ot fail this time."

"Then this is no joke?"

"You will find it is no joke."

"Well, I can't ride from this place to Elreno with my hands held above
my head, as you must very well know."

"Of course you can't. I'll have to put the irons on you. Here, young
man, hold this revolver to his head while I handcuff and search him."

He spoke to Cholly De Smythe, who had been watching, with staring eyes,
his jaw dropped, and a look of amazement on his face.

"Haw?" squawked the dude, aghast. "What ith that you want, thir?"

"Take this revolver, and hold it to this boy's head. If he moves, shoot
him as if he were a dangerous dog."

"Good gwacious!" gurgled Cholly. "I nevah touched a wevolver in awl my
life! You will hawve to excuse me, thir."

"If you are determined to treat me as if I were a mad beast, I beg you
to let some one who knows something about firearms handle that
revolver," said the captive. "I will give you my word not to make any
trouble if you lower the weapon."

"Your word does not count with me," declared the crafty detective. "I
wouldn't trust you a second--not a second."

"I can show you my card, letters, and other papers to prove my claim
that I am Frank Merriwell, a traveler."

"Black Harry would be likely to have such letters and papers ready for
just such an emergency. That trick will not count."

"Oh, well, don't fool around with that loaded gun held up against my
head! Put on the irons, and give me a chance to rest my arms. Hurry up!"

"Shust led me dake dat revolfer, mine friendt," said the voice of the
Jew. "Uf dot poy tries any funny pusiness, he vill be deat, vid der
accent on der deat."

"Can I trust you?" cautiously asked Burchel Jones.

"Vell, I dunno. You can uf you vant to. I alvays make a bracdice uf
doin' a cash pusiness."

After some hesitation, the tenderfoot detective decided that he could
not do better than trust Solomon, and the revolver was surrendered to
the Jew.

"Don'd you vink!" commanded Solomon, as he screwed the muzzle of the
weapon up against the lad's head. "Uf you do, you vas a deat poy!"

The detective searched the youth, removing a handsome revolver from one
of his pockets. That was the only weapon found anywhere on his person.

Burchel Jones was disappointed, for he had expected to find "guns" and
knives concealed all over the lad.

"Oh, you're slick--you're slick!" he said. "But you can't fool me. I
know how to deal with rascals like you. I have ha