“He is caught at last,” thought our hero; “how shall I get him home? that’s the question.  How desperately he fights,” he added, as the commotion in the bushes increased, and the yells and growls grew louder.  “But he’ll find it’s no use, for he can’t whip that dog, if he has got a knife.  Now, I ought to have a rope.  I’ll ride up the path, and see if I can find Pierre’s horse; and, if I can, I’ll take his lasso and tie the rascal hand and foot.”

Frank galloped up the path a short distance, but could see nothing of the horse.  The Ranchero had, doubtless, left him in the bushes, and Frank was about to dismount and go in search of him, when, to his utter astonishment, he saw Pierre coming toward him.  His face was badly scratched; his jacket and shirt had disappeared altogether; his breast and arms were covered with blood, and so was his knife, which he still held in his hand.  But, where was Marmion, that he was not following up his enemy?  The answer was plain.  The dog had been worsted in his encounter with the robber, and Frank was left to fight his battles alone.  He thought no more of taking Pierre a prisoner to the rancho.  All he cared for now was to escape.

“Well, now, it was good of you not to run away when you had the chance,” said the Ranchero, who appeared to be quite as much surprised at seeing Frank as the latter had been at seeing him.

“If I had thought that you could get away from that dog, I should have been a mile from here by this time,” replied Frank.  “I was looking for your horse, and, if I had found him, I should have gone to Marmion’s assistance.”

“Well, he needed you bad enough,” said Pierre, with a laugh.  “I have fixed him this time.”

“You have!” cried Frank, his worst suspicions confirmed.  “Is Marmion dead?”

“Dead as a door-nail.  Now we must be off; we have wasted too much time already.”

If the Ranchero supposed that Frank would allow himself to be captured a second time, he was sadly mistaken.  The boy was free, and he determined to remain so.

“Pierre,” said he, filled with rage at the words of the robber, “I may have a chance to square accounts with you some day, and if I do I’ll remember that you killed my dog.”

“Come, now, no nonsense,” said the Ranchero, gruffly.  “You are my prisoner, you know.”

“I think not.  Stand where you are; don’t come a step nearer.”

While this conversation was going on, Pierre had been walking slowly up the path, and, as Frank ceased speaking, he made a sudden rush, intending to seize Roderick by the bridle.  But his rider was on the alert.  Gathering his reins firmly in his hands, he dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which sprang forward like an arrow from a bow, and thundered down the path toward Pierre, who turned pale with terror.

“Out of the way, you villain, or I’ll ride you down,” shouted Frank.

This was very evident to the Ranchero, who, seizing upon the only chance for escape offered him, plunged head-foremost into the bushes.  He barely missed being run down, for Roderick flew by before he was fairly out of the path, and, by the time he had recovered his feet, Frank was out of sight.