possession of it."

Bolton spoke slowly, and eyed Stephen Ray keenly.

"Are you mad?" gasped Stephen. "How could I do that? His will, devising the estate to me, was duly probated, and I entered upon my inheritance by due process of law."

"I know such a will was probated."

"Then what have you to say?" demanded Stephen Ray defiantly. "Do you mean to deny that the will was genuine?"

"No."

"Because if you do, you can go to the probate office, and submit the will to any judge of my uncle's handwriting."

"There will be no occasion. I admit that the will was written by him."

"What do you mean, then?" asked Stephen Ray, showing relief.

"I mean this—that it was not his last will and testament."

"Where is a later one? Produce it if you can?" said Stephen Ray triumphantly.

"You say this fearlessly because you found a later will—and destroyed it."

"It is a vile slander!"

"No; I will swear that such a will was made."

"If it was destroyed, he destroyed it himself."

"No, he did not. I am willing to swear that when he died that will was in existence."

"I don't think your swearing will do much good," sneered Stephen Ray.

"Perhaps so, but one thing has not occurred to you."

"What is that?"

"A duplicate of the last will was placed in my hands. That will exists to-day!"

Stephen Ray started violently.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"Seeing is believing."

"Then bring it here, and let me see it. However, there is one material circumstance that would make it of no value."

"What is it?"

"My cousin Dudley is dead, and so is his son Ernest. There would be no one to profit by the production of the alleged will."

Bolton was quite taken aback by this statement, as Stephen Ray perceived, and he plumed himself on the success of his falsehood.

"When did the boy die?" asked Bolton.

"About five years ago."

"And where?"

"At Savannah," answered Ray glibly.

"What should have taken him down there?"

"I am not positive, but I believe after his father's death a Southern gentleman became interested in him and took him to Georgia, where the poor boy died."

Bolton looked keenly at the face of his companion, and detected an expression of triumph about the eyes which led him to doubt the truth of his story. But he decided not to intimate his disbelief.

"That was sad," he said.

"Yes, and as you will see, even had your story about the will been true, it would have made no difference in the disposal of the property."

"Still the revelation of your complicity in the suppression of the last will would injure your reputation, Mr. Ray."

"I can stand it," answered Ray with assumed indifference. "You see, my dear fellow, you have brought your wares to the wrong market. Of course you are disappointed."

"Yes, especially as I am dead broke."

"No doubt."

"And it prompts me to take my chances with the will in spite of the death of the rightful heirs."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Lay the matter before a shrewd lawyer of my acquaintance."

Stephen Ray looked uneasy. The lawyer might suggest doubts as to the truth of his story concerning Ernest's decease.

"That would be very foolish," he said.

"Would it? Then perhaps you can suggest a better course."

"You are a man of education and have been a lawyer yourself. Get a place in the office of some attorney and earn an honest living."

"You see how I am dressed. Who would employ me in this garb?"

"There is something in what you say. I feel for you, Bolton. Changed as you are, you were once a friend. I certainly haven't any reason to feel friendly to you, especially as you came here with the intention of extorting money from me. But I can make allowance for you in your unfortunate plight, and am willing to do something for you. Bring me the document you say you possess, and I will give you fifty—no, a hundred dollars."

Bolton eyed his prosperous companion with a cunning smile.

"No, Stephen Ray, I prefer to keep the will," he replied, "though I can do nothing with it. Give me the money unconditionally, and if I get on my feet you will have nothing to fear from me."



CHAPTER XXVI

BOUGHT OFF

Bolton's reply did not quite suit Mr. Ray, but he felt that if he said too much about the will it would give it an exaggerated importance in the eyes of the man before him. So he answered carelessly: "I will give you the hundred dollars, but I wish it understood that it is all I can give you at any time. Don't apply to me again, for it will be of no use."

"I understand," said Bolton non-committally.

"Shall I give you a check?"

"I could do better with the money. My name is not known now at any bank."

"Well, I think I can accommodate you. I believe I have that sum in my desk."

He opened a drawer in his secretary, and produced a hundred dollars in crisp new bills. They had been taken from the bank the day before for a different purpose.

Bolton took them joyfully. It was long since he had so much money in his possession. He had been his own worst enemy. Once a prosperous lawyer he had succumbed to the love of drink and gradually lost his clients and his position. But he had decided to turn over a new leaf, and he saw in this money the chance to reinstate himself, and in time recover his lost position.

"Thank you," he said, but while there was relief there was no gratitude in his tone.

"And now," said Stephen Ray, "I must ask you to leave me. I have important business to attend to. You will excuse me if I suggest it would be better to go away—to a distance—and try to build yourself up somewhat where you are not known."

"I might go to Savannah."

"Yes, to Savannah, if you think it will be to your advantage," said Ray with equanimity.

The other noticed his manner, and he said to himself: "He is willing to have me visit Savannah. It is clear that Ernest did not die there."

Benjamin Bolton left the house in a pleasant frame of mind. It was not the sum which he had received that exhilarated him. He looked upon it only as the first installment. It was clear that Stephen Ray feared him, for he was not an open-handed man, and would not have parted with his money unnecessarily.

Bolton had not arranged his campaign, but he was determined to raise himself in the world by playing on the fears of the man he had just visited.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "whether Dudley Ray's son is dead. If so the document is of no value, and though I should prefer to have it, I won't insist. He was a strong and healthy boy, and he may still be living."

This was a point not easy to ascertain.

He went to a restaurant and obtained a substantial meal, of which he stood very much in need. Then he went out for a stroll. He did not propose to leave the place yet.

As he was walking along he met Clarence Ray again, but not now on his wheel. The boy recognized him.