Great was the disgust of the crowd when it was found that Hank Kildare had taken his prisoner to jail without passing along the main street of the town. It was declared a mean trick on Hank's part, and some excited fellows were for resenting it by breaking into the jail at once and bringing the boy out and "hangin' him up whar everybody could see him." The ones who made this kind of talk had been "looking on the bug-juice when it was red," and they finally contented themselves by growling and taking another look. In the meantime, Frank found himself confined in a cell, and he began to realize that he was in a very bad scrape. Throughout all the excitement at the railroad station, he had remained cool and collected, but now, when he came to think the matter over, his anger rose swiftly, and he felt that the whole business was most outrageous. Still, when he remembered everything, he did not wonder that the mob had longed to lynch him. Black Harry was a youthful desperado of the worst sort. He had devastated, plundered, robbed, and murdered in a most infamous manner, his last act being the shooting of Robert Dawson, the Eastern banker. And Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, had looked straight into our hero's face and declared that he was Black Harry! "It is a horrible mistake!" cried Frank, as he paced the cell into which he had been thrust. "She believed she spoke the truth. This young outlaw must resemble me. I cannot blame her." The manacles chafed his wrists. "Are they going to leave those things on me, now that they have me safe in jail?" he cried. His door opened into the corridor, and he called to the guard, asking that the irons might be removed. "I believe Hank has gone fer ther key," said the guard "He didn't take it from ther detective what put them irons on yer." "Will they be removed when he returns with the key?" "I reckon." "Then I hope he will hurry. I am tired of carrying the things." He turned back, to pace the cell once more. "This is a flimsily-constructed building," he said. "It would be an easy thing to break in here and drag a prisoner out. I escaped death at the hands of the mob because I had friends at hand to fight for me, and because Hank Kildare is utterly fearless, and was determined to bring me here. But the whole town may become aroused, and to-night---- What if Robert Dawson should die!" The thought fairly staggered him, for he knew the death of the wounded banker would again inflame the passions of the citizens, and a night raid might be made on the jail. "They would stand a good show of forcing their way in here, and then it would be all up with me." It was a terrible thing to stand in peril of such a death. Frank felt that he could not die thus; he would live to clear his honor. But what could he do? He was helpless, and he could not fight for himself. Must he remain impassive, and let events go on as they might?