The reader will remember the individual who was admitted by the captain of the gang of counterfeiters in the second number of this story.

This person was Barry Brown, one of the men under Harry Hale, and a most cool and skillful secret service detective; as the reader has doubtless surmised, Jack, the tall stableman, was also a spy upon the counterfeiters who had been worked into the service of the leader by the cunning of Harry Hale.

Barry Brown had been selected by Hale to enter the counterfeiting gang, and by his skill in die-sinking and engraving, to work himself thoroughly into their confidence, for this gang conducted its secret operations on a larger scale than any other in the country, and it was worth time and patience, and all possible risk, to have the glory of bringing the rascals to justice.

This Brown was as cool as a piece of steel, and his nerves were like the same chilly metal in texture.

He was brave to a fault, but was never rash, and the greatest danger had never proved sufficiently exciting to cause him to lose his head, as the saying is.

Therefore it will be seen that he was a man eminently fitted to carry out the dangerous task intrusted to him by his leader, that of probing into the secrets of the gang, becoming one of their trusted workers, and thus eventually of being able to spring a trap and bag the lot of them.

When the first firing took place between the Prairie Express and the men under Harry Hale, Barry Brown and Jack the stableman were standing in the opening fronting the house.

Some of the horses in the stable became a little frightened, and Jack was forced to attend to them.

“I guess it’s the captain stopping those wagons,” muttered Brown. “Well, whether he carries out his plans or not, I must attend to my work. There being very few in the house now, I guess it will be the best chance I shall have of going on an exploring expedition.”

He went back to the house, and entering the hallway, closed the door.

Nobody was to be seen.

Barry Brown walked slowly along the hallway.

There was a stairway leading down to some unknown part; and down the steps with cautious tread went the secret service spy.

They conducted him to a lower hallway, and this was constructed of huge blocks made of solid stone.

He paused in this hallway, and bent his head to a listening attitude.

A form glided out from the gloom of a dark corner, and with a swift, noiseless leap, bounded upon him.

The secret service man probably owed his life to one fact. He had been a telegraph operator in his time, and the wonderful business had sharpened his ears so much, that, even the very slightest sound became audible to him.

What he heard on this occasion was the sound of the flying foe.

The latter rushing swiftly through the air made but little noise, but that noise was sufficient to attract the attention of Barry Brown’s quick ears.

Merely from the force of a long-practiced habit the detective dropped to the ground, and the flying form shot over him.

It was a huge hound, one of that silent, deadly race that destroy without uttering a single sound.

In a moment the dog turned and made for him again, but Barry Brown did not dodge this time.

He’d met with four-footed enemies before this, and he knew how to battle with them.

In his right hand he grasped a cruel-looking bowie.

His left arm was wrapped in the folds formed by the tail of his coat.

Without a single cry, the immense hound leaped forward.

Barry Brown’s steady eyes flashed like two stars.

His left arm was struck forward, fairly into the immense jaws of the hound as the brute dropped upon him.

The white teeth sank into the thin cloth, and the force of the charge sent Barry over on his back.

The brute came fairly on top of him with its crushing weight.

That armed right hand went up like some mechanical contrivance four or five times with the regularity of clock work, and the keen blade sank again and again into the quivering body of the hound.

The powerful jaws relaxed their hold, the beast rolled off sidewise from the man, and after a few convulsive struggles, gave its last kick and died.

Barry arose to his feet, kicked the dog aside, and then looked to see from what place the creature had come when he made his first leap.

He saw a sort of a kennel in one corner, and thither he dragged the dead hound by his tail and left it.

“A very good dog,” soliloquized he, “a very good dog indeed, but he wasn’t fairly up to the mark, or he never would have given me a chance to draw a weapon. I wonder how long it will take them to find out that he’s dead? It’s rather odd that Jack shouldn’t know anything about the hound being there. Perhaps he forgot to tell me. Well, that’s one guard gone, and the fact that he was a guard tells me that I’m approaching some place worth guarding, and that is what I’m after. I’m blessed if I can see any door in the wall.”

He could not see anything that looked like a door until he came to the end of the hall, and there a small knob informed him that something like a countersunk door might be found.

He unsheathed his knife and held it in his hand.

A strange, buzzing sound came from the other side of the heavy stone wall, but Barry could not distinguish anything more than the fact that human voices formed part of the sound.

“Without doubt, this is one of their down-stairs work-rooms,” said Barry, as he held one ear close to the wall in a vain effort to catch some clear sound from the other side of the massive masonry. “I must lay off there until some one comes out. I’ll wait hours before I’ll budge, unless some new danger drives me away.”

This man’s patience in carrying out such an idea was remarkable.

He crouched down upon the floor, seeking the shady side of the wall, and lay at ease, calmly waiting for some one to appear.

One, two, three, four long hours dragged wearily by, and no one came forth to reward his watching; but beyond a slight change of position, the secret service man stirred not from his post.

Then the portion of the wall intersected by the knob spoken of before swung slowly open, and as Barry Brown looked up, he beheld a man standing before him with a gleaming sword uplifted, as if to cut the daring spy.

When Frank and Charley parted company on the plains, in consequence of something being the matter with the Steam Man, Harry Hale fumed and fretted greatly over the delay.

“It’s no use fussing about it,” cheerily said Gorse, as the man came to a dead stop, and he leaped to the ground. “Both of these machines are very good for speed and effect, but it’s impossible to prevent them from getting out of order if we persist in using them in this slap-dash style. Be good enough to jump down and help me to find what’s up with the old fellow.”

“My boys will be cut to pieces,” said Harry Hale. “They’ll rush into any sort of wild danger if I’m not with them to hold them in check.”

“Don’t fret,” said Charley. “It’s my private opinion that they lost so much time, that they have not been able to come up with Pomp or his pursuers. As for the darkey, I have no fears, for he’s a devil of a fighter, and the best rider in the West, bar none.”

By this time Hale was upon the ground by Charley’s side, and together they went over the machine.

“Running posts all right?” asked Hale.

“Yes,” said Charley.

“Your axles cool?”

“Yes, as ice; not a bit swelled.”

“Water all right?”

“Yes, and steam gauge indicating a high pressure—forty pounds. I must blow off steam.”

He turned on the cocks and allowed two immense jets of steam to rush from the man’s nose for a few moments, while he kept walking around the man looking for the cause of the stoppage.

He found it at length.

It was caused by a “catch” in one of the iron rods running down the legs of the monster which gave him his motive force, and as this could move but very slightly, of course the man could only go along in a one-legged style, that was rather apt to render traveling with him fully as dangerous as it was one-sided.

“The right leg shaft has got twisted at the top of the knee-joint,” said Charley, shutting off steam, so as to make himself heard. “It will be a long job to fix it here with the small tools I carry, but if you’ll lend me a hand, we may get through in about an hour.”

“An hour,” groaned Hale; “if my brave boys tackle that band of outlaws, they’ll be eaten up alive in less than an hour, and they don’t know enough to claw off until they’re almost dead.”

“What can’t be cured must be endured, my dear sir,” said Charley. “Hand me that box of tools, and that monkey-wrench.”

The machinery of the Steam Man, like his horsey brother, was constructed in such a delicate and nicely adjusted manner, that repairing had to be done with exceeding care and studious labor; an extra hard blow or too powerful a wrench with the hand-screw would, perhaps, be sufficient to render the machine totally useless until some experienced mechanic could take it apart and amend the work caused only by both.

So Charley was wise enough to work as slowly as possible, and in the course of an hour he had neatly repaired the twisted part, and the man was again declared to be in running order.

“But it’s getting dark,” said Hale. “Can’t you light up?”

“I can,” said Charley; and soon the giant flaming eyes were glaring out upon the gathering gloom.

But when they started, Charley found that he did not know exactly where he was traveling to, for, like his Cousin Frank, he had lost his bearings.

Onward they sped through the gloom; mile after mile gliding under the feet of the Steam Man, until Charley guided him into the blazed path leading into the patch of woods in which was situated the rendezvous of the counterfeiting gang.

As he traveled along the pathway at very low speed, he bumped over some obstacle, and with a redden flash, his headlight in the man’s head went out, just as he got into the open space in front of the house.

On jumped the man, and before Charley could pull the rein to stop him, the giant bounded up a stone step and crashed against the massive door.