BURT L. STANDISH Ultimate Collection: 24 Action Thrillers in One Volume (Illustrated) - Burt L. Standish

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examination showed that the whole roof of the cave had apparently fallen in, and the passage was blocked with tons upon tons of earth and sand.

      "This yar's ther end o' Sand Cave," said Old Rocks.

      They kept the child with them and waited behind the rocks for the attack of the Blackfeet, but no attack came. Thus the long night passed, and another day came round.

      Then it was found that the Indians had departed.

      "They didn't dar' stay hayer longer," said Old Rocks. "Ther whelps wuz afeared o' ther soldiers. I'd like ter run onter ther soldiers an' set 'em arter Half Hand an' ther gang."

      Led by the guide, they left the spot. Frank carried Fay in his arms.

      Old Rocks first proceeded to the spot where he had hidden his rifle, and, with that again in his possession, he expressed himself as feeling ready to "chaw up ther hull Blackfeet tribe."

      They found some game for breakfast and dinner, and before nightfall they reached the camp on the shore of the lake, where Preston March and Foster Fairfax had met.

      A large party of tourists had gathered there, and the appearance of the man and boy, the latter bearing Fay in his arms, created the greatest excitement. Several persons rushed into the tent and drew forth a man and woman, the latter white and grief-stricken, and pointed out the child, who was sitting on Frank's shoulder and waving her hand, as she laughingly called:

      "I dess my mamma is dere! I knowed you'd tate me bat to my mamma!"

      The man and woman were Foster Fairfax and his wife, who had met by accident there in the Wonderland of America. She had told him how little Fay had wandered away and become lost, and both had feared that they would never see their child again.

      Their unutterable joy cannot be depicted in words. Frank and Old Rocks were the heroes of the occasion.

      "Yer don't want ter give me too much credit fer this yar," said the guide. "I done ther trailin', but this yar tenderfut saved me frum bein' killed twice, an' he's got nerves o' steel. It ain't often I take ter a tenderfut, but I will allow thet this yar chap is a boy ter tie to. Ther babby sticks by him; he has won her heart. Dog my cats ef I blame her either!"

      Then the old man told how Frank had saved him from the grizzly, how the boy had been tireless on the trail, how he had not murmured at any hardship, and how he had broken the arm of the Blackfoot Indian who was about to brain the guide.

      As a result, Frank found himself regarded with unspeakable admiration by all the tourists, while Foster Fairfax and his wife could not say or do enough to express their feelings.

      Frank told them of the death of Preston March, and, later, when Professor Scotch and Barney had been found by Rocks and brought into the party, all visited the spot where the Hermit of Yellowstone Park lay buried beneath tons of earth.

      At the mouth of the cave Foster Fairfax caused a cross to be erected, bearing the name of the unfortunate man, the date of his birth and of his death.

      Frank remained in the park till he succeeded in photographing some "real wild buffalo," and then he was well satisfied to move on to other fields of adventure.

      Half Hand was shot while trying to get away with a stolen horse about a year later.

      When the time came to part from Frank, little Fay was almost heart-broken. She clung to him, sobbing:

      "Is you doin' to leave me? I don't want you to! You know I is your Fairy."

      "You will ever be my Fairy," said the boy, with deep feeling. "Your mamma has promised me your picture, and I shall keep it with me ever. Some time by and by, dear, I will come back to you again."

      And he kissed her farewell.

      CHAPTER XXXV.

       A PECULIAR GIRL.

       Table of Contents

      The remainder of the stop in Yellowstone Park proved a delightful time.

      "I wish I could sthay wid ye, Frankie, me b'y," said Barney, one day.

      "Stay with me? What do you mean?" asked Frank.

      "Oi have news from home. Oi must go back to Fardale to rasume me studies."

      "I'll be sorry to lose you Barney." And Frank spoke the truth, for he loved his Irish chum a good deal.

      Just then Professor Scotch burst in on the pair, telegram in hand.

      "I must return East at once," he cried. "A relative of mine has died and I must settle up his affairs."

      "Two at once!" ejaculated Frank. "Then I'll be left to continue my travels alone."

      "Not for long, my boy," answered the professor. "I will soon return to see that you fall into no more danger."

      Two days later found Frank alone, the professor and Barney have taken the eastbound train the evening before. Frank proceeded to Ogden, Utah, where he spent three days in sight-seeing.

      But he was anxious to go farther West, and one fine day found him a passenger on the Pacific Express, bound for San Francisco.

      Every seat in the parlor cars was taken, as Frank discovered, on endeavoring to obtain one. Then he decided that any kind of a seat would do, but nearly every one was occupied.

      As he passed through the train, he noticed a girl of seventeen or eighteen who seemed to be sitting alone. She was reading, and, as Frank came along, she dropped the book in her lap, looked up, and smiled.

      Frank touched his hat, paused, and asked:

      "Is this seat taken, miss?"

      "No, sir."

      "Would you object——"

      He paused significantly, smiling back at her.

      "Not at all," was her immediate reply, as she drew a bit nearer the window, and he sat down.

      The book in the girl's lap was a noted one of detective tales. Frank caught his breath in astonishment as he noted this.

      "Queer literature for such a girl to be perusing," was his mental observation.

      He cast a sly glance at her. She was looking out of the window, but the side of her face was toward him. Frank noted that she had a beautiful profile, and that there was a most innocent and winsome expression about her mouth. Her hair was golden and her eyes were blue.

      There was a refinement and delicacy about the girl which impressed Frank favorably.

      Still, he wondered that a girl like her should be reading a book of detective tales. She was the sort of a girl he would have expected to see perusing love stories of the "Bertha M. Clay" class.

      He longed to get into conversation with her, and yet, for all of the smile with which she had seemed to greet him, something held him back and told him it was not wise to be too forward.

      At last she resumed reading again. She did not read long. With a faint, scornful laugh, she dropped the book in her lap.

      Frank fancied he saw an opportunity to "break the ice."

      "You do not seem to like those stories," he observed.

      "They are very amusing, and utterly improbable and impossible," she said.

      The boy laughed.

      "Then you fancy the author overdrew his hero?" he asked.

      "To be sure he did. There is no detective living who can do such astonishing things as this one is credited with. No such detective ever lived."

      "Possibly not."

      "Surely not. You cannot make me believe that a detective could come in here, look me over, and then tell everything about me almost to my name and the hour of my birth. Rubbish!"

      Frank's

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