There was a clatter of hoofs, and a doubly burdened horse swept into view, bearing straight down upon the Braves, who were waiting as if ready to fight or take to flight. The horse was foam-flecked, and it was plain he had been driven to the limit of his endurance. The person who handled the reins was a youthful chap, and, as he came nearer, Frank gasped with surprise. "Cholly Grayson De Smythe, the dude! Is it possible?" In his arms, held upon the horse, was a bundle, like a human form, wrapped in a blanket. The outlaws looked for a posse of armed men to follow the boyish horseman, but he was not followed, and he did not hesitate or turn back when he saw the party awaiting him. Straight down upon them he rode, and Frank drew aside, shielding himself behind one of the men. "It can't be possible!" muttered Frank. "It's ridiculous!" Straight down upon the desperadoes rode the dude, seeming utterly fearless. "Halt, thar!" cried one of the men, leveling a rifle at the young horseman. "Hold up, ur chaw lead!" The youth gave a surge that flung the horse upon its haunches. "Steady Bolivar!" his voice rang out. "Would you shoot me?" "Who be you?" "Don't you know me? Ha, ha, ha! Well, I do not wonder. I'll look different when I peel this mustache and wash off my make-up. I have her! See here, boys!" The blanket was flung back, and the face of Lona Dawson, the banker's daughter, was revealed! The girl was not unconscious, and she suddenly squirmed from the grasp of her captor, slipped from the horse, and ran into the midst of the outlaws, crying: "Save me! Protect me!" "Stop her, boys!" laughed the youth on the horse. "Don't let her get away. I've had trouble enough, and taken risk enough to get her." "Wa-al, who be you?" roared one of the band. "Who am I? Look here; do you know this sign?" He made a swift motion with his hand, and nearly every man cried: "The chief's sign! But you are not the chief! He is here with us! You are an impostor!" "Am I? Look!" He tore off a false wig, jerked away a false mustache, took a vial from his pocket, turned some of its contents in his hand, and seemed to sweep the make-up from his face. The result was a wonderful transformation, and the face revealed was almost exactly like that of Frank Merriwell. The men stared in bewildered astonishment. "It is the chief!" gurgled one of them. "Of course I am," laughed the unmasked youth. "You wasted your time in carrying off that other fellow who looks like me. Why didn't you leave him to be lynched? Then the fools would have thought they had put Black Harry out of the way." "The other fellow?" repeated more than one of the men. "Who is the other fellow?" "He is the fellow who looks like me," laughed Black Harry, for the new arrival was the boy chief of the marauders.