Frank Allen at Gold Fork; or, Locating the lost claim

Title: Frank Allen at Gold Fork; or, Locating the lost claim

Author: Graham B. Forbes

Release date: February 6, 2023 [eBook #69968] Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Garden City Publishing, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69968

Credits: David Edwards, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

HE SNATCHED UP A BURNING BRAND AND SENT IT WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR Frank Allen at Gold Fork Frontispiece (Page 121)

FRANK ALLEN AT GOLD FORK

OR

Locating the Lost Claim

BY

GRAHAM B. FORBES

Author of "Frank Allen and his Motor Boat," "Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch," etc.

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK

GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.

1926

THE FAMOUS FRANK ALLEN SERIES

BY GRAHAM B. FORBES

See back of book for list of titles

COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. Frank Allen at Gold Fork MADE IN THE U.S.A.

[Pg 1]

FRANK ALLEN AT GOLD FORK

CHAPTER I

AT THE HORSE CORRAL GATE

"There he is again, Frank! The same queer chap we saw before!"

"That's a dead certainty, Lanky. But lower your voice a bit or he might take the alarm and vamoose."

"I sure wonder what he's prowling around Rockspur ranch-house for, and on a moonlight night, at that. But, Frank, it isn't our old enemy, Nash Yesson, is it?" cried Lanky Wallace explosively.

"No. And I'm just as sure it isn't Lef Seller," came from Frank Allen, referring to the bully of Columbia, Frank's home town.

The scene was the living room of Rockspur Ranch in the far West, where so many exciting things had already happened to Frank Allen and his chums, Lanky Wallace—whose folks owned the ranch—and[Pg 2] Paul Bird. Paul was slumbering peacefully, totally unaware of what was taking place outside.

"There! You can see him plainer now, Frank!" went on Lanky. "He seems to be a runt of a man, with a big head and bushy hair. An ugly customer, I'd say. Do you reckon he's mixed up with the Yesson crowd?"

"Looks that way to me. See him wriggling along now, like a snake in the grass. He's up to some mischief, all right."

"He's wearing a cowboy hat, you can see now, Frank; must belong over with that tough gang at the Double Z Ranch."

"Whatever his game is, he'd better watch his eye or he'll find Lige Smith and his punchers hustling after him. Right now they're all radio hounds, and bunched inside the bunk-house, listening to jazz dance music."

"Say, I wonder, Frank!"

"What's struck you now, Lanky? Don't move, for that fellow's staring straight at this window! Gee, I'm glad our fire's died down! There! he's moving off again. What were you wondering about?"

Lanky Wallace snickered, as though amused by his thoughts.

"Why, don't you see, Frank? he's trying to find some way of getting hold of the map we grabbed,[Pg 3] along with the gold nuggets when we watched Nash Yesson and Lef Seller dig up that rusty iron chest in the underground cellar."

Frank Allen considered the suggestion seriously, waiting a full minute before replying.

"Sounds reasonable, I must admit," he finally agreed. "We know that it was the crude map Josh Kinney left hidden there, that pair was so anxious to lay their hands on."

"Sure! It contains valuable clues that would help a prospector locate the long-lost gold claim Josh worked years ago."

"Now he's moving off, for some reason or other," went on Frank Allen. "It might pay us to slip outside and see if we can't get a line on his scheme."

"Bully! I was just wishing you'd say something that meant action," whispered Lanky Wallace. "But I hope you're not thinking of rousing a hornet's nest around his ears by poking a stick in the bunk-house and stirring up the Rockspur punchers?"

"Nope. We'll play this game by ourselves, Lanky. Sorry Paul happens to be asleep and nursing his lame ankle. He's going to miss all the excitement."

"Lucky for us we chanced to take a squint out of this window in the big living room before hitting the hay in our cubbyhole bedrooms." This being followed by a series of boyish chuckles, told plainer[Pg 4] than any words could have done how pleased Lanky felt over the situation.

"Come along, and we'll slip out by the back door." Saying this, Frank led the way, with his chum trailing at his heels.

Mrs. Wallace and Minnie Cuthbert—a Columbia girl who had come West for the summer vacation, partly to be companion for Lanky's mother, and who was also a tried and true pal of Frank Allen's—had retired some time before, leaving the two boys to sit up and talk over their plans for the near future.

Softly Frank and Lanky passed into the kitchen, which they found empty at that late hour of the night, Charlie Gin Sing, the slant-eyed Chinese cook, having joined the bunch over at the bunk-house to listen as the loud-speaker sent out weird jazz, which seem to appeal to his sense of music.

"Wait while I take a peep first and make sure he didn't swing around to this side of the ranch buildings," Frank cautioned in his companion's ear.

"Coast Clear?" queried Lanky, with bated breath, a moment later.

"Yes. And I could just make him out moving toward the horse corral!" Frank informed him.

"Say, you don't reckon he's got some funny game up his sleeve, do you, Frank?"

"What kind?"

"Oh, such as would set the saddle band of broncos[Pg 5] streaking it out on the prairie, mad with fear, to leave the Rockspur punchers without a single mount to saddle."

"What good would that do him, Lanky? Though perhaps he might hope to find a chance to steal that map while the men were all rushing after the stampeding ponies. But we'll try to look out for that sort of game. Come on!"

The chums crept outside. One thing Frank Allen had already noticed that seemed to be in their favor—the rear part of the house was in shadow. Even the keenest of eyes could not discover that the kitchen door had opened to give egress to a couple of bent-over figures.

"See him still?" asked Lanky eagerly.

"He ducked into that bunch of cottonwoods over there," Frank informed him. "Just the same, you must remember that the corral lies at the far end of that patch of woods. Now for some scout work! And it'll pay us to keep as close to the ground as we can."

"Whee! hope we don't run across any rattlers out here, Frank?"

"No danger," whiffed the other over his shoulder, for he was advancing steadily and cautiously; "those who ought to know say that snakes never move around during the night."

A soft sound like escaping steam told how greatly[Pg 6] relieved Lanky felt; for from early childhood his one horror had been serpents of any kind. He had even been known to make a wry face when impaling an angleworm on his hook, as if it reminded him of his pet aversion.

Frank stuck to his original belief that the mysterious prowler was heading for the horse corral, and he shaped his course so as to come upon this fenced-in enclosure somewhere near the gate.

The stockade was of such a height that even a prize jumper among the broncos could never get its forelegs across the upper bar. Besides this, in order to further insure the safekeeping of the restless ponies, a hedge of thorny Osage orange had been cultivated, the mature trees giving the animals considerable shelter from the scorching rays of an August sun.

Every dozen feet or so Frank would come to a pause, and at such times seemed to be using both eyes and ears to discover any unusual movement or sound around the corral.

"You were right, Frank," whispered Lanky, catching hold of his companion's arm with his fingers and pinching harder than he intended. "I just glimpsed the fellow going inside. He's left the gate wide open too! Listen to the ponies snort and plunge, will you?"

"Get a move on, Lanky! We ought to be nearer[Pg 7] the gate, so as to turn the horses back if they try to break loose."

Lanky was only too willing, since such a move promised to bring them to close grips with the possible horse-thief should the fellow start to rush from the corral after securing a mount.

The confusion inside the pen grew rapidly worse.

"He's trying to rope a pony he's picked out as a prize!" breathed the excited Lanky.

"We'd have him in a nice trap if we closed the gate of the corral and whooped for the boys to come on the jump!" suggested Frank, spurred on by the apparent necessity of doing something speedily.

"Good idea, too!" the other burst out, no longer caring who heard his voice, for the matter had by then about reached the crisis.

"Quick! He's coming full tilt, Lanky! Swing the heavy gate around this way and let me fasten it!"

It might have turned out better, if only they had conceived it a few seconds sooner. As it was, the rushing pony, urged on by savage kicks from a pair of spurred heels, was bearing down straight upon the two boys.

"Look out, Frank!" shrilled Lanky, as he saw a towering form between his eyes and the bright moon. At the same time he ducked in hopes of getting out of the way of the bronco's furious rush.

[Pg 8]

The frightened animal, seeing some moving object in its path, sheered to one side. That saved Lanky from the full force of a collision; but even as it was he received a push that sent him sprawling headlong to the ground.

Scrambling hastily to his feet, somewhat the worse for his upset, Lanky looked around to see what luck had befallen his partner in the mad attempt of trying to halt a frightened, galloping bronco.

"Oh, Frank!" he called out; and then his heart seemed to stand still with dread as he glimpsed a still figure huddled in a heap on the prairie some ten feet away, showing that Frank Allen had also been struck down.

[Pg 9]

CHAPTER II

THE SUDDEN ALARM

Just before Lanky Wallace was struck by the rush of the stolen bronco and knocked to the ground, he had let out the cowboy whoop for help.

It reached the ears of Hoptoad Atkins, the smallest rustler in the Rockspur bunch, as he was emerging from the bunk-house to see what the weather promised for the morning, he having a long gallop before him. At the same moment he heard the racket over at the horse corral, and sensing trouble of some sort sprang back into the house with a shout.

"Stampede of the ponies! Get out of here, everybody, with a rush!"

The cowboys came pouring out, and made for the corral in a string, the longest-legged being in the fore. Lanky, they found bending anxiously over Frank, who, having been knocked senseless, was just beginning to show signs of returning consciousness.

"Thief got away with one of our mounts," hurriedly explained Lanky. "He bowled both of us over when he came out of the corral like a tornado.[Pg 10] Little critter with the biggest head you ever saw—been prowling around here at night, twice now. We tried to trap him in the circle, but he was too quick on the get-away!"

"Which way did he lope, Lanky?" demanded Lige Smith, the wiry and experienced foreman of the ranch.

"Reckon it was over west; but I'm a bit hazy after that knockout," returned the boy.

"I sure heard far-off hoofbeats in that quarter when I busted out of the shack!" announced Zander Forbes emphatically.

"Git ther ponies," broke in old Jerry Brime, a veteran puncher with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. "Mebbe we kin straddle him yet before he gits to the Double Z outfit! Whoopee!"

A rush was made into the corral, and lively hustling followed as each puncher picked out his special mount and roped him by the light of the moon's bright rays.

"Good luck, boys!" bellowed the still excited Lanky, as the cowboys galloped madly away. There was a little regret in his heart because he could not leave Frank Allen and join in the mad chase.

By this time Frank had pretty well recovered after his painful experience. He would feel a bit sore for some days, but could be thankful his injuries were no more serious than a few bruises.

[Pg 11]

"We made a fine mess of it that time, Lanky," he observed, when it was found that no bones had been broken by his nasty fall.

"Huh! didn't move quick enough! A matter of ten seconds; but that was plenty to queer the game, all right."

"He meant to stampede the whole bunch of ponies, looked like to me," Frank Allen remarked. "I wish we knew just what his scheme was, hanging around here and taking such big risks."

"I'm still thinking he wanted to have a try for that paper," affirmed Lanky doggedly, "and when he found he hadn't a ghost of a chance to lay his paws on the same, why, he got mad, and reckoned he'd have the laugh on our outfit by stampeding the range ponies."

The two boys made their way to the house, followed by Charlie Gin Sing. Here they found Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, as well as Minnie Cuthbert and Paul Bird, up and partly dressed, they having been aroused by the unusual clamor, and more than curious to understand what it all meant.

"No sleep for me with all this stuff going on," announced Lanky, as he sat before the resurrected fire in the big living room. "I mean to stay right here till the cows come home—I mean the cowboys—and have a close-up look at that skunk, if they overtake him."

[Pg 12]

None of the others evinced any desire to seek their beds; so half an hour afterwards when they heard the riders talking and laughing over by the corral both Lanky and Frank went out to learn what the result of the chase was.

"Shucks, he got clean away!" Lanky ejaculated, after hearing what some of the men had to say.

"But, anyway," announced the effeminate-looking puncher with the high voice, who had come West to build up his health and who rejoiced in the name of Sally Keating, "the joke is on that coyote, because he had the bad luck to pick out the worst pony in the whole outfit, with more mean traits than you can shake a stick at."

"You don't mean that white-eyed terror we call Whitey Knocker, do you Sally?" shrilled Lanky, in great joy. Upon the other's wagging his head in the affirmative, he continued with a bit of spite in his voice: "Then he's in for a peck of trouble! I only hope that bronc will break his own neck in the bargain when he goes down in a crash with his rider."

Lanky knew from experience what a pack of tricks Knocker had for all occasions. There were several sore spots on the boy's person that he could lay to his determination to beat the pony with that wicked white eye at his own game, his father having[Pg 13] finally been compelled to forbid any repetition of the dangerous task.

By degrees the excitement died out, and there was an exodus of tired riders and others to their own quarters.

With the morning the boys went over the ground to revive their recollection of every incident connected with the previous night's thievery. They even followed the tracks of Whitey Knocker for some little distance, which could be done through a certain queer formation of the pony's off hind hoof.

"No use going any further, Lanky," said Frank finally. "The trail keeps on getting fainter right along, as the soil changes."

"Then, all we've learned," suggested his chagrined chum, "is that when he flew the coop he headed about as straight as the bee flies for Double Z Ranch."

"But our boys all say they've seen every puncher in that outfit, and what we could tell about this runt's looks with his big head didn't fit any of that rough bunch. Still, he may be a newcomer, playing a lone hand in hanging around Rockspur at night."

Frank Allen had always been a leader among his boy friends in the home town of Columbia in the East, as told in the first volume of this series called "Frank Allen's School Days."

[Pg 14]

Rockspur Ranch, a small cattle industry located on the plains, had been left to Mrs. Wallace by her bachelor brother, George Rockford, and the Wallaces had come out, partly for the banker's health, but also to inspect the newly acquired property.

Frank Allen and Paul Bird had been asked to become members of the party, and Minnie Cuthbert, the prettiest and most sensible girl in all Columbia—at least so Frank was firmly convinced—was along to keep Mrs. Wallace company.

A man by the name of Nash Yesson had tried to buy the property from the new owner. That failing, he had, with the assistance of Lef Seller, known as the bully and worst boy in Columbia, tried to get possession of a treasure he knew to be buried in a cellar under the ranch pantry.

The vigilance of Frank Allen and his chums defeated this effort, and the plotters were chased off, leaving the old rusty iron box they had dug up in the possession of the rightful owners. All of these happenings have been narrated in the pages of the book just preceding this, under the title of "Frank Allen at Rockspur Ranch."

Lanky's uneasiness concerning the possible continued efforts of Yesson and Lef to steal the valuable paper and chart that, with gold nuggets, had lain in the iron box so many years, accounted for his suspicions that the mysterious nightly visits of the[Pg 15] man with the big head were connected in some way with the long-buried treasure.

One of the papers yellowed by age that fell into the Wallaces' possession had been a rudely drawn chart of a mountainous section of country where years before gold had been found in paying quantities and a little mining settlement named Gold Fork was located.

It was understood that this place was now deserted, the shacks in ruins. So all hope of ever locating the long-lost mine worked in secret by Josh Kinney, former owner of Rockspur Ranch, died away.

This map had been drawn by Josh Kinney himself. Its existence was known, but no human eye had ever beheld it save the maker's up to the time it fell into the possession of Frank Allen and his two chums.

Jerry Brime knew something about the lost claim, for he had worked alongside Kinney at cattle raising and had himself tried, but without success, to follow the other when he disappeared. Jerry believed that Kinney was laying in a fresh stock of gold nuggets from the rich deposit, or "pocket," in his secret mine when this happened.

Brime and the three boys held many consultations as the days passed. The boys were bent on making an effort to locate Kinney's source of treasure-trove,[Pg 16] and so asked a multitude of questions. Some of these Jerry answered readily, but in other cases his memory failed him.

"Wait till we-uns git up thar at Gold Fo'k," he would say. "Mebbe ole Jerry's mind'll be freshened a bit by seein' the ole place agin. Thet map's a-goin' to help a heap; an' I do reckon we'll git our paws on the stuff thet's hidden away in the five-fingered cave."

In the end Frank and Lanky came to believe that they must wait until Mr. Wallace gave the word for the little expedition to set forth. Then, if luck favored them, all might yet turn out well.

"There's only one thing that bothers me," Lanky said the afternoon they gave up trying to squeeze more information from the willing but helpless Jerry Brime.

"I can guess what it is," chucked Frank. "Nash Yesson?"

"And his crony, Lef Seller," admitted the smiling Lanky Wallace. "They may be hanging around here; for they are stickers, all right. Then again, for all we know, the pair may be up at Gold Fork raking the ground over with a fine-tooth comb, looking for the lost claim."

"What of it?" Frank asked complacently. "A heap of others did that same thing years ago and only found themselves up against a blank wall. I[Pg 17] tell you, Josh Kinney was a cute one and knew how to keep a secret."

"Glad to see you feel so confident, Frank. With Jerry along to revive his memory of things and that little chart to help, I guess we've got a better chance to spot that claim than anybody ever had before. But that was startling news you had in the last letter from Buster Billings, our fat chum back in Columbia."

"Well, I'm not much surprised about Lef," said Frank, shaking his head as he spoke. "We always knew he was a bad egg, up to every kind of mischief he could think of."