It certainly was not a bad plan of Barney’s, and one easily worked.

It was a simple enough matter to climb to the top of the cliff.

Barney was all ready for the feat.

“Shure, I think yez had betther dhrop me over yinder in the edge av the mountain side,” he said. “I don’t think the omadhouns can see me there.”

“You are right, Barney,” agreed Frank; “that is a very good place.”

The Steam Horse was accordingly sent over quickly to the spot named.

Here it was possible for Barney to leave the wagon without being seen by the red foe.

He at once struck out up the mountain side.

He carried two repeating rifles and plenty of ammunition. It was certain that a surprise party was in store for the Comanches.

Barney was quickly out of sight.

Frank muttered a fervent prayer for his success.

Then he turned the Horse back to the pass, and began firing again upon the foe.

Frank pushed forward into the pass as far as he dared.

Time passed rapidly.

An hour quickly fled by and the two men in the wagon were getting impatient, when suddenly Pomp sprang up.

“Look up dar, Marse Frank!” he cried. “See dat?”

He pointed far up to the top of the cliff. A puff of smoke lingered in the air, and the distant muffled report of a rifle was heard.

Barney had begun work.

The rifle shots became rapid and the effect upon the savages in the pass was terrific.

Loud yells of discomfiture and rage filled the air.

Of course, Barney from his position could look right down upon them and pick them off skillfully.

One by one he began to pick off the secreted redskins.

For a while they stood their ground.

It was useless to attempt to reply to the shots as Barney was entirely out of range or sight.

But the deadly bullets came down in their midst, and every one fired took a savage off the muster roll.

The Comanches hated to relinquish their position in the pass.

On the other hand, they could not afford to remain in their present position and be exterminated one by one.

There was no other way but to beat a retreat.

There was no way to send a party up to disperse the foe at once. It would require too much time.

So with baffled yells the Indians retreated from the pass.

It was now Frank and Pomp’s turn to act.

Leaving the Steam Horse they began work immediately on the barricade of stones.

Hastily they worked at the herculean task of moving them.

Gradually they made a passage through the obstruction for the Steam Horse.

Soon Frank was enabled to get aboard and drive the Horse through. Then a signal was given Barney.

The Celt ceased firing and came down with all haste from his aerial perch.

He came down in half the time that he had occupied in going up, and in the meanwhile Frank and Pomp held the Comanches at bay.

“Begorra, didn’t I give thim a foine taste av the law!” cried Barney, as he came tumbling aboard the wagon. “Shure I think they’ll not thry that thrick again roight away.”

“I am of the same opinion, Barney,” cried Frank, with a laugh. “It was quite a surprise for them.”

“Bedad, an’ it was.”

“We’se jes’ pulled out ob dat trap in good shape!” cried Pomp. “Yo’ am got a big head, I’ish.”

“Shure ye’re roight, naygur, but it’s not so hard as yures.”

“If it ain’t it am jes’ as thick yo’ bet,” retorted Pomp.

“We’re out of the trap!” agreed Frank. “But not out of danger. We will have some fun with the Comanches now.”

Frank sent the Steam Horse ahead at a full gallop.

The Comanches were smarting with defeat and desperate, and did not hesitate to make an attack.

Riding their ponies like fiends they charged upon the Steam Horse.

Luckless barbarians! they little weighed the result or anticipated the consequences.

Nothing could have pleased Frank Reade, Jr., more than this.

He did not attempt to stand his ground.

He adopted his old tactics of running away from the foe and defeating them while in pursuit.

The Comanches came after the Steam Horse like a whirlwind.

Barney and Pomp, at the rear loopholes, worked the repeaters and dropped the foe at every shot.

Frank kept the Steam Horse at an easy distance from the savages and held them there.

It was folly for the savages to try to outfoot the Steam Horse, as they speedily found out.

They were soon willing to abandon the pursuit and the battle, and rode away to the southward much discomfited.

Now that the affray was over, our adventurers were given an opportunity to look about and see where they were.

Looking to the westward, the mighty depression or sink, known as the Great Basin, could be seen sloping downward.

To the southward was the range of hills which formed the curious inclosed valley.

These hills were of fantastic shapes, and the vegetation was of a stunted and unprolific kind.

It was easy to realize that they were really in the great American desert. To the northward lay the mighty sandy waste which is fitly called the American Sahara.

Many a traveling party of explorers or prospectors had drifted out upon that arid waste and succumbed.

Even as caravans had perished in the great Sahara so had the American desert claimed its victims.

All gazed upon the scene spread before them with a profound impression of the importance of this fact.

Frank Reade, Jr., did not fear the desert with the Steam Horse, for he felt that at full speed he could quickly cross it.

Yet he gazed upon the sandy waste with deep interest.

The Comanches had gone from sight beyond the horizon long since.

“Well,” said Frank, drawing a deep breath, “here we are in the desert, and it is somewhere in this region that Bert Mason is located. I would like to know just where.”

“Begorra, it can’t be out yonder in that pile av sand, Misther Frank,” said Barney.

“No, Barney!” agreed Frank. “It probably is not there.”

“I jes’ tole yo’ dat if dar am any livin’ man in dis yer paht ob de worl’ he am ober yonder ways,” declared Pomp.

The darky pointed to a distant range of hills, to the southward of the depression of the Great Basin.

“I believe you’re right, Pomp,” agreed Frank. “We will go thither.”

Accordingly the Steam Horse was turned in that direction.

Across the plain they ran quickly.

As they drew nearer the hills, a long stretch of barren country was seen reaching to the southwest.

The sun’s hot rays glinted across it with dazzling radiance.

The earth seemed baked to the hardness of brick, and great waves of heat could be seen with the naked eyes emanating from it.

Across this dreary sun-burned waste a horseman was making his way at a slow canter.

At sight of him Frank closed the throttle and brought the Steam Horse to a halt.

“Where is my long distance glass?” he asked Barney.

The Celt produced it quickly.

Frank brought it to bear upon the distant rider.

For a moment he scrutinized him closely. Barney and Pomp were eagerly waiting the decision.

“Shure, an’ phwat do yez make av him, Misther Frank?” asked Barney.

“Well, he is a strange-looking character,” replied Frank, “but he is certainly a white man.”

“Golly! dat am joyful news!” cried Pomp. “It will seem jes’ glad fo’ to see a white man once moh.”

“Or a black man, either!” grinned Barney.

Pomp did not notice this insinuation but continued:

“P’raps it am dat bery chap youse lookin’ fo’, Marse Frank.”

“We’ll soon find out!” declared the young inventor, calmly.

Frank opened the throttle and started the Steam Horse ahead.

The distant rider evidently had not seen the Steam Horse, for he had been riding with his head bowed down.

When he did lift his gaze and saw the strange invention coming toward him, the effect was surprising.

He pulled his pony up short and sat for a moment in the saddle like a veritable statue.

Then he seemed imbued with an impulse to flee.

But Frank saw this in time and brought the Horse to a stop.

The young inventor alighted from the wagon and waved his arms in a reassuring manner.

The traveler, who was a man of singular garb and appearance, remained and answered the signal.

Frank boldly advanced on foot toward this singular nomad of the plains, for such the rider appeared to be.

He was a tall, powerful-framed, coarse-featured man of forty-five years of age.

His hair hung in long, matted folds down upon his back from beneath a clumsy bearskin cap.

A tremendous patriarchal-like beard covered his chest; keen black eyes looked out from shaggy brows. Such was his face and form.

His garb was of a nondescript kind, and wholly the product of trapper life.

Greasy buckskin leggings and moccasins inclosed legs and feet, a red shirt, dirty and patched, was worn beneath an outer jacket of tanned deer hide, fringed with porcupine quills.

The unknown carried a rifle and revolvers and knife, and rode in an Indian saddle, with a curious bridle of plaited rawhide to decorate the pony with.

Such types were rarely met with in that part of the West, and Frank knew it.

This man, he instantly reflected, was far from his usual haunts.

He was a trapper from the wilds of Montana, and made his living in dealing in traps and furs.

What he was doing in this part of the world was a problem.

However, Frank advanced boldly toward him.

When within safe speaking distance, the young inventor asked:

“Good-day to you, stranger. Where are you traveling?”