The words rang through the car, startling the passengers, and causing them to stare in astonishment at the man and the boy. The man with the revolver was quivering with excitement, while Frank, at whose head the weapon was held, seemed strangely calm. Exclamations were heard on all sides. "Black Harry!" "Is it possible?" "Not that beardless boy!" "It's a mistake!" "If that's Black Harry, his Braves are near, and there is liable to be some shooting before long." "Sufferin' Moses!" came from the Jew, who owned the revolver. "Ish dat der ropper vat ve read apout der baper in? Stop der cars! I vant to ged off!" "What do you mean by this crazy act?" calmly demanded Frank, looking straight into Mr. Walker's eyes. "I mean business, and I am not going to fool with a fellow of your reputation a minute! If you don't put up your hands, I'll send a bullet through your head immediately!" "Then I shall put up my hands, for I have no fancy for having the top of my head blown off." Up went the boy's empty hands. "That's where you are sensible," declared the man with the foxy face. "I have dealt with your kind before, and I know better than to let 'em monkey with me. I am a man with a reputation for catching criminals. At the sound of my name, the professional crooks in the East tremble." "Walker does not seem to be such a very terrible name." "Walker--bah! That's not my name!" "No?" "Not much!" "Pray, what is your name, then?" "I am Burchel Jones, the famous detective," declared the owner of the gimlet eyes, swelling with importance. "Out in this country the fools call me a tenderfoot, but I will show them the kind of stuff I am made of. When they want to catch their desperadoes and robbers, they should send for a tenderfoot detective." The boy laughed outright. "You are more sport than a barrel of monkeys," he said, merrily. "What do you think you have done, anyway?" "I have captured Black Harry, the terrible desperado, who has been giving them so much trouble out here of late." "You think I am Black Harry?" "I do not think anything about it--I know it." "How do you know it?" "By your face." "Have you ever seen Black Harry?" "Yes." "When?" "Last night." "Where?" "On the northbound Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific express." "You were on that train?" "I was, and I saw Black Harry's face when he was unmasked by Robert Dawson--saw it distinctly. You are Black Harry!" "You were never more deceived in all your life. My name is Frank Merriwell, as I can easily prove." "Your real name may be Frank Merriwell, but you are the boy desperado who is known as Black Harry, and you are the chap who shot Mr. Robert Dawson." The detective spoke with conviction, and it was plain that he really believed what he said. The boy began to look grave, as the situation was not exactly pleasant. "You came from Elreno to Oklahoma City on the first train this morning, did you?" asked the youth. "I did."