"I am an
American with a father who would gladly pay that amount on my safe
delivery to any American consul."
Yellow Franz shook his head and tapped his brow significantly.
"Even if you was what you are dreaming, it wouldn't pay me," he
said.
"I'll make it two hundred thousand," said Barney.
"No--it's a waste of time talking about it. It's worth more than
money to me to know that I'll always have this thing on Peter, and
that when he's king he won't dare bother me for fear I'll publish
the details of this little deal. Come, you must be through praying
by this time. I can't wait around here all night." Again Yellow
Franz raised his pistol toward Barney's heart.
Before the brigand could pull the trigger, or Barney hurl himself
upon his would-be assassin, there was a flash and a loud report from
the open window of the shack.
With a groan Yellow Franz crumpled to the dirt floor, and
simultaneously Barney was upon him and had wrested the pistol from
his hand; but the precaution was unnecessary for Yellow Franz would
never again press finger to trigger. He was dead even before Barney
reached his side.
In possession of the weapon, the American turned toward the window
from which had come the rescuing shot, and as he did so he saw the
boy, Rudolph, clambering over the sill, white-faced and trembling.
In his hand was a smoking carbine, and on his brow great beads of
cold sweat.
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