FRANK AT DON CARLOS’ RANCHO.

BY
HARRY CASTLEMON,
AUTHOR OF “THE GUNBOAT SERIES,” “THE GO-AHEAD SERIES,” ETC.

PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.
CINCINNATI, O.:
R. W. CARROLL & CO.

CONTENTS.

DON CARLOS’ RANCHO.

CHAPTER I.
ALL ABOUT HORSES.

Archie Winters found that he had been mistaken in the opinions he had formed concerning life in California. When he first arrived at his uncle’s rancho, he had declared that the fun and excitement were all over, and that he and Frank were destined to drag out a weary, monotonous existence until the time came for them to return home. But Arthur Vane, with the assistance of Pierre Costello and his band, had made things exceedingly lively for him and Frank, and now they were both willing to acknowledge that they had had much more than they wanted of perilous adventure.

The time never hung heavily on their hands, for there was always something interesting going on. First, Dick Thomas returned from San Francisco, and he and Johnny Harris became constant visitors at Mr. Winters’s rancho. Then came several unsuccessful hunts after a grizzly bear, which persisted in breaking into the cow-pen every night, and finally an incident happened that brought about a long string of adventures, and raised Frank and Archie higher than ever in the estimation of the settlers. On the morning on which we introduce them, they, together with Johnny and Dick, were gathered in a room in Mr. Winters’s rancho—the same room in which Frank had had one of those memorable encounters with the highwayman—talking the matter over.

The boys were in a state of siege. Every opening, except the port-holes, through which a breath of air might find its way in to them, was closed, and the room was as hot as an oven. They were perspiring like butchers; but not one of them thought of throwing open a door or window. Frank was stretched out on the bed, drumming on his guitar; Archie was walking restlessly up and down the floor, thrashing his boots with his riding whip; Dick Thomas was looking up at the pictures on the walls; and Johnny Harris was standing with his face close to one of the port-holes, fanning himself vigorously with his hat. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the crack of Archie’s whip, and light footsteps outside the door, with which were occasionally mingled low angry growls, and the rattling of a chain. None of the boys had spoken during the last ten minutes; and that, to those who knew them, would have been sufficient evidence that they were thinking about something exciting.

“Frank,” said Archie, at last, “why don’t you stop that noise? I