The sensations of Frank Reade, Jr., and the trapper, Beaver Bill, was of a fearful sort when they found themselves surrounded by the outlaws.

It was the Mexican, Castrello, who stood before them.

There was no use in offering resistance.

They would have only been shot down in cold blood for it.

Frank Reade, Jr., realized this, and he was wise enough to keep perfectly quiet.

“We’re in for it, Bill,” he whispered. “But never mind. Keep up a good heart.”

“Wall, you bet.”

In the hands of the counterfeiters the position of the two captured spies was not of the most reassuring.

Death, of course, was the fate of spies, and Frank reflected that the counterfeiters had no reason for sparing them.

“Hard luck!” groaned Frank. “We are done for, Bill!”

“Wall, I reckon,” agreed the big trapper, “we kain’t die but once.”

“There is consolation in that thought,” declared Frank.

Castrello seemed beside himself with joy at the capture. He had the two captives securely bound hand and foot.

Then he said:

“Perdito! take them into the strong house. See to it that they do not escape!”

“Si, senor!” replied one of the men, who appeared to be a Spaniard.

The two captives were led to a door in the stone house.

It was evident that the upper end of the house was used for such purposes as this.

There was not a sign of a window anywhere. The door was opened and the prisoners were thrust into a small ten by twelve chamber.

This was as dark as Erebus when the door was closed.

The door formed the only means of ingress and egress. Windows there were none, and no lamp or torch was left to cheer their drooping spirits.

Frank was very much disgusted.

“I don’t understand it,” he muttered, dismally.

“What mought that be, pard?” asked the big trapper.

“How we came to fall into the hands of these miscreants.”

“I kin see it easily enuff.”

“How?”

“Why, we jest made cussed fools of ourselves. We hadn’t orter risked lookin’ in that window. They spotted us then.”

“Well, I’m inclined to believe you,” muttered Frank, “but the fates have seemed against us. Is there no way that we can escape from this place?”

“Don’t see any way.”

“We can’t saw a window bar out, for windows there are none. Really, Bill, I’m at my wits’ end.”

“I’m sorry fer ye, pard. I don’t see as we kin do anything better than to wait fer mornin’.”

“You are right!” cried Frank. “That is the best we can do.”

Both were much tired and gradually dropped into a light sleep.

This lasted for several hours and was of great benefit to them. Sleep is truly said to be a great restorer.

Frank felt better when he awoke.

It was lighter in the prison cell now and Frank knew that daylight had come.

He was secretly wondering what was to come next. Suddenly the door opened and a rough looking man came in.

“So ye’ve raised, eh?” he said with a gruff manner. “Wall, it’s about time.”

“Who are you?” asked Frank, curtly.

“Eh? Wall I’m the chap what watched at this door last night to see that ye didn’t get out.”

“You are, eh?”

“Yas!”

“Well, what do you want?”

“The cap’en, Bert Mason, sent me in to fetch ye two chaps out. He’s got a bit of an inquest to hold over ye.”

The fellow laughed coarsely at what he considered his witty remark.

Frank experienced a queer thrill.

He felt that he was going forth to face death. But it occurred that at last he would be face to face with Bert Mason, the murderer and fugitive from justice.

He offered no resistance, nor did Beaver Bill, and the two men were led out into the open air.

It was now after sunrise some while and the counterfeiters’ camp in every detail was revealed.

Frank looked about with curiosity.

He saw a squad of fully a score of armed men congregated near the western verge of the plateau.

The two prisoners were led thither and into the center of a circle of the foe.

Sullen glances were bestowed upon them which Frank disregarded wholly. The young inventor knew that his life was sought by these men, and that he was never nearer death in his life.

One of the gang, a short, thickset fellow with lowering eyes and a brutish cast of countenance, advanced.

“Wall, what have you two pilgrims got to say for yourselves?”

Frank Reade, Jr., knew instinctively that this was the ruffian, Bert Mason, and he eyed him coolly.

“I have nothing to say for myself,” he replied, coldly.

“Ye haven’t, eh?”

“I said so.”

Mason glared savagely at the young inventor and hissed:

“So ye’re the chap whom they call Frank Reade, Jr., the inventor, eh?”

“That is my name!”

“Ye’re the man what owns that wonderful Steam Hoss?”

“I am the man.”

“Where’s yer hoss now?”

“I do not know.”

Mason laughed coarsely.

“Had lots of sand to cum into this region with the idee of bringing me to my milk, didn’t ye?”

“Perhaps so.”

Frank was cool and perfectly fearless. This maddened the wretch.

“Cuss ye, I kin tell ye that ye’ll never succeed. Ye’re in my grip now, an’ yer fate will be the same as has overtaken every man heretofore who has tried the same game. That’s death.”

Frank gazed unflinchingly at Mason.

“Very well,” he said, coldly. “I am not afraid to die.”

“Look yonder!”

Mason pointed to the Death Valley.

“No man who ever goes in there comes out alive,” he declared.

“Well, what of it?”

“That’s where I’m going to send you.”

The villain laughed in a fiendish way. He motioned to his men.

“Bring ’em along to the edge, boys,” he cried. “We’ll soon end the argument.”

Beaver Bill was just as cool and nervy as Frank was.

Both men had the pluck to face death coolly and without fear.

They were led to the verge of the plateau by the counterfeiters.

Below down a sheer descent of fully a thousand feet was Death Valley.

The hot sands lay below, baking in the blistering sun. Frank saw with an awful chill the purpose of the gang.

This was to throw them over the edge of the plateau.

It was an awful thought.

If even one should survive the fall, the deadly noxious gases would be sure to terminate life.

Frank realized this with a terrible appalling sense, such as comes to one upon the verge of an awful death.

“God help us!” he reflected. “I think this is the end.”

They were led forward to the verge of the precipice.

“Now I’m going to give ye a chance,” cried Mason. “If ye think ye can make the jump ye have a chance for your life. Cut their bonds, men. Ha, ha, ha! I wouldn’t give much for your chance.”

Two men sprung forward, and with sharp knives cut their bonds.

“Now say yer prayers!” cried Mason. “Ye’ll soon be in Hades.”

The villain laughed again uproariously at his ghastly wit.

But Frank Reade, Jr., conceived of a daring plan at that moment. He whispered to the trapper:

“Bill, we have the use of our hands and feet. It is death anyway. Why not make a fight for it?”

“Kerect! I’m with ye!” replied the trapper. “What’s the move?”

“You dash to the right, and I’ll go to the left.”

“Ready!” yelled Mason. “One——”

He did not finish counting. With the rapidity of lightning the two prisoners leaped in opposite directions.

There was the report of a pistol held in Mason’s hand.

The bullet whistled by Frank Reade, Jr.’s, ear.

But the young inventor did not pause. He rushed madly into the arms of one of the guards.

Before the fellow could make resistance Frank had struck him a terrific blow in the stomach which stretched him out upon the ground.

Then he sped away across the plateau like a deer.

Rifle bullets followed him, and though his clothes were shot full of holes, miraculously he was not injured.

But Beaver Bill was having a decidedly harder time.

He had been clutched by several of the foe, and a lively struggle followed.

The trapper was the center of a struggling mass of the counterfeiters, but was making a valiant struggle, when a loud yell of alarm went up on the air.

Frank, in his flight across the plateau, suddenly heard a thrilling sound.

He turned his head and clear to his hearing came the shrill whistle of the Steam Horse.

“Barney and Pomp!” he gasped. “What has brought them here?”

Sure enough, across the plateau, at whirlwind speed, came the Steam Horse.

But directly behind the horse was a body of United States troops, with Captain Elmo at their head.

They came down at a swinging gallop upon the counterfeiter’s den.

Bert Mason with dismay had seen the whole affair. The villains gave a yell of terror and running to the edge of the plateau disappeared.

In a twinkling every one of the counterfeiters had disappeared in the same manner.

The trapper Beaver Bill was left standing alone in the middle of the plateau not in the least harmed.

“Wall, by thunder!” he cried. “What skeered them off that way?”

Then he chanced to look up and see the soldiers and the Steam Horse.

A yell of triumph went up from the excited trapper’s lips.

“Hooray!” he shouted, “that’s the stuff. We’re all hunky now, I swan!”

The next moment the two erstwhile prisoners were standing beside the Steam Horse, and talking with Barney and Pomp and Captain Elmo.

The rescuers had come just in the nick of time.