"What do you mean, you villain?"

Pierre, without making any reply, coolly proceeded to overhaul the
contents of Frank's pockets. Like all boys of his age, our hero was
supplied with a variety of articles, which, however serviceable they may
be to a youngster of sixteen, no one else could possibly find use for,
and the Ranchero's investigations brought to light a fish-line,
bait-box, a rooster's spur, of which Frank intended to make a charger
for his rifle, a piece of buckskin, half a dozen bullets, a brass
cannon, a pocket comb, a quill pop-gun, a small compass, a silver ring,
a match-box, a jack-knife, and a piece of lead. These articles he
tossed upon the floor, rather contemptuously, and then turned all
Frank's pockets inside out, but failed to discover any thing more.

"Where are they?" demanded Pierre, removing the knife from his mouth,
and looking savagely at his prisoner, who all this time had lain
perfectly still upon the floor, apparently not the least alarmed.

"Where are what?" inquired Frank.

"The keys, you young vagabond!" returned the Ranchero, astonished at the
result of his search, and in a great hurry to get through with his
business. "The keys that open the office and the safe. Speak quick!"

"The safe key is where you'll never get your hands upon it," replied
Frank. "If you want it, you'll have to go to San Diego, catch Uncle
James, and throw him down, as you did me, and search his pockets for it.
But that is something a dozen such fellows as you couldn't do."