a point in his favor then; for, in less time than it takes to record the
fact, Frank was free. He threw the noose off his neck, pulled the lasso
down from the hook, and hastily coiling it up in one hand, he ran to
the place where he had left his rifle, fully determined that the robber
should not escape from the ranch without an attempt on his part to
capture him. His rifle was gone. The Ranchero had caught it up as he
bounded through the window, thinking he might find use for it, in case
he should happen to run against the visitor in the dark.

Frank looked upon the loss of his rifle as a great misfortune; for, not
only did he believe the weapon lost to him forever, but he was powerless
to effect the capture of the Ranchero, even if he succeeded in finding
him. However, he did not waste time in vain regrets. He sprang through
the window, and, running around the house, entered the court, to look
for the horseman whose timely arrival had saved his life. He went as far
as the archway that led into the court, and there he suddenly paused,
and the blood rushed back upon his heart, leaving his face as pale as
death itself. He had told the Ranchero that a dozen such men as he could
not overcome his uncle; but the scene before him belied his words. Flat
upon his back, in the middle of the court, lay Mr. Winters, with Pierre
Costello kneeling on his breast, one hand grasping his victim's throat,
and the other holding aloft his murderous-looking bowie, whose bright
blade glistened in the moonlight like burnished silver.

Frank started back, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. There could be no
mistake about it, for the moon shone brightly, rendering all the objects
in the court as plainly visible as if it had been broad daylight. He was
not only terribly frightened, but he was utterly confounded. He had
believed Mr. Winters to be fast asleep in his bed at the hotel in San
Diego; but there he was, when Frank least expected him, and, more than