Castrello gave a violent start.

Frank’s declaration was a genuine surprise to him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “You have me by surprise, senor.”

“Do I?”

“I cannot conceive who the person is to whom senor refers.”

“Ah, do you not know anybody in this locality?”

The Mexican hesitated.

“Is the senor hunting for wealth?”

“Perhaps so,” replied Frank. “At least I have been led to believe that I could find that which would give me wealth here.”

A light overspread Castrello’s face.

“You have come right!” he cried. “Senor Mason will give you what you want.”

Frank knew at once that he had gained his point.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, coolly, “then you believe that?”

“I know it.”

“How can I find Mason?”

“That trail will lead to his home.”

“Ah! but I cannot hope to go up there with my Steam Horse.”

“Not?”

“No! Would you mind doing me a favor? Kindly ride up and ask Mason to come down here.”

The Mexican made a profound bow.

He laughed until one could see his white teeth beneath his dark mustache.

“Senor, I am glad to do your bidding!” he declared.

Then he touched the horse with the jangling spurs upon his heels, and the animal went out of sight in a twinkling in the narrow path.

Time passed slowly.

It seemed as if an hour passed, and Barney ventured to remark:

“Begorra, it’s moighty quare where the black-eyed chap has gone anyway.”

“I jes’ finks if he don’ cum soon dat he ain’ gwine to,” declared Pomp.

“Well, it is a trifle odd,” remarked Frank. “If he don’t show up very soon we’ll try to ascertain why.”

Another half hour passed.

It was beginning to get quite dark in the gorge.

Still Senor Castrello failed to put in an appearance.

Frank was now out of patience.

“Enough of this!” he said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “We have got to find a good camping place.”

“Be jabers that fellow was a fraud!” declared Barney. “Yez kin be sure av that, Misther Frank.”

“I believe you are right, Barney. Well, we will find a good place to lay up until daybreak and then we will investigate.”

“Is it out av the canyon ye’d be afther goin’, Misther Frank?”

“Yes.”

“All roight, sor!”

Barney started the Steam Horse out of the gorge.

But now a genuine surprise awaited the party. Turning a short corner in the pass Barney pulled the Horse up.

“Whurroo!” he yelled. “Wud yez look at that, Misther Frank!”

In the pass not one hundred yards ahead drawn up in solid line and armed to the teeth was a line of men.

Back of them two men were seen on horseback. That one of them was the Mexican, Castrello, Frank saw at once.

It was a shrewd game that the fellow had played.

Of course he was in the game with Mason and in league with the counterfeiters.

Frank regarded the line of armed men and smiled.

They evidently thought to check the Steam Horse with this display of strength. But Frank only smiled.

The Steam Horse was brought to a stop, though Frank now took the reins.

“Begorra, it’s the divils av’ counterfeiters thimselves, I take it,” cried Barney.

“So it is,” said Frank. “And they think they have got us in a trap.”

The Celt roared.

“Be jabers, we’ll soon learn thim betther than that,” he cried.

“Luk out dar, Marse Frank,” cried Pomp, “don’ yo’ see dat man wife de white flag!”

This was true.

One of the counterfeiters was advancing with a flag of truce. Frank at once opened the door of the wagon and stepped out into view.

The fellow advanced to within twenty yards of the Steam Horse and exclaimed:

“Hello, straungers!”

“Hello!” replied Frank.

“I reckon ye don’t know where ye are, do ye?”

“We are in the Death Pass, are we not?” replied Frank.

“That’s right! Wall, thar’s only one man has any right to this pass, an’ his name is Bert Mason.”

“Indeed!”

“Ye sent word that ye wanted to see him. We’ve got information that you are a spy, and you’ll have ter prove yerself, or ye can’t go out of here alive.”

“Who says I cannot?”

“Bert Mason.”

“Who is he?”

“Why, he owns this pass.”

“Oh, he does, eh?” said Frank, with sarcasm. “He is a fortunate man, isn’t he? Suppose I do not prove myself?”

“Then ye can’t go out of here alive.”

“That is serious!”

“I reckon ye’ll find it so.”

“What will keep me from going out of here?”

“I reckon thar’s enough on us. We’ll riddle that go-cart of yours with rifle balls.”

Frank laughed scornfully.

“Fire away!” he cried. “I defy you!”

“You do, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I take that word back?”

“Yes, if you want to; but stay.”

“Wall?”

“Who is Bert Mason and what is his business? Can you tell me?”

“Well, I reckon you know well enough,” replied the truce bearer, curtly.

“You think so? Well, I think I do. You are all a pack of counterfeiters and rascals; but that’s all right. I’ll not trouble you if Mr. Bert Mason will do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I will explain. Up in Silver City there is a poor chap named Benjamin Astley, who is under sentence of death. It is believed that he is identical with Bert Mason and that he is guilty of the murder of Clem Johnson. Now, if Bert Mason will do the right thing and clear that poor fellow, that is all that I will ask.”

The truce bearer listened attentively to this statement. Then he laughed in a strange, hollow way.

“Wall, I’m sorry for that poor devil. I s’pose ye want Mason to go up there and give himself up?”

“I see no other or better way.”

“Wall, you will be a heap bigger fool than ye are now when he does.”

“Ah! can you answer for him?”

“You bet I can.”

“Perhaps you are Mason?”

“That ain’t here nor there. I don’t keer to entertain any proposal of ther kind, an’ we call upon you to surrender.”

Frank had thus far pursued clever tactics in drawing the fellow out. He had gained much valuable information.

He realized, however, now that the crisis was at hand.

“What if I surrender?” he said, keenly. “What are your terms?”

“Unconditional surrender.”

“That means that you will cut my throat after being taken. Well, I think it will be just as well for me to fight. So I decline to surrender.”

“Ye do, eh?”

“Yes.”

The fellow turned short about and marched back to the file of men.

His message seemed to anger them, for a mad yell went up on the air.

Then the command was heard:

“Give it to ’em, boys!”

The next moment the crash of fire-arms broke the air of the gorge. A volley of rifle balls came whistling up the defile.

But they rattled harmlessly against the steel shutters of the wagon.

Frank and Barney and Pomp all sprang to the loopholes and opened fire upon the villains.

Volley after volley was fired at the Steam Horse by the counterfeiters.

But it did no damage whatever.

On the other hand, Barney and Pomp picked off a number of the counterfeiters with deadly aim.

Indeed, given time, the little party of three could have cleaned out the whole gang.

It seemed that the counterfeiters had become aware of the fact that their shots had not told, for the order came for a charge.

Up the defile they came on a charge in headlong fashion.

But Frank was ready for them.

He knew that it would never do to let the villains get hands upon the Horse or wagon.

To charge was the only method, so Frank opened the throttle wide and sent the Steam Horse ahead.

The horse went down into the midst of the yelling gang like a thunderbolt.

The effect was most dismaying to the outlaws.

A path was literally mowed through their ranks. Their efforts to check the Horse were utterly futile.

Down through their midst the Steam Horse went, and clearing them, went on out of the gorge.

Frank let the Horse run for ten miles rapidly, until a good spot to camp was found.

Then he halted, and all sprang out. A fire was quickly built and the evening meal got under way.

“Begorra, I reckon we give them varmints a good lesson that toime!” cried Barney.

“I jes’ fink dey won’t fo’git dat fo’ one while!” cried Pomp.

“It certainly taught them that the Steam Horse was no toy,” declared Frank with a laugh.

Supper was quickly made and all partook of a hearty meal.

The shadows of night were settling down fast. They did not intend of course to sleep outside the wagon, and were about to climb into it when a startled cry went up from Barney.

“Bejabers, phwativer do yez call that?” he cried.

Through the gloom there suddenly appeared a dark object.

The next moment into the circle of firelight burst a horse and rider.

The rider threw himself out of the saddle with a loud guffaw.

“Wall, I swan!” he cried. “If I ain’t caught up with ye arter all.”

It was Beaver Bill, the trapper.

“Ha! glad to see you, Bill!” cried Frank, with pleasure.

“Ther same, cap’en. I rested ther pony up, an’ then cum along slow like. Bat we’re yit ten miles from the valley.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve just come down from there.”

The old trapper looked astonished.