These articles were all highly prized by the boys; but, upon a nail driven into the wall beside the book-case, hung something that, next to his horse and dog, held the most exalted place in Frank’s estimation.  It was the remnant of the first lasso he had ever owned.  He thought more of it than of any other article he possessed, and he would have surrendered every thing, except Roderick and Marmion, before he would have parted with that piece of a rawhide rope.  It had once saved his uncle’s life; and, more than that, Frank himself had been hanged with it.  Yes, as improbable as it may seem, one end of that lasso had been placed around his neck, the other thrown over the hook which supported one of his large pictures, and Frank had been drawn up until his toes only rested on the floor; and all because he refused to tell where he had hidden a key.  Where the rest of the lasso was he did not know.  The last time he saw it, it was around the neck of a man who was running through the grove at the top of his speed, with Marmion close at his heels.  The dog came back, but the man and the piece of lasso did not; and this brings us to our story.

CHAPTER III.

Twelve thousand dollars.

One day, about six weeks before the commencement of our story, Frank and Archie were sent to San Diego on business for Uncle James.  When they returned, they found a new face among the Rancheros—­that of Pierre Costello, a man for whom Frank at once conceived a violent dislike.  Pierre was a full-blooded Mexican, dark-browed, morose, and sinister-looking, and he had a pair of small, black eyes that were never still, but constantly roving about, as if on the lookout for something.  His appearance was certainly forbidding; but that was not the reason why Frank disliked him.  It was because Marmion regarded him with suspicion, and seemed to think he had no business on the rancho.  When the Ranchero came about the house, Marmion would follow him wherever he went, as if he feared that the man was about to attempt some mischief; and, when Pierre returned to his quarters, the dog always seemed to be immensely relieved.  Frank invariably made common cause with his favorites, whether they belonged to the human or brute creation, and without taking the trouble to inquire into the merits of the case; and, when he found how matters stood between Pierre and Marmion, he at once espoused the cause of his dog, and hated the Ranchero as cordially as though the latter had done him some terrible injury, although the man had never spoken to him, except to salute him very respectfully every time they met.

That Pierre hated and feared the dog, quite as much as the animal disliked him, was evident.  He would scowl, and say “Carrajo,” every time Marmion came near him, and lay his hand on his knife, as if it would have afforded him infinite pleasure could he have found an opportunity, to draw it across the dog’s throat.  Frank had often noticed this, and consequently, when he one day came suddenly upon the dog, which was looking wistfully at a piece of meat Pierre was holding out to him, he was astonished, and not a little alarmed.  The Mexican scowled, as he always did when Frank came near him, and walked away, hiding the meat under his coat.