Perhaps
the more he struggled the firmer it became fastened. And, considering
the surroundings, his fright could hardly be wondered at.
So Frank crept up alongside the prisoner of the rock.
"It's my leg, Nick," cried the man, eagerly. "I can't get it loose and
I've twisted and pulled till it's near jerked out of the socket. See
if ye can't do somethin'. Every time she shakes, that rock up there
just starts to drop down on me! If it comes I'll be smashed."
Frank knew Spanish Joe. The man from across the Rio Grande had worked
on the Circle Ranch for many months, until he was discharged after
being caught in the suspicious business of conveying information to the
cattle rustlers.
"Wait 'till I strike a match, so I can see what things look like,"
Frank said.
And as the match suddenly flared up the dark-faced Spanish-American
stared with astonishment into the countenance of the one who had come
in answer to his frantic calls for assistance.
"You, Senor Frank?" he exclaimed.
"Sure," replied the rancher's son, as he bent over to examine the way
in which the prisoner's foot had become caught.
Although the match only shone for a few seconds, Frank's quick eyes had
sized up the situation.
"How is it, Senor Frank; can you get me out, _camerado_?" asked Joe,
with a quiver in his voice.
Something of a desperado the man might be under ordinary conditions;
but just then, when facing death, he proved very tame indeed.
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