When the train drew into Elreno, a great crowd was seen on the platform of the station, and, for the first time, a troubled look came to the face of the youthful prisoner. "The whole town has turned out to see Black Harry and the man who captured him," said Jones, swelling with importance. Frank said nothing; he knew well enough that such a crowd was dangerous in many cases. What if it were generally believed that he was, in truth, Black Harry, and the mob should take a fancy to lynch him? His chance of escaping a speedy death would be slim, indeed! The train stopped, and, with his hand clutching the boy's shoulder, Jones descended to the platform. "Thar he is!" The cry went up, and the crowd surged toward the two. "Stan' back hyar!" A man that was six feet and four inches in height, and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, forced his way through the throng, casting men to the right and left with his muscular arms. He had a hard, weather-tanned face, and looked as if he did not fear the Evil One himself. "Are you Burchel Jones, ther detective?" asked this man, as he loomed before Jones and his captive. "I am, sir," was the dignified reply; "and this is Black Harry. I surrender him to you, and claim the reward offered for his capture." "Thet ther skunk known as Black Harry?" said the giant sheriff, in evident surprise. "He don't look like a desperado. Wal, we'll soon settle all doubts on thet yar point, fer Miss Dawson is hyar, an' she will recognize him ef he is Black Harry. Come on, boy." Kildare, the sheriff, for such the giant was, again forced a path through the crowd. In the station door, a woman and a girl were standing. The girl was not more than seventeen, and was very pretty, despite the traces of grief upon her face. Kildare led the boy up before the woman and girl, and he spoke to the latter: "Take a good, squar' look at this yar kid, Miss Dawson, an' see ef yer ever saw thet face afore." The girl looked at Frank, and then fell back, horror and loathing depicted on her face. She stretched out one hand, with a repellent gesture, as if warning them to keep him away, and with the other hand she clutched at her throat, from which came a choking sound. The woman offered to support her, but she sprang up in a moment, pointed straight at the youthful captive, and literally shrieked: "He is the wretch who shot my poor father!" CHAPTER IV. FOR LIFE AND HONOR. A sudden, mad roar went up from the crowd on the station platform. They swayed, surged, struggled, and shouted: "Lynch him!" That cry was like the touching of a torch to dry prairie grass. Men climbed on each others' shoulders; men fought to get nearer the prisoner, and the mob seemed to have gone mad in a moment. "Lynch him!" A hundred throats took up the shout, and it became one mighty roar for blood, the most appalling sound that can issue from human lips.