Produced by David Edwards, Les Galloway and the Online
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Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

The author has used the phrase ‘chip of the old block’ several times
and the more usual ‘chip off’ once. This has not been changed.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.




                          BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

                           MERRIWELL SERIES

                        ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

                  Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

                   Fascinating Stories of Athletics


A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will
attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of
two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with
the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and
athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be
of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a
good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous,
right-thinking man.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

  101—Frank Merriwell’s Nomads
  102—Dick Merriwell on the Gridiron
  103—Dick Merriwell’s Disguise
  104—Dick Merriwell’s Test
  105—Frank Merriwell’s Trump Card
  106—Frank Merriwell’s Strategy
  107—Frank Merriwell’s Triumph
  108—Dick Merriwell’s Grit
  109—Dick Merriwell’s Assurance
  110—Dick Merriwell’s Long Slide
  111—Frank Merriwell’s Rough Deal
  112—Dick Merriwell’s Threat
  113—Dick Merriwell’s Persistence
  114—Dick Merriwell’s Day
  115—Frank Merriwell’s Peril
  116—Dick Merriwell’s Downfall
  117—Frank Merriwell’s Pursuit
  118—Dick Merriwell Abroad
  119—Frank Merriwell in the Rockies
  120—Dick Merriwell’s Pranks
  121—Frank Merriwell’s Pride
  122—Frank Merriwell’s Challengers
  123—Frank Merriwell’s Endurance
  124—Dick Merriwell’s Cleverness
  125—Frank Merriwell’s Marriage
  126—Dick Merriwell, the Wizard
  127—Dick Merriwell’s Stroke
  128—Dick Merriwell’s Return
  129—Dick Merriwell’s Resource
  130—Dick Merriwell’s Five
  131—Frank Merriwell’s Tigers
  132—Dick Merriwell’s Polo Team
  133—Frank Merriwell’s Pupils
  134—Frank Merriwell’s New Boy
  135—Dick Merriwell’s Home Run
  136—Dick Merriwell’s Dare
  137—Frank Merriwell’s Son
  138—Dick Merriwell’s Team Mate
  139—Frank Merriwell’s Leaguers
  140—Frank Merriwell’s Happy Camp
  141—Dick Merriwell’s Influence
  142—Dick Merriwell, Freshman
  143—Dick Merriwell’s Staying Power
  144—Dick Merriwell’s Joke
  145—Frank Merriwell’s Talisman
  146—Frank Merriwell’s Horse
  147—Dick Merriwell’s Regret
  148—Dick Merriwell’s Magnetism
  149—Dick Merriwell’s Backers
  150—Dick Merriwell’s Best Work
  151—Dick Merriwell’s Distrust
  152—Dick Merriwell’s Debt
  153—Dick Merriwell’s Mastery
  154—Dick Merriwell Adrift
  155—Frank Merriwell’s Worst Boy
  156—Dick Merriwell’s Close Call
  157—Frank Merriwell’s Air Voyage
  158—Dick Merriwell’s Black Star
  159—Frank Merriwell in Wall Street
  160—Frank Merriwell Facing His Foes
  161—Dick Merriwell’s Stanchness
  162—Frank Merriwell’s Hard Case
  163—Dick Merriwell’s Stand
  164—Dick Merriwell Doubted
  165—Frank Merriwell’s Steadying Hand
  166—Dick Merriwell’s Example
  167—Dick Merriwell in the Wilds
  168—Frank Merriwell’s Ranch
  169—Dick Merriwell’s Way
  170—Frank Merriwell’s Lesson
  171—Dick Merriwell’s Reputation
  172—Frank Merriwell’s Encouragement
  173—Dick Merriwell’s Honors
  174—Frank Merriwell’s Wizard
  175—Dick Merriwell’s Race
  176—Dick Merriwell’s Star Play
  177—Frank Merriwell at Phantom Lake
  178—Dick Merriwell a Winner
  179—Dick Merriwell at the County Fair
  180—Frank Merriwell’s Grit
  181—Dick Merriwell’s Power
  182—Frank Merriwell in Peru
  183—Frank Merriwell’s Long Chance
  184—Frank Merriwell’s Old Form
  185—Frank Merriwell’s Treasure Hunt
  186—Dick Merriwell Game to the Last
  187—Dick Merriwell, Motor King
  188—Dick Merriwell’s Tussle
  189—Dick Merriwell’s Aero Dash
  190—Dick Merriwell’s Intuition
  191—Dick Merriwell’s Placer Find
  192—Dick Merriwell’s Fighting Chance
  193—Frank Merriwell’s Tact
  194—Frank Merriwell’s Puzzle
  195—Frank Merriwell’s Mystery
  196—Frank Merriwell, the Lionhearted
  197—Frank Merriwell’s Tenacity
  198—Dick Merriwell’s Perception
  199—Dick Merriwell’s Detective Work
  200—Dick Merriwell’s Commencement
  201—Dick Merriwell’s Decision
  202—Dick Merriwell’s Coolness
  203—Dick Merriwell’s Reliance
  204—Frank Merriwell’s Young Warriors
  205—Frank Merriwell’s Lads
  206—Dick Merriwell in Panama
  207—Dick Merriwell in South America
  208—Dick Merriwell’s Counsel


In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


                   To be published in January, 1929.
  209—Dick Merriwell, Universal Coach
  210—Dick Merriwell’s Varsity Nine

                  To be published in February, 1929.
  211—Dick Merriwell’s Heroic Players
  212—Dick Merriwell at the Olympics

                    To be published in March, 1929.
  213—Frank Merriwell, Jr., Tested
  214—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Conquests
  215—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Rivals

                    To be published in April, 1929.
  216—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand
  217—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona

                     To be published in May, 1929.
  218—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Mission
  219—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Iceboat Adventure

                    To be published in June, 1929.
  220—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Timely Aid
  221—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in the Desert




                 Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand

                                  OR

                        FAIR PLAY AND NO FAVORS


                                  By
                           BURT L. STANDISH
                Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.


                  [Illustration: Publisher’s Device]


                      STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
                              PUBLISHERS
                    79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York




                            Copyright, 1912
                           By STREET & SMITH

                 Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand


    All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
                languages, including the Scandinavian.

                       Printed in the U.  S.  A.




                 FRANK MERRIWELL, JR.’S, HELPING HAND.


                              CHAPTER I.

                           THE HOUSEBREAKER.


In one of the residence streets of Gold Hill, Arizona, stood—and no
doubt still stands at this moment—a rather pretentious, two-story
dwelling. Six low-growing, broad-leaved palms were marshaled in two
rows before the front door, and to right and left of the palms were
umbrella and pepper trees. Extending from one corner of the house,
almost to the pickets that fenced in the premises, was a rank growth of
oleanders.

This was the home of Colonel Alvah G. Hawtrey, an ex-army officer. In
the service of his country Hawtrey had chased and fought the murderous
Apaches all over that part of the Southwest; and now, at the age of
sixty, the colonel, with an honorable discharge from the service, was
giving his attention to various mining enterprises and was reputed to
be a very wealthy man.

He was broad-minded and public-spirited, and the prosperity of Gold
Hill owed more to the old colonel than to any other citizen. He had
built the Bristow Hotel and several brick business blocks; he had
founded a social club, a cattlemen’s association, and a miners’ relief
society. It was known that he paid, out of his own pocket, the salary
of one of the local ministers; he owned a bank, and, last but not
least, he had organized and brought into successful operation the Gold
Hill Athletic Club. For nothing was the colonel more honored than for
his love of manly sports, and for his zeal in seeing that the youth of
Gold Hill received proper physical training.

On a night in late October a spectral figure crept along the fence in
front of Colonel Hawtrey’s house. The house was dark, and apparently
deserted. After surveying the house carefully for a few moments, the
figure leaped the fence noiselessly and gracefully and faded into the
deep shadow of the oleanders.

Very carefully the prowler made his way through the bushes to the
corner of the house. Here again he paused and listened. Seemingly
satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided to the nearest window,
opened the thin blade of a pocketknife, climbed to the sill, forced the
blade between the upper and lower sash, and deftly opened the lock.
Another moment and he had raised the lower half of the window and
dropped through into the dark room beyond.

Evidently this prowler was not on unfamiliar ground. Without striking
a light, he groped his way to a door and into a hall; through the hall
he passed, and to a stairway, then up the stairs to the hall above, and
down the corridor to a room at the rear of the house. He had a key to
the door of the room, and he opened it. Once across the threshold, he
scratched a match, stepped to an electric-light button, and touched it
with his finger. Instantly the room was flooded with a glow of light
from incandescent bulbs.

It was a small room, with banners and pennants on the walls. Several
of the flags bore the letters, “G.  H.  H.  S.”—official emblems of
Gold Hill “High.” Others bore the initials “G.  H.  A.  C.” and had
once figured in athletic-club events. Foils were also crossed on the
wall, boxing gloves hung from pegs, a catcher’s mask lay on a shelf,
and a breast protector hung beneath it. On the same shelf with the
mask stood a tarnished silver cup, bearing an inscription to the
effect that it had been presented to one Ellis Darrel for winning a
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash under the auspices of the Gold Hill
Athletic Club. Dumb-bells and Indian clubs stood on the floor close to
the wall.

Thick dust covered everything. The prowler stood in the center of the
room as though in a trance, and slowly allowed his eyes to wander about
him.

He was a young fellow, not much over seventeen, slender and with a body
remarkably well set-up. His hair was light and curly, his eyes blue,
and his face was handsome and winning, although clouded with melancholy
and a certain haunting sadness.

The long, wavering survey of the room seemed to overcome the intruder.
Suddenly he sank down into a dusty morris chair, bowed his head, and
covered his face with his hands. As suddenly, he roused himself again,
shook his shoulders as though to free them of a grievous burden, and
made his way toward the door of a closet.

From the closet he removed a suit case, lettered with the initials
“E.  D.,” and followed with the address, “Gold Hill, Ariz.” Kneeling
beside the bit of luggage, he opened it and took out a sleeveless
shirt, a pair of running pants, and a pair of spiked shoes. A couple
of cork grips rattled around in the suit case as he removed the other
contents, but he left them, closed the grip, and returned it to the
closet. Then he carefully closed the closet door.

Rolling his sprinting outfit into a compact bundle, the intruder rose
to his feet and started for the hall door. On his way he paused. Below
the cross foils hung a picture, turned with its face to the wall.

A flash of white ran through the lad’s bronzed cheeks. With his bundle
under his arm, he put out one trembling hand to the picture and turned
it around.

It was a framed photograph of a young fellow in running costume, taken
on a cinder path. The lad in the photo was holding a silver cup—the
same cup that stood on the shelf in that room. And it was more than
evident that the youngster in the picture was the very same lad who had
entered that house like a thief in the night, and was now staring at a
kodak testimonial of a former track victory.

Why was the photograph turned to the wall? Why was the dust lying
thick upon every object in the room? The cause was no mystery to the
intruder. His lip quivered and a mist rose in his eyes as he turned the
photograph to the wall once more.

He peered around to make sure that he had left nothing which might
prove a clew to his presence in the room, then turned off the light,
passed into the hall, and shut and locked the door behind him. As he
had come gropingly to the upper floor, so now he felt his way down the
stairs and to the opened window. To climb through the window and lower
the sash from the outside required but a few moments.

He tried to relock the sash, but found it impossible. Hesitating a
moment by the unlocked window, he turned finally and made his way
through the oleanders to the fence; then, leaping the pickets as he had
done before, he vanished along the gloomy street.

He had come from Nowhere, this mysterious lad who had come prowling by
night into the house of Colonel Hawtrey; but he was going Somewhere,
and, for the first time in months, he had a destination and a fixed
object in mind. Although he believed that he had left no clews behind
him, and that he had not been seen coming or going from the house, yet
he was mistaken.

Some one, leaving the dwelling by the front door, had passed along
the walk between the shadowy palms just at the moment the intruder
was standing by the fence. At the very moment the prowler leaped the
pickets, this other person was at the gate and had caught sight of the
figure disappearing into the oleanders.

The person who had left the house repressed a cry of alarm and stood,
for a few moments, leaning over the gatepost. It had seemed to him as
though, in the starlight, he had recognized the form that had leaped
the fence. A gasp escaped his tense lips, and it was plain that he was
gripped hard with astonishment and dismay. While he stood there, slowly
recovering control of himself, he heard muffled sounds from within
the house; then, leaving the gate, he passed through the oleander
bushes and found the open window. He was on the point of following the
intruder into the house when a glow of light shone out from the second
floor. Hurrying to a pepper tree that grew near a rear corner of the
building, the spy climbed swiftly upward until he was on a level with
the window through which came the light. The prowler had not drawn the
shade, so all that went on in the upper room came under the eyes of the
spy.

One look at the lad in the house, under the electric light, convinced
the person in the tree that the prowler was really the one whom he had
at first supposed him to be. The spy gritted his teeth and his hands
clutched the tree limbs convulsively. When the intruder had left the
house and vanished down the street, the spy came down from the tree,
hurried around to the front door, and let himself into the building.
Quickly he turned on the lights and made his way to the room, through
the window of which the intruder had gained entrance into the house.

This room was the colonel’s study. A desk stood in the center of it,
the walls were lined with books, and in one corner was a massive iron
safe.

In the light it could be seen that this second youth was not more than
two years the senior of the lad who had come and gone. But the face of
this second youth was dark and sinister, and the puzzled light in his
shifty eyes was gradually taking on a cunning gleam.

“What is he back here for?” he was asking himself, half aloud. “Just
getting his old running suit, eh?” and there was something of a sneer
in the voice. “There’s money in the safe, and I thought——” Just what
the lad thought did not appear. A look at the safe showed it had not
been tampered with. “Has he returned to soft soap the old gent and get
back into his good graces? That’s what he has on his mind, and I’ll bet
on it! He stole in here like a thief—just to get his old track clothes!
I wonder——”

The youth paused, the cunning light growing in his eyes. On the floor,
below the window, lay an open pocketknife. He picked it up and looked
at it. On a piece of worn silver in the handle was marked, “E.  D.,
from Uncle Alvah.”

“By Jupiter,” whispered the lad, “I’ll do it! Here’s a chance to cinch
the situation—for me. I can make it impossible for that soft-sawdering
beggar to get back into Uncle Alvah’s confidence. I’ll fix him, by
thunder!”

Swiftly the schemer darted to the safe. Kneeling before it, he turned
the knob of the combination back and forth for a few moments, and then
pulled open the heavy door. The inner door was drawn out easily, and
a package of bills, wound with a paper band and marked “$1,000” was
removed. The boy hesitated, the package of bills in his hand.

“Hang it,” he muttered, “it’s now or never. There’s nothing else for
it!”

With that, he pushed the bills into his pocket and got up.

“It will look like a clear case,” he went on. “The old gent will come
here to-morrow morning, find the safe open, the window unlocked,
the money gone—_and Darrel’s knife on the floor_! I’ll bet a row of
’dobies,” he added fiercely, “that will fix Darrel for good. What did
he want to come back here for, anyhow? He ought to have had better
sense. Lucky thing I had to run into town from Mohave Cañon, in order
to fix up a scheme to knock Frank Merriwell out; and it’s lucky I was
leaving the house and saw Darrel, and spied on him instead of giving a
yell and facing him down. Oh, I reckon things are coming my way, all
right! But Darrel—here! Who’d have dreamed of such a thing? There’ll be
merry blazes when the old gent gets home to-morrow!”

Chuckling to himself, the plotter put out the lights, made his way to
the front door, and was soon clear of the house and in the street. He
had laid an evil train of circumstantial evidence, designed to benefit
himself at the expense of Darrel.




                              CHAPTER II.

                          A STRANGER IN CAMP.


Frank Merriwell, junior, and his two chums, Owen Clancy and Billy
Ballard, were camping at Tinaja Wells with the football squad of the
Ophir Athletic Club. Besides Frank and his friends there were fifteen
campers in the grove at the Wells, enumerated by Ballard as one
professor, one Mexican, one Dutchman, and twelve knights of the pigskin.

The professor was Phineas Borrodaile. He hailed originally from a prep
school in the middle West, had come to Arizona for his health, and,
aided by the two Merriwells, senior and junior, had found wealth as
well. The professor was now being retained as instructor by young Frank
and his chums, thus enabling them to keep up with their studies while
“roughing it” in the Southwest.

The Mexican was Silva, the packer. Silva had a burro train, and had
packed the equipment of the campers over the fifteen miles separating
Ophir from Tinaja Wells. For ten miles the trail was a good wagon road;
but from Dolliver’s, at the mouth of Mohave Cañon, up the cañon to
Tinaja Wells, the trail was a mere bridle path, and only pack animals
could get over it. Hence the lads had found it necessary to make use of
Silva and his burros.

The Mexican had hired out as cook, as well as packer; but two days
of Silva’s red-hot Mexican cooking, with garlic trimmings, made it
necessary for the boys either to line themselves with asbestos or get
another cook. Clancy was sent in to Ophir and he came back with Fritz
Gesundheit, the Dutchman. Fritz had presided over a chuck shanty in the
cattle country, and carried recommendations which highly extolled his
sour-dough bread, flap jacks, and crullers.

Fritz was nearly as broad as he was high, but he proved a chef of rare
attainments. He would roll around between the stove and the chuck tent,
and play an errorless game in his cooking and serving; but let him
waddle out of his culinary environment and he was as full of blunders
as a porcupine is of quills. For a lot of skylarking boys, he was an
everlasting joy and a perpetual delight.

Silva resented the loss of his cooking job. He burned to revenge
himself on the fat _gringo chingado_ who had kicked the red peppers
and the garlic out of camp and preëmpted the culinary department. Less
than an hour after Fritz had evolved his first meal for the campers and
covered himself with glory, the Mexican’s dark plots came to a head.
Placing the professor’s mule, Uncle Sam, between two clumps of cholla
cactus, he smilingly invited Fritz to take a ride.

“Carrots,” as Fritz had instantly been christened by the lads on
account of his hair, accepted the invitation and climbed to Uncle Sam’s
hurricane deck. Thereupon the vengeful Silva twisted Uncle Sam’s tail
with direful results. Carrots made a froglike leap over the mule’s head
into one clump of cactus, and Silva, caught by the mule’s heels before
he could get out of the way, sat down in another clump.

The campers were not long in finding out that Carrots was the subject
of weird hallucinations. His latest delusion concerned buried treasure.
It cropped out in the afternoon of his second day in camp. Merry
had taken the football players out for a “breather”—down the cañon
to Dolliver’s, and back. Silva was out with a shovel and hornspoon,
somewhere in the hills, hunting a placer, and incidentally nursing his
grievances. The professor was reading in the shade of a cottonwood. In
the shade of another cottonwood, Carrots was mooning over a pipe of
tobacco.

“Brofessor,” called the Dutchman, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe and putting it carefully away in his pocket, “vill you told me
someding?”

The professor looked up from his book and over his spectacles at Fritz.

“What is it that you desire to know?” he asked.

“Ask me dot.”

The professor showed signs of impatience.

“Simpleton! Am I not putting the query? What shall I tell you?”

“Py chiminy Grismus! Oof I know vat you vas to told me, for vy should I
make der rekvest for informations?”

Borrodaile gave a grunt of disgust and hunted the shade of another
cottonwood. Fritz was persistent, however, and followed him up.

“I hat a tream mit meinselluf der oder night, brofessor,” continued
Fritz, coming up from behind, “und you bed my life it vas der keveerest
tream vat I know. Iss treams someding or nodding? Tell me dot, oof you
blease. Ballard, he say it iss; aber you know more as anypody, so tell
me, iss it?”

“Go away,” said the professor severely; “you annoy me.”

“I peen annoyed like anyding mit dot tream,” went on Fritz, not in the
least disturbed by the professor’s ill humor. “Dis iss der vay I ged
it: Fairst, I valk along der moonlight in, mit der dark around, und I
see a shtone mit a gross on der top. Yah, so hellup me, I see him so
blain as nodding; und I pull oop dot shtone, und I tig, and vat you
dink?”

“I am not interested at all in your foolish delusions!” came tartly
from the professor. “If you have business anywhere else, do not let me
detain you a moment.”

“Make some guesses aboudt dot!” persisted Fritz. “Vat you dink is der
shtone under mit der gross on, hey? Shpeak it oudt.”

The professor, goaded to desperation, merely glared.

“Py shinks!” cried Fritz, “I findt me so mooch goldt dot shtone under
mit der gross on dot I cannot carry him avay!” He leaned down and
whispered huskily, his eyes wide with excitement: “Puried dreasure it
vas, brofessor, so hellup me! Come, blease, und hellup me look for der
shtone mit der gross on. Ven I findt me der dreasure, I gif you haluf.”

With an explosion of anger, the professor leaped to his feet, flung
his book at Fritz, and dove head-first into a tent. Fritz turned away
wonderingly.

“Vat a foolishness,” he muttered, “for der brofessor to gif oop haluf
der dreasure like dot! Vell, I go look for der goldt meinselluf, und
ven I findt him, I haf him all.”

Now, Fritz might have walked his legs off looking for a stone “mit a
gross on,” had not Silva grown tired of hunting a placer and returned
suddenly to the Wells. He saw Fritz in close converse with the
professor, crept to a point within earshot, and listened. Creeping
away as silently as he had approached, he showed his teeth in a smile
of savage cunning as he pulled a half-burned stick from the smoldering
fire and dogged the Dutchman down the gulch.

Apparently there was not a doubt in the mind of Fritz but that he would
find what he was looking for. With a shovel over his shoulder, he
puffed, and wheezed, and stumbled along the trail, eying the rocks on
each side of him and singing as he went.

Silva, chuckling with unholy glee, made a detour from the trail and
got back into it ahead of Fritz; and then, with the burned stick, he
marked a rough cross on one of the bowlders and retired behind a screen
of mesquite bushes to enjoy the sight of his fat enemy, working and
sweating to such little purpose.

When Fritz saw that marked rock, he let go a howl of delight and
triumph that echoed far down the cañon. It reached the ears of Merry
and his friends, who, in their running clothes, were strung out in a
long line on their way back from Dolliver’s.

The lads halted, bunched together, and made up their minds that the
noise they had heard should be investigated. Proceeding cautiously
forward, they peered around a ridge of bowlders and saw Fritz digging
into the hard ground like mad. So feverishly did the fat Dutchman work
that one could hardly see him for the cloud of sand and gravel he kept
in the air.

Not more than ten feet away from the sweating Fritz was the Mexican,
Silva. He was in a flutter of delight.

“What the deuce is going on, Chip?” inquired Clancy.

“I can tell you, Clan,” spoke up Ballard, stifling a laugh. “Fritz had
a dream last night that he found a rock with a cross on it, and that he
rolled away the rock, dug up the ground, and found more gold than he
could carry. He told me about it. I’ll bet a farm he thinks he’s found
the rock. Silva’s in on the deal somewhere, although Carrots doesn’t
know it.”

“This is rich!” gulped Hannibal Bradlaugh, shaking with the fun of it.
“Say, Chip, can’t you ring in a little twist to the situation and turn
the tables on the greaser?”

“Throw your voice, Chip!” suggested Clan. “Make Carrots think he’s
digging up more than he bargained for. Go on!”

“All right,” laughed Merry. “Let’s see what happens.”

The boys, caught at once with the idea, suppressed their delight, and
peered over the top and sides of the ridge. Suddenly a nerve-wracking
groan was heard, and seemingly it came from the depths of the shallow
hole in which Fritz was working. The Dutchman paused in his labor,
mopped the sweat from his face, and looked around.

“Vat iss dot?” he puffed. “Vat I hear all at vonce? Who shpoke mit me?”

Again Merry caused a hair-raising groan to come from the hole. A yell
of fear escaped Fritz. Dropping his shovel, he pawed out of the hole,
and got behind a rock a dozen feet away. From this point of vantage he
stared cautiously back at the hole and, his voice shaking with fear,
inquired:

“Who shpoke mit me? Vat it iss, blease? I don’d hear nodding like dot
in der tream, py chiminy grickeds!”

“How dare you disturb my bones, looking for treasure?” came a hollow
voice from the ragged opening in the earth. “I am the big Indian chief,
Hoop-en-de-doo, and I will haunt you and take your scalp! I shall call
all my braves from the happy hunting grounds, and we will dance the
medicine and go on the war trail; we will——”

Merry was interrupted by a wild shriek that went clattering up and down
the gulch in terrifying echoes. Fritz was not the author of it, for he
seemed stricken dumb and rooted to the ground. It was the Mexican who
had given vent to the blood-curdling cry. Frightened out of his wits,
Silva, still emitting yell after yell, bounded like a deer for the
trail and the home camp.

Fritz did not see Silva, but the fierce howling, coming nearer and
nearer, must have given him the idea that Chief Hoop-en-de-doo and all
his shadowy band of warriors were after him. Fritz awoke to feverish
activity in less than a second. He whirled, and, with remarkable speed
considering his size, scrambled for Tinaja Wells. Silva chased him
clear to the camp, where Fritz, utterly exhausted, dropped in a heap
and rolled into the chuck tent. The Mexican vanished into some other
spot that he considered safe.

When the boys, roaring with laughter, finally reached the grove, they
were met by the professor and a young fellow with blue eyes and light,
curling hair. There was a stranger in camp, it seemed, and Merry and
his companions smothered their merriment to give Borrodaile a chance to
free his mind.

“Merriwell,” said the professor, “this hilarity is most untimely. This
young gentleman, I fear, will think you are a lot of hoodlums. Allow me
to present Mr. Ellis Darrel, who has just arrived from Gold Hill and is
earnestly in search of information respecting the Gold Hill Athletic
Club. Darrel, Frank Merriwell, junior.”

Darrel was smiling. There was something about him which, at the very
first glance, appealed to Merry. The two shook hands cordially.




                             CHAPTER III.

                           A FRIEND IN NEED.


“Well, fellows,” said Ellis Darrel, after Merry had introduced him to
all the other fellows, “it looks a whole lot as though I had dropped
into the wrong pew. If I haven’t forgotten the country hereabouts, this
is sure Tinaja Wells.”

“Surest thing you know, Darrel,” smiled Frank.

“I was told in Gold Hill that a bunch of athletes belonging to the Gold
Hill Athletic Club had gone into camp here.”

“Some one got mixed,” put in Clancy. “It’s an Ophir outfit that’s taken
over the Wells.”

“Blamed queer,” muttered Darrel, “and I’ll be hanged if I can _sabe_
the layout at all. The man in Gold Hill who gave me the information is
an officer of the club there. It’s a cinch that he ought to know.”

“We’ve been here for four days,” observed Ballard, “and we haven’t seen
a thing of the Gold Hill chaps.”

“Live in the town, Darrel?” asked Frank.

“Used to,” was the answer. “Don’t live much of anywhere now. Home’s
wherever I hang my hat. I——” He broke off abruptly, hesitated, then
recovered himself and went on. “I trained with the Gold Hill crowd
something like a year ago. When I drifted into town last night and
heard the gang was off in Mohave Cañon, I kind of warmed up on the
subject of athletics, bundled up my track clothes, and moseyed in this
direction.”

Darrel’s announcement that he was, or had been, a member of the Gold
Hill club, caused the Ophir fellows to draw back into their shells
somewhat, and to eye him with distrust. Their altered demeanor was so
plain that Darrel noticed it.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked, looking blankly into the faces that
surrounded him. “Have I stepped on the tail of somebody’s coat, or
trampled on somebody’s toes?”

“Never mind, Darrel,” laughed Frank. “Professor,” he added, to
Borrodaile, “take Darrel to our wickiup and make him comfortable. I’ll
have a talk with him as soon as we take a dip in the pool.”

The professor led the puzzled Darrel away, while Merry and his
companions hurried off for a short swim after their dusty run.

“Don’t like the way this Darrel is shaping up,” grumbled Spink,
splashing around in the water.

“Nor I,” seconded Handy. “How do we know but that the Gold Hill crowd
have steered him this way to spy on us?”

“If he’s a spy, Handy,” said Frank, “then he’s a good deal of a fool.
Would a spy talk like he did?”

“He would not!” declared Ballard.

“The last time we went up against Gold Hill at football,” remarked
Bradlaugh, “we found that they had all our signals down pat. Maybe
they’re making another play of that kind.”

As hurriedly as he could, Frank gave himself a rub-down and got into
his clothes.

“Take it from me, Brad.” said he, “Darrel isn’t that kind of a chap.
He’s straight goods, and I’ll bet on it.”

When he got back to the camp he found Darrel sitting on a blanket just
within the open front of the tent. He was peering off across the cañon,
with a thoughtful, almost a sad, look on his face. He turned his head
quickly when he heard Frank, and the thoughtfulness and the sadness
vanished in a bright smile.

“You needn’t have rushed things on my account, Merriwell,” said he.

“All I wanted was a plunge,” answered Frank, dropping down beside him.
“If you were in Gold Hill, even as long as a year ago,” he proceeded,
“you must have known that there is a hot rivalry between the athletic
club in that town and the one in Ophir.”

A grim expression flashed through Darrel’s eyes.

“Haven’t they got over that, yet?” he asked. “Why can’t they act
like good sports instead of a lot of kids? I had a notion that Uncle
Alvah——” He bit his words short. “I had a notion,” he finished, “that
they’d see what a rotten exhibition they were making of themselves, and
get together and play the game as it ought to be played.”

“Probably they will, some time. Just now, though, if you mention Gold
Hill in an Ophir crowd, it’s like a spark in a powder magazine. That’s
why the fellows suddenly got back of their barriers when you said
that you were a Gold Hiller, and had once trained with the Gold Hill
Athletic Club.”

“Well, strike me lucky!” grinned Darrel. “It’s plain enough, now.
They’re afraid I’m here to do a little dirty work, eh? ’Pon honor,
Merriwell, such a thought never entered my noodle. As far as that goes,
I doubt whether I’m on very good terms with the Gold Hill bunch. My
half brother, Jode Lenning, is a big, high boy among the Gold Hillers,
and—and—well, Jode hasn’t much use for me,” Darrel flushed. “Haven’t
seen Jode for a year—nor any of the other fellows, for that matter—and
I was bound for their camp to see what sort of a reception they’d give
me.”

A strained silence fell over the two boys. Darrel was touching upon
personal matters, and he was doing it in a way that made Merry
uncomfortable.

“You see,” Darrel went on, a touch of sadness again showing in his
face, “it’s been a year since I had a home. For more than twelve months
I’ve been knocking around the West, and—and——”

“You don’t have to dig down into your personal history, Darrel,” said
Frank, “in order to convince me that you’re straight goods. I’ll take
your word for it.”

“Much obliged, Merriwell. Not many fellows would take the word of a
perfect stranger—especially as you’re from Ophir, and I was from Gold
Hill—once.”

“I’m only temporarily from Ophir.” laughed Frank. “Mr. Bradlaugh asked
me to coach the Ophir eleven for the Thanksgiving Day game with Gold
Hill, and we’re doing a certain amount of practice work every afternoon
up on the mesa back of camp.”

“Wow! And I came right along and jumped into the thick of you! Well,
anyhow, there’s something about you that makes a big hit with me; and
it’s been so long since I’ve had a friend I could trust that I’d like
to have a heart-to-heart talk with you. You see, I’ve been in a heap
of trouble, and now that I’m back from Nowhere, I’m guessing a lot as
to which way the cat’s going to jump. I’d like to get a little of that
trouble out of my system, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll begin to unload.”

“Go ahead,” said Frank. “I’m sure you’re the right sort, and if I can
help you any I will be glad to do it.”

“Shake!” exclaimed Darrel, reaching out his hand.

The professor was under a cottonwood with his book, and the rest of the
campers, seeming to realize that Merriwell’s talk with Darrel was of a
private nature, kept away from them. Darrel pushed farther back into
the tent and sat on a cot. Merriwell fallowed him and took possession
of a camp stool.

“I’ve been over a good bit of the country during the past year,” said
Darrel, “but in all my wanderings I’ve never let out a whisper of what
I’m going to tell you. I said that Jode Lenning was my half brother. My
father, John Darrel, died when I was a little shaver, and a year later
my mother followed him. Darrel was my mother’s second husband, and
David Lenning, Jode’s father, was her first. I’m over seventeen, and
Jode’s close to twenty. My mother’s maiden name was Hawtrey, and after
her death, Jode and I went to live with her brother, Colonel Alvah
Hawtrey.”

“Why,” exclaimed Frank, “Colonel Hawtrey is a big man over in Gold
Hill! There’d be nothing to the Gold Hill Athletic Club if you took the
colonel out of it. At least,” he added, “that’s what I’ve heard over in
Ophir.”

“Well, that about hits the thing off. Uncle Alvah is a fine old chap.
He saw to it that Jode and I got our share of physical training. I
was just a little bit better than Jode at pretty nearly everything in
the athletic line, although he could give me cards and spades in book
learning, and then leave me at the quarter post. The colonel insisted
that our mental and physical training should go on side by side, but
he’s got a sportsman’s love for athletics, and I think he was secretly
pleased because of my good showing on the field and track. While
he tried to be impartial in his dealings with Jode and me, yet it
became pretty clear that I was his favorite nephew. Jode didn’t like
that at all; and when the colonel took us to an athletic meet in Los
Angeles, and I won a silver cup in the two-twenty dash, Jode was soured
completely.

“I reckon I hadn’t ought to talk like this, Merriwell, and it may look
to you like mighty poor policy for me to run my half brother down, but
I can’t put this business up to you in a way that you’ll understand if
I’m not frank in telling what I know.”

“I guess I understand how you feel,” said Frank, “so push ahead.”

“Just after winning that silver cup,” proceeded Darrel, “I made the
mistake of my life. Jode was drinking a little and gambling a whole lot
on the sly, and I was young and foolish and thought I’d have a little
of the same fun on my own hook. I hadn’t savvy enough to understand
that by keeping away from drink and tobacco, while Jode was taking them
aboard a little on the q.  t., I’d been able to do a fair amount of
successful work in athletics. That’s where I had the best of Jode, you
see, but didn’t realize it. Well, I got into Jode’s crowd, went from
bad to worse, and woke up one day to find that I’d forged the colonel’s
name to a check for five hundred dollars. Anyhow, that’s what they said
I’d done, and as I had been rather hazy from liquor at the time the
forging was done, I couldn’t deny it. I wish I could forget the bad
half hour I had with the colonel when he found it out!”

Darrel shivered.

“Uncle Alvah’s notions of honor are pretty high,” he continued, “and
he had always prided himself on the fact that Jode and I never smoked,
or drank, or gambled. The blow was a tough one for him. He used to
be in the army, and he’s as bluff and stern as any old martinet you
ever heard of. When he told me to clear out and never let him see my
face again, I—I cleared. That was a little over a year ago, and I’ve
been running loose all over the Pacific slope ever since, earning a
living at whatever turned up, and was honest and square. But I’d had my
lesson; and drink, cards, or tobacco couldn’t land on me again. I’m
physically more fit than ever I was in my life, for the batting around
I’ve had has toughened me a heap. What’s more, I’ve had a year to think
over that forgery business, and I’ve got a notion that I didn’t—that
I _couldn’t_—have done such a thing, no matter how hazy I was. It was
up in Spokane that I was struck with the idea that I’d better stop
drifting, come back to Gold Hill, and look into matters a little. I
don’t know what I can find, nor what I can do, but, if it’s possible,
I’m going to prove to the colonel that I didn’t put his name to that
check for five hundred. The first thing I wanted to do was to see Jode.
I was told that he had come to Tinaja Wells, with a camping party, so
I——”

Footsteps, approaching quickly, were heard outside the tent, and Darrel
suddenly ceased speaking. The next moment Clancy, his freckled, homely
face filled with excitement, showed himself at the tent opening.

“Say, Chip,” he cried, “here’s a go! A crowd of Gold Hillers have just
reached the Wells, bag and baggage, and claim that they’re entitled to
this camping site and are going to have it. It’s an ugly mess, and I’m
looking for all kinds of trouble. Better come out and see what you can
do.”

Without a moment’s delay, Merriwell jumped up from his seat and hurried
out of the tent.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                         A CLASH OF AUTHORITY.


The sight that met Merriwell’s eyes, as he came out of the tent and
followed Clancy toward the edge of the camp, was vastly disturbing. A
train of pack animals was being unloaded in the grove, while fifteen
or twenty saddle horses were being stripped of their gear, watered in
Mohave Creek, and staked out in the “bottoms” among the picketed Ophir
stock.

A swarm of youngsters overran the flat, some looking after the horses,
some helping the packer, and some beginning the erection of tents.
Merry judged that there were at least twenty members in the party that
had just arrived.

“Here’s a pretty fair-sized bunch of Indians, Chip,” said Clancy, “and
they’ve got their tomahawks out. Well,” he added grimly, “while we’re
not looking for trouble, you can bet we won’t dodge any.”

A worried look crossed Merriwell’s face.

“With the two clubs at loggerheads, like they are,” said he, “it would
be a mighty bad move, all around, for the Gold Hillers to camp so close
to us.”

“Bad?” echoed Clancy. “Say, Chip, how the mischief could we do any
practice work with the fellows we’re to fight hanging around and
looking on?”

“We couldn’t,” was the answer.

The Ophir contingent was drawn up in compact formation, at the edge of
the flat, watching angrily while the Gold Hillers went calmly on with
their preparations for a permanent camp at Tinaja Wells. Bradlaugh,
whose father was president of the O.  A.  C., was stumping up and down
and spouting wrathfully.

As Merriwell and Clancy walked toward the Ophir fellows, a youth
approached Bradlaugh from the direction of the Gold Hill crowd. He was
ragged out in gray corduroy riding breeches, tan shoes and leggings,
Norfolk jacket, and a fancy brown sombrero with carved leather band and
silver ornaments jingling at the brim. He carried a riding crop under
his arm and was removing a pair of gauntlet gloves.

“Look here, Lenning,” shouted Bradlaugh, plunging straight at this
rather startling figure, “what are you trying to do here, anyhow? What
business have you got bringing a Gold Hill crowd to Tinaja Wells?”

Lenning turned a pair of shifty, insolent eyes upon Bradlaugh.

“We’ve a right here,” said he sharply, “or we shouldn’t be here. Pull
in your horns before you make a fool of yourself. Bradlaugh—that’s my
advice to you. Where’s this big chief, Merriwell?” A sneer there was
no mistaking came with the words “big chief.” “Trot him out,” Lenning
finished, “and it won’t take two minutes for me to show him where you
Ophirites get off.”

Lenning’s manner was insulting, to the last degree. A bitter partizan
spirit was already flaming in the Ophir ranks, aroused by the plain
determination of the Gold Hillers to take possession of the camping
ground. Brad’s temper had been strained to the breaking point even
before the appearance of Lenning, and now, under the weight of
Lenning’s insolence, it gave way utterly.

“You pup!” shouted Brad, leaping at Lenning with clenched fists. “It’s
a cinch you’ve got some dirty trick up your sleeve or you wouldn’t blow
in here in this high-and-mighty fashion. I’ve a notion to punch your
head on general principles.”

Lenning jumped back and lifted the riding crop.

“Try it on,” he snarled, “and I’ll rip off some of your hide!”

A number of Gold Hillers, scenting trouble, hastened to run out of the
grove and line up back of their champion. The Ophir fellows pressed
forward to back up Bradlaugh. Fritz Gesundheit, who loved excitement
in any form, showed himself for the first time since being chased up
the cañon by the spook of old Chief Hoop-en-de-doo. Rolling out of the
chuck tent, he waddled toward Bradlaugh.

“Gif him fits mit himselluf, Prad!” he called. “I bet you someding for
nodding he iss some pad eggs.”

The Gold Hill packer was a Mexican, and already he and Silva had come
to blows. They could be heard screeching and floundering around in the
underbrush. It was a moment rife with many disagreeable possibilities,
and only quick and judicious action on Merriwell’s part could prevent a
general row.

“Clan,” said he, “you and Ballard go over and separate those greasers
before they get to knifing each other. I’ll take care of this end of
the ruction. Do your best to smooth things out, or we’ll all be in hot
water.”

While Clancy grabbed Ballard and hustled away with him, Merriwell
jumped in between Brad and Lenning.

“Cut it out, Brad!” said he sharply, giving the fiery youngster a
push backward. “All you fellows,” he added, to the Ophir crowd, “are
carrying too much sail. Double reef your tempers and we’ll weather this
squall without much trouble.” He whirled on Lenning. “I’m Merriwell,”
said he. “I believe I heard you asking for me as I came up.”

“That’s what you heard,” was the answer. “I’m Jode Lenning, and Colonel
Hawtrey, of Gold Hill, is my uncle. The colonel——”

“What has this to do with Colonel Hawtrey?” interrupted Merry.

Remembering what Darrel had just been telling him, Frank was taking
Lenning’s measure with a good deal of interest. His comparison of the
two half brothers gave Darrel no end the best of it.

“My uncle,” drawled Lenning, running his eyes over Merry in an impudent
up-and-down stare, “has a lot to do with our athletic club but he’s
not mixed up in this camping expedition. He has been out of town for a
week, but I expect him back to-day, and——”

“Let us hope that he gets back safely,” said Merry, with just a touch
of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you intending to camp here, Lenning?”

“Not intending only, but we’re going to.”

“Allow me to suggest that we have already occupied the flat, and that I
don’t think the grove is big enough for an outfit of Gold Hillers and
Ophirites. You ought to know that as well as I do. Move on and find
some other place.”

“You’ve got a rind!” grunted Lenning. “We’re out here for fun and work,
and we need the mesa for an athletic field. I’ve leased the ground, and
I want you fellows to pack up and clear out at once.”

This was staggering. Merriwell supposed that Brad’s father had leased
the ground. In that section of the country there were very few places
so adapted to the needs of the Ophir fellows as was the grove and mesa
at Tinaja Wells.

“We’ve leased the ground ourselves!” shouted Brad, “and we’ve got it
down in black and white.”

“He’s shy a few,” said Lenning, and drew a paper from the pocket of his
coat and showed it to Merriwell.

It was a written memorandum of agreement. In consideration of twenty
dollars, in hand paid, one Lige Struthers had given the Gold Hill
Athletic Club exclusive camping privileges at Tinaja Wells.

“This appears to be all right, Brad,” said Merriwell, bewildered.

“Who leased the ground to Lenning?” demanded Brad.

“A man named Struthers; Lige Struthers.”

Brad laughed ironically.

“Struthers doesn’t own the ground,” said he. “Newt Packard is the
owner, and he’s the one that gave us our lease. Hold your bronks a
minute.”

Brad turned and hurried off to one of the tents. When he came back, he
brought a paper showing that Bradlaugh, senior, had secured the site
exclusively for the Ophir club.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Merriwell. “How could two different men
execute leases on the same plot of ground? There’s a hen on, somewhere.”

“It’s Packard’s ground,” declared Brad. “Right at this minute Struthers
is fighting Packard for it in the courts, but Struther’s claim is a
joke—he hasn’t a legal leg to stand on. Everybody says so. This is a
scheme of Lenning’s, Chip, to drive us from Tinaja Wells.”

“Scheme or not,” cried Lenning, “we’ve got our rights and we’re going
to stand up to them!”

“Even if Struthers has a just claim on the place, Lenning,” said
Merry, “your right here isn’t any better than ours. If Struthers
happens to win the lawsuit, then we have to get out, for our leave
isn’t any good; but if Packard wins, then that paper of yours isn’t
worth a whoop, and Tinaja Wells is ours.”

“You’ll make tracks from here,” stormed Lenning, “or we’ll drive you
out! We’ve got a big enough crowd to do it.”

Merry’s dark eyes flashed dangerously.

“You’ll not drive us out,” said he calmly, “as long as we have a right
here. And we’ll not be able to force you to leave so long as the
lawsuit is hanging fire.”

“Bossession iss nine points oof der law,” clamored Fritz truculently,
“und ve vas here fairst, py shinks. I haf reasons for vich I don’d vand
to ged oudt, und I don’d vant more fellers as is necessary aroundt.”

Nobody paid much attention to Fritz just then. The Ophirites were
keeping their eyes on Merriwell, smothering their hostility as best
they could and letting him cut the pattern they were to follow.

Clancy and Ballard, a little while before, had returned from the
chaparral with Silva. The Mexican was fairly boiling with rage, but the
lads were managing to hold him in check.

“_Carramba!_” hissed Silva. “Dat odder Mexicano he move my burro, to
give his burro best place. I lick him for dat, bymby!”

Merry was filled with forebodings as to what might happen if both
parties went into camp at the Wells; and yet, considering the peculiar
condition of affairs, there seemed no possible way to avoid a division
of the camping privileges. Both sides held a lease of the ground; and,
not until the lawsuit between Struthers and Packard was settled, would
it be known which side was entitled to the exclusive use of Tinaja
Wells.

“I’ll give you fellows half an hour to begin packing.” blustered
Lenning. “If you don’t show symptoms of leaving by that time, there’ll
be a fight!”

“I think not,” said Frank, still holding his temper in check. “For
the present, Lenning, we’ll both camp at the Wells, and both have the
use of water and forage. You and your crowd will keep away from us,
however, and we’ll do our best to keep away from you. There’s no sense
in having a mix-up.”

“Half an hour,” threatened Lenning. “I’m banking on Struthers. This
is his water and his ground, and he’s the only one that has a right
to give a lease. We’ve got a bigger crowd than you have, and it won’t
bother us much to run you out.”

Here was a complication of the tangle which Merriwell did not relish a
little bit. Nevertheless, he knew he was within his rights and he had
no intention of backing down and letting Lenning have his way.

Lenning had spun around on his heel with the intention of returning to
the spot where his own camp was being put in shape, when Ellis Darrel
hurried forward.

“Don’t be in a rush, Jode,” called Darrel. “I want a word with you.”




                              CHAPTER V.

                             A CHALLENGE.


The sound of Darrel’s voice caused Lenning to whirl as though a
rattlesnake had suddenly buzzed its warning behind him. The look on
the fellow’s scowling face was one of stunned astonishment. For a
brief space, the two half brothers stared at each other; then Lenning,
seeming to get a grip on himself, demanded contemptuously:

“Who the devil are you?”

Darrel peered at him in amazement.

“Well, strike me lucky!” he muttered. “You can’t run in a bluff like
that, Jode. You know me, all right. I’ve changed a heap in a year, I
know, but not in the way that would keep you from recognizing me.”

A gasp of astonishment escaped Brad’s lips. His surprise was echoed by
at least half a dozen others among the Ophir crowd, and by practically
all the Gold Hillers.

It was to be presumed that a former member of the Gold Hill club could
not have dropped entirely out of remembrance during the absence of a
year; and it was but natural that some of the Ophir fellows should
have been acquainted with Darrel. That the Ophir lads had not recalled
Darrel before, seemed strange to Merriwell. And he was even more
astonished now, when recognition seemed almost general, at the queer
twist which had entered into the situation.

While plainly discovering in Darrel something that was familiar to
them, a general acceptance of the “boy from Nowhere” as the person
he purported to be, was hanging fire. Darrel himself seemed as much
perplexed about this as Merriwell was.

“I don’t recognize you,” said Lenning, “and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, if you don’t,” answered Darrel, “some of the other fellows
from Gold Hill have better memories. How about it, boys,” he asked,
appealing directly to the crowd behind Lenning.

“You look a lot like Ellis Darrel,” said one of the Gold Hillers.

“He’s a dead ringer for El,” averred another.

“But he can’t be my half brother!” cried Lenning. “He’s an imposter,
by thunder! Why are the Ophir fellows springing him on us? What’s your
scheme, Merriwell?” he demanded, turning on Frank.

“No scheme about it,” Frank answered. “This chap is Ellis Darrel. If he
looks like Darrel, and says he’s Darrel, what in thunder’s the reason
you don’t accept him as Darrel?”

“Because Ellis Darrel is dead,” said one of the Gold Hillers who had
spoken before.

“That’s news to me,” returned Darrel whimsically.

“It’s a fact; whether it’s news to you or not,” said Lenning.

“When did I die?” inquired Darrel, with a short laugh.

“Three or four months ago,” went on Lenning. “The papers were full of
it. You can’t run in any rhinecaboo on us, just because you happen to
look like my half brother.”

“No rhinecaboo about it, Jode. If the papers reported my demise, then
the report was slightly exaggerated. I never felt better in my life,
nor more like living and making life worth while. How was I taken off,
eh?”

“Darrel was killed in a railroad wreck in Colorado. He was identified
by something in his coat pockets. Uncle Alvah sent on enough to bury
him, and some of the authorities had him decently planted. I don’t know
what your real name is, but I’ll gamble a thousand against a chink wash
ticket that this railroad accident is no news to you. You’ve come on
here to bluff the thing through, make the colonel believe you’re his
wandering nephew, and then put you in his will along with me. But the
scheme won’t work. When the real Darrel forged that check, he killed
all his hopes of ever connecting with any of Uncle Al’s money. Didn’t
know about that forged check, eh? Well, you’d better skip if you don’t
want to get yourself in trouble.”

With a contemptuous fling of his shoulders, Lenning whirled again as
though he would leave. Darrel, his face convulsed with anger, leaped at
him and jerked him around.

“You don’t get away from me like this, Jode,” he cried. “There’s been a
big mistake, but I think I can understand how it happened. While I was
working at a mine in Cripple Creek some one stole my coat. I think it
was a hobo. If there was a railroad smash-up, then the hobo was killed
and supposed to be me from something found in the stolen coat. I never
heard of that wreck, or that I was supposed to have been a victim of
it. I don’t know whether I should have set the matter right, even if
I had heard of it; but I can correct the mistake now, and you can bet
your bottom dollar I’m going to!”

Lenning, held against his will, shook Darrel’s hand roughly from his
arm.

“You’ve got your scheme all framed up, I reckon,” said Lenning
angrily, “but it won’t work. My half brother’s dead, and you can’t
palm yourself off as Ellis Darrel. You’ll find yourself behind the bars
if you try it. The colonel won’t stand for any monkey business of that
sort.”

“I didn’t come back to get any of the colonel’s money,” went on Darrel.
“What I came back for was to prove that I’m not a forger. First, I’ll
offer evidence that I’m Ellis Darrel, and then I’ll make the other part
of it plain.”

“How’ll you prove that you’re my half brother?” asked Lenning mockingly.

“Who was the best sprinter in the Gold Hill Athletic Club?” returned
Darrel. “Who won the two-twenty dash at Los Angeles?”

“Darrel,” answered one of the Gold Hillers.

“Who was the next best sprinter in the club?”

“Jode Lenning.”

“Now you’re shouting,” went on Darrel. “If I run against Lenning, and
beat him, I’ll bet a pack of pesos that every member of the Gold Hill
club will agree that I’m the fellow I say I am. If I look like Darrel,
and am trying to run in a bluff on you because of it, is it at all
likely that I could run like Darrel? You’ll see, if you give me the
chance to show it, that I have the same form and the same speed.”

“You’re a rank counterfeit,” scoffed Lenning, “and I’ll not have a
thing to do with you.”

But the rest of the Gold Hillers, as Frank could see, were not disposed
to have the matter brushed lightly aside in that way. Perhaps there
were some among them who had known and liked Darrel, and felt that this
newcomer should have every chance to make good his pretensions.

Merriwell, facing a difficult situation because of the dispute
regarding the camping site, saw a chance to shift the attention of
the rival clubs to a foot race, and thus, for the time, patch up their
other differences. Not only that, but the “boy from Nowhere,” while
helping out the general situation, would be making a logical attempt to
prove his identity.

Personally, Merriwell did not doubt Ellis Darrel in the least; but he
was beginning to have ugly misgivings regarding Jode Lenning.

“Is that a challenge, Darrel?” Frank asked.

Darrel nodded. “Jode wants to believe that I have kicked the bucket,”
said he, “and he’s afraid to run against me. He knows, if he does,
that I’ll beat him, and that the Gold Hill fellows will wipe out that
foolish railroad accident and take me at my word.”

“You’re a fake,” scowled Lenning, “and I tell you I’ll not run against
you. What I’m going to do, though, is to send to Gold Hill after the
sheriff and have you locked up. The colonel will deal with you, my
festive buck!”

Again Lenning started to leave the scene. This time, however, he was
halted by one of his own crowd.

“Don’t be in a hurry, Jode,” said the fellow who had stepped in front
of him. “I reckon this here’s a case that’s not to be passed up in any
offhand way like you’re doin’. Hey, fellers?”

There was a chorus of approval of the Gold Hill chap’s words from the
rest of his companions.

“You can prove he’s a fake, Jode!” said one.

“Give him a chance, anyhow!” cried another.

“It’s no more than a fair shake to run against him,” chimed in a third.

All the others had more or less to say in favor of Lenning’s accepting
the challenge. Lenning, because of this, was placed in a most
uncomfortable position. If he still refused to run, it would appear as
though he was anxious not to do the fair thing; on the other hand, if
the race was run, and Darrel came out ahead, this might convince the
Gold Hillers that he was all he claimed to be.

Lenning stood for a moment, thinking the matter over; then, suddenly,
his face cleared.

“All right, Bleeker,” said he to the fellow who had stepped in front of
him. “I’m not afraid to run against the fellow. Even if he wins, and if
he proves that he’s really Ellis Darrel, he’ll be sorry for it. My half
brother disgraced himself, and was ordered by the colonel to clear out.
If this chap wasn’t a fool, he’d prefer to drop the matter right here
and make himself scarce, rather than to try to prove that he’s Darrel,
the forger.”

“Then you accept the challenge, do you, Lenning?” inquired Merriwell.

“You heard me,” was the snarling response.

“What’s the distance, and when do you want to pull off the race?”

“Hundred yards; and we’ll run ’em off to-morrow afternoon. Now, if
you’re all satisfied, I’ll go back and boss the operation of getting
our camp in shape.”

The acceptance of that challenge put an altogether different complexion
upon the situation, so far as it concerned differences regarding the
camping ground. A spirit of sportsmanship had been aroused, and the
animosity that had long existed between the rival clubs had, for the
time, been pushed into the background. Merriwell was greatly pleased
over the outcome.

“This hundred-yard dash is a good thing, all around,” said he to
Darrel. “Until to-morrow afternoon, anyhow, we’re going to have peace
at Tinaja Wells. Already Lenning’s threat to run us off the flat if we
weren’t packing up in half an hour has been forgotten. I’m hoping that
something will happen, soon after the race, to show whether Struthers
or Packard owns this camping site. Have you kept in training during the
past year, Darrel?”

“As well as I could,” was the answer. “I’d like to practice starts a
little, this afternoon. Will you help me?”

“Sure,” answered Merriwell heartily. “We’ll go up on the mesa right
away, and begin. Bring the pistol, Brad. Get into your speed togs,
Darrel. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

Brad went after the starter’s pistol and Darrel, securing his roll of
clothes from the place where he had left it, disappeared inside of
Merriwell’s tent.

While waiting, Merriwell saw two horsemen coming down the cañon and
heading toward Tinaja Wells. One was a tall, soldierly appearing
man with a white mustache, and the other was a roughly dressed,
businesslike-appearing fellow, with a hatchet face.

A shout went up from Bleeker, of Gold Hill, who was the first of his
party to catch sight of the approaching riders.

“Whoop!” he shouted, “here comes the colonel! Call Jode, somebody.”




                              CHAPTER VI.

                        PUZZLING DEVELOPMENTS.


A thrill ran through Merriwell’s nerves. Colonel Hawtrey had come to
Tinaja Wells and had ridden his horse hard in making the trip. Why was
he there, and why was he in a hurry?

The colonel’s presence in camp would not have taken on such a momentous
aspect had Frank not instantly recognized the colonel’s companion. This
man’s name was Hawkins. He was a good friend of Frank’s; but, as it
also happened, he was a deputy sheriff.

Hawtrey had come to the camp hurriedly, and had brought with him an
officer of the law. Merriwell’s mind circled vainly about these two
facts. His heart sank as he thought the developments might portend some
fresh disaster for Darrel.

At the edge of the grove the colonel and the deputy dismounted. Jode
Lenning appeared, seemingly nervous and ill at ease, and stumbled
forward to grasp his uncle’s hand. The two, talking earnestly together,
disappeared in the direction of one of the Gold Hill tents.

Hawkins, catching sight of Merriwell, smiled and greeted him with a
friendly wave of the hand; then, leading the two horses, he went down
over the edge of the flat and into the cañon.

Frank would have liked to follow him, and to learn, if possible, the
reason why he and the colonel had come to Tinaja Wells. Just at that
moment, however, Darrel appeared in his track clothes and Brad came up
with the starter’s pistol.

Fritz was already busy with supper preparations, and Darrel would have
no more than an hour for practice, at the outside. Merry, leaving the
puzzling developments to take care of themselves, joined Darrel and
Brad, and the three made their way up a low slope beyond the flat to
the mesa.

This little plateau was at least two acres in extent, as flat as a
floor, clear of obstructions in the form of bowlders and desert plants,
and with a surface almost as hard and springy as a cinder path. It
was a natural athletic field, and its proximity to Tinaja Wells was
what made the place so desirable as a camping ground for a club that
intended to give sports a large share of its outing.

Darrel, in his track clothes, was a splendid specimen of physical
development. To Merriwell’s practiced eye, however, he seemed built for
a sprinter, and perhaps could have done well as a long-distance man,
but could hardly distinguish himself as an all-round athlete.

“The Gold Hill camp has a visitor, Darrel,” said Frank. “Did you see
him arrive?”

“No,” was the answer, “I was busy getting into my togs. Who is it?”

“Coloney Hawtrey.”

A touch of white ran through Darrel’s face. He halted abruptly and
half turned as though to retrace his way to the camp; then, apparently
changing his mind, he faced about and went on into the mesa.

“The colonel thinks I’ve crossed the divide,” said he, “and he
wouldn’t have any use for me if he was convinced that I’m alive
and kicking. Time enough to pay my respects to him after I dig up
proof that I didn’t forge his name to that check. Did he come alone,
Merriwell?”

“Hawkins, a deputy sheriff, came with him.”

“Strike me lucky! Say, I’ll bet a bunch of dinero that my precious
little half brother has put up some sort of a dodge on me.” He halted
once more, and, with deep earnestness in voice and manner, turned to
Merriwell and added: “I want you to promise that you won’t go back on
me, no matter what happens.”

“I believe you’re straight,” said Merriwell promptly, “and you can bank
on me to stand by you.”

“And lend a hand, if I need it?”

“Sure.”

“Count me in on that, too, Darrel,” put in Brad.

“You fellows are pretty good to a stranger,” said Darrel, his voice
husky with feeling. “I won’t forget it, either. Now, changing the
subject a little and coming down to this race of mine against Jode, I
might be an impostor, and, at the same time, happen to have the speed
to beat him over that hundred yards; but any one that ever saw Ellis
Darrel run knows that he has a form of his own—a few individualities
that crop out on the track and could not be copied. That is going to do
more than just winning the race to put me in right with the Gold Hill
fellows. See what I mean, Merriwell?”

Frank nodded understandingly.

“Jode has a few peculiarities himself,” Darrel went on, “and one of
them is beating the pistol.”

“That’s mighty crooked,” said Frank. “A fellow that makes a practice
of it is bound to be found out, sooner or later, and made to take his
medicine.”

“Starters, as you know, don’t all wait the same length of time between
the order to get set and the ‘crack’ that starts them over the course;
but, almost invariably, each starter has his own habit, and clings
to it. Some starters may wait two seconds, and some four, and if a
sprinter knows his man, he can get off with the pistol, and not after
he hears it. If a sprinter is clever at it, it’s mighty hard to detect
him; and if he is detected occasionally he can plead nervousness, and
get off without much trouble. Now, Jode’s pretty slick at the game; and
if Beman, one of the boys in the Gold Hill crowd, fires the pistol,
Jode will know exactly what to do.”

“We’ll see to it that Beman doesn’t act as starter,” declared Brad.

“You get me wrong, Bradlaugh,” returned Darrel. “If Jode makes the
request, I want you to let Beman act. Then watch Jode, both of you.
If he beats the pistol, then you’ll understand that I know what I’m
talking about. It will be a little proof that I’m playing square; and,
whatever happens, I don’t want you to doubt me.”

“If a man gains half a second at the start, Darrel,” protested Frank,
“you ought to know what it means in a hundred-yard dash. It’s the same
as leading you at the start by anywhere from ten to twenty feet. A
fairly good runner will cover twenty-five feet of ground in a second.”

Darrel smiled cheerfully.

“Let Jode have his lead,” said he; “unless he has picked up wonderfully
in the last year I won’t be taking his dust for many yards.”

With his heel, Darrel traced a line on the ground.

“Here’s the starting point, Merriwell,” he observed. “If you’re ready,
I am.”

Frank took the pistol from Brad and placed himself behind Darrel.

“On your mark!” he called out, then watched critically to see Darrel
place himself.

If the “boy from Nowhere” had any eccentricities in his sprinting,
none showed in the way he dropped to the line and began gouging into
the earth with the toe of his left foot.

“Set!” called Frank.

The muscles began to twist under the white skin of Darrel’s legs and
arms like so many coiled springs. Up came the right knee while the toe
of the right foot ground out its own little pocket in the soil. The
weight of Darrel’s body was thrown on his fingers and over the starting
line.

Frank, admiring the sprinter’s ease, which spoke volumes for the amount
of hard practice he had undergone, purposely waited an inordinate
length of time before snapping the pistol. An alert mind is as
necessary in a good sprinter as a pair of speedy legs; and there must
be good nerves, to hold the clamoring muscles in leash until exactly
the right moment to let them go.

Bang! went the signal, and on the instant Darrel flung from the line as
though shot from a cannon. He ran for perhaps twenty yards before he
halted, and came trotting back.

“Did you see how I do my running?” he asked.

“You slide,” answered Frank; “there’s not much waste motion in lifting
your feet.”

“And the way you handle your arms,” said Brad. “You’re a daisy, old
top, believe me!”

“Not many sprinters go the way I go, and I’ve a hunch that the Gold
Hill fellows will recognize Ellis Darrel from that alone. A lot of that
crowd have seen me run dozens of times.”

“I can’t understand what in thunder’s biting those fellows, anyway,”
grunted Merriwell. “Suppose there was a railroad accident, and they’ve
been under the impression for months that you got your gruel in the
smash-up; why don’t they believe you, when you explain about the coat,
and tell them who you are?”

“They’re a lot of boneheads!” declared Brad; “or else,” he qualified,
“they’re taking their cue from Lenning.”

“That’s the size of it,” said Darrel. “The colonel’s a pretty big man,
over in Gold Hill, and some of that crowd would lick Jode’s shoes if he
told ’em to. But,” and Darrel grinned, “you seemed rather anxious to
have the race come off, Merriwell?”

“It was the best thing that could happen, right at that stage of
our dispute with the Gold Hillers,” Merriwell answered. “We needed
something to ease up the tension, and turn our thoughts to something
else beside the camping site. This race dropped in pretty pat. But
we’ve got to cut out this chin-chin and practice a few more starts. On
your mark!”

For perhaps a dozen times Merriwell got Darrel away from the line. The
last two or three times constituted about as finished a performance as
Merriwell had ever seen.

“You’re all the mustard, Darrel,” said Frank. “I don’t think there’s
any chance for improvement. I’ve started you from ‘set’ all the way
from an eye wink to ten seconds, and you haven’t made a bobble. You’re
in the way of becoming a crack man at this game.”

Darrel’s fine face flushed with pleasure.

“Coming from you, old chap,” said he, “that’s a fine compliment. You’re
giving me a helping hand, and I’m hungry to show you that I deserve it.”

“Don’t fret about that. My dad is a master hand at reading character,
and he has passed the knack on to me. One look at you was enough.
But,” he added suddenly, tossing the pistol to Brad, “Carrots will be
yelling his Dutch head off if we don’t hustle to the chuck tent. Have
you any sort of an idea,” he asked, as they started together toward the
camp, “why the colonel and the deputy sheriff should ride out here?”

“No,” and Darrel shook his head in a puzzled way, “but you’re liable to
find out. Here’s the deputy sheriff, and he seems to have his eyes on
you.”

Hawkins had strolled up over the edge of the mesa and was walking
toward the three boys. When he was close to them, he nodded in a
friendly way.

“I’d like to powwow with you, Merriwell,” said he, “for a couple of
minutes, more or less. Suppose you let your friends go on, while we
trail them in, and palaver on the way?”

Merriwell, with a feeling that something of importance was coming,
dropped behind Brad and Darrel and fell into step with the deputy
sheriff.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                        THE WILES OF A SCHEMER.


Jode Lenning was alone in the tent, which had been erected for his
use, when Mingo, a Mexican distance runner, who belonged to the
G.  H.  A.  C., thrust his head through the flap and announced that
Colonel Hawtrey had arrived in camp.

Lenning, at the moment, had his back to the opening and was wrapping a
long, flat package in his handkerchief.

“What?” he gasped, throwing a startled look over his shoulder at Mingo.

The other repeated his announcement.

“The devil!” gulped Lenning, in a flurry. “He’s found out what happened
at the house, and put for here on the jump. Now for merry blazes, and a
little slick work by yours truly.”

His hand shook a little as he crowded the handkerchief-wrapped package
into the breast of his Norfolk jacket; then, getting up, he hurried out
of the tent and ran to meet the tall man with the gray mustache.

“Ah, my boy!” exclaimed Colonel Hawtrey, making no effort to conceal
the pleasure the meeting gave him. “You’re looking fit, I must say, so
there’s not much use asking how you feel.”

“Fine as silk, uncle,” said Lenning, clasping the colonel’s hand. “How
did you find everything at the mines?”

“The mines are all right,” was the answer, “but it was something I
discovered after I got home this morning that has rather shaken me.
Take me to a place where we can be by ourselves and talk.”

“My tent will fill the bill.” They walked together in the direction
of Lenning’s headquarters. “Was that Hawkins I saw leading away the
horses?” Lenning asked.

“Yes, that was Hawkins.” That there was a load of some sort on the
colonel’s mind was evidenced by his tone and manner. “It’s possible,”
he added, “that I am going to need Hawkins in—er—an official capacity.”

“This sounds pretty warlike!” exclaimed Lenning.

“I suppose so,” and the old soldier stiffened a little. “I have made
some discoveries, Jode, which will astonish you. They nearly carried me
off my feet. By the way, what started you on this camping trip?”

“I thought it would be a good thing for our eleven,” Lenning explained.
“This Merriwell chap took the Ophir team out into the hills, and I
reckoned we’d follow suit. And, say! We bumped into the Ophir outfit
right here at Tinaja Wells. How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Queer, to say the least,” answered the colonel. “I hope all you
fellows will remember that you are true sportsmen, which is only
another term for gentlemen, and avoid any unpleasantness.”

“You can depend upon us to prove a credit to you, colonel!” said
Lenning, with a fine show of admiration for the erect, soldierly old
fellow beside him. “I have a lease from Struthers, and Merriwell has
one from Packard. Now,” and Lenning laughed, “which of us has the right
of it?”

“That’s hard to tell, my boy, until the lawsuit is decided. What sort
of a character is young Merriwell? Anything like his father?”

“I don’t know much about his father, sir; but young Merriwell seems
to be trying to make himself the whole thing. Of course,” Lenning
added, “I tried to smooth matters over, and it looks as though I had
succeeded. As you see, we’re both camped on the same ground.”

“I’ll have a talk with Merriwell myself, and see what I can do with
him. All that, however, must wait on the important business that brings
me here. I have never had anything make such an impression on me. Is
this your tent, Jode?”

“Yes, uncle. Walk inside and make yourself comfortable.”

When Colonel Hawtrey had seated himself comfortably on a camp stool,
and Lenning had dropped down facing him on a pile of blankets, the
colonel lighted a cigar—possibly to soothe or cover his nervousness—and
began.

“You remember, Jode,” said he, “that I drew a thousand dollars from the
bank on the forenoon of the day I left town, expecting to pay it out to
Judson for an interest in that promising claim of his.”

Lenning nodded.

“You drew the money,” said he, “and Judson didn’t show up; then you
were called from town in a hurry, and locked up the money in your safe.
I remember all that very distinctly.”

“You knew the combination, and were to give Judson the money if he
called for it.”

“Yes, sir; but he didn’t call.”

“I know that. I had scarcely reached town when I saw him, and he said
he’d be around this afternoon to get the thousand. Then I went home—and
found that I had been robbed!”

“Robbed!” gasped Lenning, starting up.

“Yes, my boy, robbed! Of course, a thousand dollars isn’t very much to
me, but it’s losing the money in such a way as that that gets under my
skin. The safe in my study was open, the window had been unlocked, and
the thousand was gone!”

“Had the safe been blown open?”

“No. Some one had worked the combination and——”

“Uncle!” exclaimed Lenning, in consternation. “You and I are the only
ones who know the combination. You were away from home, and I—I——”

The colonel leaned forward and dropped an affectionate hand on his
nephew’s shoulder.

“Tut, tut!” said he brusquely. “You know I trust you as I would myself.
There is some one else who knows the combination, and who at one time
had as free access to that safe as you or I. I refer to—to your half
brother, Darrel.”

“But Ellis perished in that train wreck!”

“Supposed to, but I have always had a feeling that there might be some
mistake. That graceless young scamp wasn’t born to shuffle off in any
such way as that. What I should have done, I suppose, was to have the
combination changed. But I did not. This is the result.”

“I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to judge Ellis, Uncle Al,”
pleaded Lenning. “You’re only working on a theory, you know, and——”

There was sorrow in the fine old face of the colonel, but over all was
the sternness of an iron will.

“I have evidence,” he interrupted; “much as it grieves me to tell it,
Jode, yet I have evidence which cannot be denied. It is like you, boy,
to plead for the rascal who has disgraced our blood; but, as for me,
I shall not be victimized a second time without making him pay the
penalty. I—— You are pale!” exclaimed the colonel, leaning forward to
stare into his nephew’s face; “and you are trembling, too! What ails
you, Jode? Brace up; don’t take this too much to heart.”

“I have something to tell you, uncle,” answered Lenning; “but, first,
let me hear your evidence.”

The colonel took a knife from his pocket and handed it to Lenning.

“You recognize that, don’t you?” he asked harshly.

“Why,” murmured Lenning, “it’s the knife you gave Ellis years ago.”

“It is,” was the grim rejoinder, “and I found it under the unlocked
window in my study.”

Lenning seemed stunned and incapable of words.

“But that isn’t all,” preceded the colonel. “I hunted up Hawkins, who
happened to be in town, and together we learned that a fellow answering
Darrel’s description had been in Gold Hill the night before I got
home. He had called on Haff, our club secretary, and asked for me, and
about you. Haff told him that you were camping, with some of our lads,
at Tinaja Wells. Supposing that Darrel had come here, Hawkins and I
secured a couple of mounts and made a quick trip down the cañon. Have
you seen anything of Darrel?”

“Then it’s true, it’s true!” Lenning was muttering, as though to
himself.

“What is true?” demanded his uncle. “Don’t try to shield the fellow,
Jode. Your first duty is to me, not to him.”

“There is a fellow here—Merriwell seems to be looking after him—who
says he is Ellis Darrel.” Lenning spoke with apparent reluctance. “I
believed him to be an imposter. How could I think anything else after
the report we had of that Colorado wreck? The fellow seemed bent on
proving that he was really my half brother, and challenged me to run a
race with him. You see——”

“What folly!” cut in the colonel.

“I’m pretty fast in a sprint, uncle, but El was a shade faster. And you
know he had a queer way about him when he was running. I think he is
counting on that race to make his identity known to me and the rest of
the Gold Hill fellows.”

“We don’t need any proof of his identity, Jode! We can take his word,
and then confront him with this damning evidence of his rascality!”

Lenning put out his hand and rested it on his uncle’s arm.

“Colonel,” said he, his voice shaking, “let us have this race to-morrow
afternoon. Don’t interfere. There’s a chance that, after all, the
fellow is not Darrel.”

“There’s not a shadow of a doubt, not a shadow!”

“But you needn’t hurry about arresting him, need you? Let’s find out
how far Merriwell will go in trying to shield him. Wait until after the
race; and then—well,” and Lenning drew a long, regretful sigh, “do what
you think you have to—what you think you must.”

“If Darrel knows I am here with Hawkins he may suspect something, and
clear out,” demurred the colonel. “It isn’t well, my boy, to dally too
much with an affair of this kind.”

“Have Hawkins watch him,” suggested Lenning.

“True,” said the colonel, “I could probably do that. It’s impossible,
though, that Young Merriwell is mixed up, in any way, with Darrel’s
wrongdoing. He has been deceived in the fellow. I know of the elder
Merriwell, and a straighter man or a better all-round athlete the world
never produced.”

“I hope young Merriwell is square, and a real chip of the old block,
as I understand his friends mean to suggest when they call him
‘Chip’—but, well, I don’t like the way he has been acting. To-morrow
afternoon, uncle, we may know a lot more about him and about Darrel,
too.”

“Very well,” said the colonel, though reluctantly, “we’ll leave the
matter, Jode, as you desire.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lenning gratefully.

Why was Lenning so anxious to have his uncle defer action against
Darrel? Had the packet, wrapped in his handkerchief and stowed in the
breast pocket of his Norfolk jacket, anything to do with his wish to
delay proceedings? In view of what happened later, this seemed like the
logical explanation.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                         A JOKE—WITH RESULTS.


Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, had not much to say to Merriwell during
their walk from the mesa back to the camp. Hawkins was an admirer, and
in many ways had shown himself a true friend, of Frank’s; and, out of
the kindness of his heart and, without divulging any secrets, he strove
to warn him against Darrel.

“They’re talkin’ a heap, down in the camp,” said Hawkins, “of what a
big hit this Darrel person has made with you. Don’t cotton to him too
strong, Merriwell. He isn’t wuth it.”

“What do you mean?” Frank demanded.

“Between ourselves—the thing not to go any further, you understand—this
Darrel’s nothin’ more than a plain thief.”

“You’re mistaken, Hawkins,” said Frank, with spirit. “I can’t believe
it.”

“Well, son, you’ll have the proof before you’re many hours older.”

“Then I’ll wait for the proof, Hawkins; and it will have to be
copper-riveted before I turn against Ellis Darrel.”

“Jest a warnin’ I’m handing you, Merriwell,” grinned Hawkins. “And
you’re to keep what I said to yourself, mind.”

“Of course, Hawkins. I’m obliged to you for taking all this trouble,
but you’re mistaken, and will find it out. It’s the colonel’s business,
isn’t it?”

“Now, I’m not sayin’ another word,” answered the deputy, “and maybe
I’ve let out more’n I ought to, as it is.”

That ended the brief conversation, and, while it did not shake
Merriwell’s confidence in Ellis Darrel, nevertheless it left him with
vague forebodings of fresh disaster hanging over the head of the “boy
from Nowhere.”

The members of the rival athletic clubs were carefully avoiding each
other. There was no display of ill feeling, perhaps because the
bad blood had no chance to show itself, or because the presence of
the colonel in the Gold Hill camp was a restraining influence. Be
that as it may, yet the topic of conversation in both camps was the
hundred-yard dash to be run on the following afternoon. The object of
the race, unique in the annals of sport, lent the event a fascination
which nothing else could have done. Until ten o’clock the affair was
discussed by the Ophir fellows, and then, agreeable to schedule, lights
went out and the Ophir lads sought their blankets.

By an arrangement, enforced from the very first night that Frank and
his companions went into camp, a watch of three was posted to look
after the live stock and other property during the night. A trio of
lads went on sentry-go from seven to eleven; when their duty was
finished, they aroused three others to do guard duty from eleven to
three; and these, in turn, awoke three more for the morning watch from
three to seven. On this night, the first to be passed on the flat with
the Gold Hillers, Ballard was one of the three who had the midwatch of
four hours around midnight. Ballard’s post was in the cañon, just below
the flat, where the saddle and pack stock had been gathered.

He had a lonely vigil for an hour. Somewhere in the neighboring hills
the coyotes were howling—a noise, by the way, not calculated to soothe
a person’s nerves. While Ballard was listening to the coyotes, and
thinking more or less about the next day’s race, he heard a sound as of
some one sliding down the slope from the flat. Alert on the instant,
Ballard started up and peered into the gloom and listened. Some one was
breathing heavily and floundering and stumbling through bushes and over
stones.

“Can’t be a prowler,” murmured Ballard, “for he’s making too much
noise. I’ll just lay hands on the fellow and make him give an account
of himself.”

Creeping forward, and screening himself as well as he could in the
shadows, Ballard was able to rise up suddenly and seize the wabbling
figure.

“_Himmelblitzen!_” wheezed a voice. “Oof you peen vone oof der Inchun
shpooks, den I bet you I faint fits righdt on der shpot! Whoosh!” and
the voice died away with a suggestion of chattering teeth.

“Carrots!” laughed Ballard. “Say, you crazy chump, what are you fooling
around the gulch for at this time of night?”

“Oh, Pallard!” puffed Fritz, in great relief. “Vell, vell, vat a
habbiness! Dere vas t’ings vich ve don’d know till ve findt dem oudt,
hey? I vas looking for you, Pallard, yah, so helup me!”

“Looking for me?” echoed Ballard; “what for?”

“Meppyso I gif you haluf oof dot dreasure oof you go along und hellup
me get him.”

“Oh, blazes!” chuckled Ballard. “I thought you’d got over that treasure
notion, Carrots.”

“Lisden, vonce, und I told you someding.” Fritz dropped his voice to
an explosive whisper. “Vat you dink? Py shiminy, so sure as nodding I
findt me dot shtone mit der gross on. Yah, you bed my life! It vas so
blain as I can’t tell, Pallard. Aber ven I roll avay der shtone und tig
mit der shovel, I hear me some voices oof an Inchun chief. Dot shkared
me avay. Haf you got der nerfs to go mit me to der blace back, Pallard?
I peen shaky all ofer, und my shkin geds oop und valks on me mit coldt
feet, yet I bed you I go back, und I findt der dreasure. You come, und
so hellup me I gif you haluf!”

The excitement at the Wells, incident to the arrival of the Gold
Hillers and following hard upon the rapid return of Fritz and Silva to
the camp, had temporarily closed the fun Merry and his friends had had
in the cañon. More important events had claimed the attention of the
lads who had participated in the joke, and no one had explained matters
to Fritz or the Mexican. So it chanced that the Dutchman was still
laboring under his delusion.

Ballard wondered whether he had better set Fritz right, or keep the
joke going. He finally decided that the stock would not suffer if
he played out the Dutchman a little, and watched his antics in the
supposedly spook-haunted gulch.

“When an Injun goes to the happy hunting grounds, Carrots,” remarked
Ballard gravely, “it’s just as well not to stir him up. I’d hate to
have a red spook get a strangle hold on me—there wouldn’t be treasure
enough in the whole of Arizona to pay a fellow for an experience of
that kind.”

“Haf you no chincher?” demanded Fritz. “Iss it not vort’ a leedle
shcare chust to load oop mit goldt dot vill make you a rich mans for
life, hey? Vell, I bed you! I t’ink him all oudt, und I arrife py der
gonglusion dot a shpook iss nodding more as a shadow in der sun, oder
der moon. Vat a shpook does makes no odds aboudt der tifference. Ve go,
ve ged der goldt, und ve come back. Dot’s all aboudt it. I got me a
shovel in vone handt, und a glub in der odder. Mit vone, I tig oop der
goldt; mit der odder, I knock ofer der shpooks. Und dere you vas. Ve
shall be gompany mit each odder, Pallard.”

“I don’t see how I can back out, Carrots,” said Ballard, “the way you
put it up to me. You’re an awful persuader. How much gold is there?”

“I see it in der tream dot dere iss more as ve can carry, yes.”

“Maybe that dream is just fooling you, Carrots.”

“You say yourselluf dot treams iss somet’ing, Pallard.”

“Did I? Well, maybe they are something. You go first, will you,
Carrots? I’ve got a weak heart, and if I should run onto a spook
without any warning it would knock me stiff.”

“I vill go fairst,” agreed Fritz, generously and valiantly, “und you
precede. I vill vatch aroundt carefully, und oof ve don’d make some
noises, den meppy der shpooks von’t hear, und ve gif dem der slip.”

Fritz waddled off into the darkness, and Ballard, enjoying himself
hugely, trailed after him. Suddenly, without the least warning, Fritz
dropped the shovel and the club, whirled in his tracks, and took
Ballard in a convulsive embrace.

“_Ach, du lieber!_” he whimpered. “I hear me someding, py shiminy!
Lisden, vonce, Pallard! Vat it iss, hey?”

“Coyotes,” answered Ballard, in a smothered voice. “Brace up, Carrots.
Don’t lose your nerve.”

“Sooch dreasure hundings I don’d like,” mumbled Fritz, slowly
untangling himself from Ballard and cautiously groping for his shovel
and club. “I vish der plame’ coyotes vould go to shleep. Ach, vat a
nervousness I got all droo me. I shake like I hat some agues. Sooch a
pitzness iss vort’ all der dreasures vat ve findt.”

Suddenly Ballard, clapping a hand over Fritz’s mouth, whispered a
hissing warning for him to keep still, and pulled him out of the narrow
trail and in between a couple of huge bowlders.

“V-v-vat iss der drouple!” inquired Fritz feebly. “You see a shpook
yourselluf, Pallard? I bed you——”

Again Ballard clapped a hand to his companion’s mouth.

“Sh-h-h!” he murmured. “There’s some one coming, right behind us. Not a
word, now; not so much as a whisper.”

Somehow, Ballard got it into his head that the man who was following
them was Silva. The Mexican, he remembered, was also mixed up, rather
vaguely, with Fritz in the treasure hunting. Ballard had it in mind
to give Silva a bit of a scare, and so make the most of that midnight
experience.

Peering out from their dark retreat, Fritz and Ballard saw a dark
figure gliding toward them along the trail. It was impossible for them
to discover who the man was. He was in a hurry, that was evident, and a
peculiar, musical jingling accompanied him as he came on. The sound was
not loud, but more like a tinkling whisper, and barely distinguishable.

But Silva—if Silva it was—did not pass the two behind the bowlders. He
halted, so close that Ballard could have reached out and touched him,
went down on his knees, and worked at something in the dark. Even with
the fellow so near, the heavy gloom successfully hid his identity.

Ballard’s desire for fun was lost in a mighty curiosity. The fellow
took something white from his pocket, and, apparently, pushed it under
a stone; then, rising, he sped away in the direction from whence he had
come.

“Vell, vell!” muttered Fritz. “Vat you t’ink iss dot, Pallard?”

“That’s a conundrum, Carrots. How many fellows are looking for that
treasure of yours, eh?”

“No vone but me und you, Pallard.”

“Wait here for a couple of shakes, Fritz. I want to explore.”

Ballard crept to the place where the mysterious figure had been at
work, groped under a stone, and pulled forth a package wrapped in
something white. Lighting a match, he examined his find. Fritz could
hear him muttering excitedly as the match dropped from his fingers.

“Vat it iss, Pallard?” quavered Fritz.

“I’ve had enough treasure hunting for one night,” answered Ballard, in
a strange voice. “I’m going back to the live stock, Fritz. Come on!”

Fritz protested, but Ballard stood firm. Fritz would not continue on
without company, and so they returned to the camp—Ballard with the
white packet snugly stowed in his pocket.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                               THE RACE.


Most of the forenoon, every day except Sunday, Merriwell, Clancy, and
Ballard had to give up to the “grind.” Professor Phineas Borrodaile
rigidly insisted on certain hours for study and recitation, and would
not temper his discipline even on the day that notable race was to be
run between Lenning and Darrel.

Following breakfast, each camp continued to flock by itself. The live
stock belonging to each party was picketed in widely separated grazing
grounds, so there was no opportunity for Silva and the other packer
to wind up their disagreements in a final clash. Peace hovered over
the region adjacent to Tinaja Wells, but to Merry it suggested a calm
preceding a storm.

Hawkins buried himself among the Gold Hillers, and seemed very careful
not to overstep the “dead line” which had been drawn between the two
camps. Colonel Hawtrey also appeared content to remain in seclusion
among the members of his own party.

About eleven o’clock in the forenoon, Frank and his chums, and the
professor and Darrel overheard a brief address which the old soldier
was making to the young athletes of the Gold Hill club. Only scraps of
the colonel’s little speech floated to the fellows in the Ophir tent,
but what they overheard made a deep impression on them.

“Sports of the right kind, properly indulged in, are of vastly more
benefit to the upbuilding of character, my young friends, than to your
muscles and bodily endurance. Understand me, I do not say that physical
development is of less importance than mental development. Both of
these should proceed hand in hand; but if, over all, the moral and
manly qualities do not grow as they should, all your training in the
class and on the track and field will have been in vain. Try, my lads,
to develop the faculty of being good losers, and to admire and applaud
in others those abilities, natural or acquired, which you possess, but
not in the same degree.”

As these words, spoken in a deep and earnest voice, wafted themselves
from the rival camp, the professor softly clapped his hands.

“Noble sentiments most nobly expressed, young gentlemen,” he murmured.
“This Colonel Hawtrey must surely be a man of splendid character.”

“He is,” said Darrel, in a low voice. “The colonel is one of the finest
men that ever lived.”

“Listen!” whispered the professor.

Again the colonel’s words drifted into the rival camp:

“If an amateur athlete is not a true sportsman, which is but another
term for gentleman, he is not fit to compete with other true sportsmen.
Your real gentleman, if you please, has courage; but, more than
that, he is so imbued with the spirit of fair play and so completely
captain of his own soul, that the stings of honorable defeat leave him
unscathed.”

These were fine words, and well calculated to inspire a spirit of high
emprise.

“I hope Jode is taking that in,” whispered Darrel to Merriwell; “but,
I’ll gamble my spurs, he’s going to beat the pistol, just the same.”

Ballard, all that morning, had been preoccupied to an extent that had
drawn some criticism from the professor. The interesting events of the
night, which he had not only kept a secret himself but had likewise
warned Fritz to keep in the background, probably had a good deal to do
with his poor showing at the problems put up to him by Borrodaile.

At eleven-thirty, when the studious ones were allowed a breathing
spell before dinner, Ballard hooked onto Merriwell and led him to a
secluded place for a talk. Fritz had to call them three times to “grub
pile,” and when the two finally arrived, their faces were flushed with
excitement, and there was an air about them that suggested mysterious
things.

At two-thirty in the afternoon a general movement set in toward the
mesa. Both camps emptied themselves upon the little plateau, so that
nearly forty spectators assembled to watch the race between Darrel and
Lenning.

The course had already been marked off by Brad, Spink, and Handy.
Beman, for Lenning, had looked it over and pronounced it O.  K. On one
side of this course the Gold Hill men were grouped, and on the other
side the fellows from Ophir.

Colonel Hawtrey and Hawkins stood together, and Merriwell, for the
first time, got a good look at the colonel. He was much impressed with
his soldierly bearing, but in his face could be read sternness and
determination—and a sadness which did not, in the least, diminish the
more Spartan qualities.

Bleeker, of Gold Hill, crossed the course and stepped up to Merriwell.

“There ought to be a judge and a starter, I reckon,” said he. “I don’t
see any need of makin’ this event top-heavy with officials. Do you?”

“Not at all,” Frank answered. “I’d suggest that Colonel Hawtrey act as
judge of the race.”

“He says he won’t have a thing to do with it.”

“Then how about Hawkins, the deputy sheriff?”

“Suits Lenning to a t, y, ty. Lenning would like to have Beman for
starter.”

Merriwell was expecting this, and yet it came to him with something
like surprise. It pointed to crookedness on the part of Lenning—and
after that fine talk the colonel had given his fellows that morning,
too!

“Let Beman act as starter, then,” assented Frank, keeping to the plan
broached by Darrel.

Bleeker hurried away to inform Hawkins and Beman of the work laid out
for them; and a few minutes later Darrel and Lenning, in sprinting
costumes, came trotting up from the camp.

Merriwell watched Darrel and the colonel. As the old soldier fixed his
eyes on his discredited nephew, a queer play of emotions showed in his
face. In Darrel’s look was a wistfulness and affection which caused his
uncle to turn abruptly and gaze in another direction.

Beman, a round-shouldered, lanky chap, stepped out back of the starting
line, pistol in hand.

“All ready, you two?” he called.

Darrel and Lenning answered by stepping to the line. Not a sound of
approval or disapproval went up from the gathered throng. Silence
reigned on the mesa.

“This is about as cheerful as a funeral procession, Chip,” muttered
Clancy.

“Everybody’s mightily interested in the race, for all they have bottled
up their feelings,” Merriwell answered.

“Maybe,” was the skeptical response, “but it takes a lot of rooters to
stir up the enthusiasm. This looks about as sporty as the track event
of a deaf-and-dumb school. That Lenning carries himself well. He walks
with a spring that leads you to think he ‘feels his feet.’ But I don’t
like the cut of his jib a little bit.”

“Nor I. His eyes are shifty, and his face doesn’t inspire much
confidence.”

“The old colonel is about as hilarious as he would be trying to hunt
up a nephew in the morgue. Whoo! I’ll go dippy in a minute if somebody
doesn’t yell. Guess I’ll tear off a whoop myself.”

He suited his action to the word, but it was a melancholy effort. No
one joined in with him, not even Merry or Ballard. From across the
course, the Gold Hillers gave him a startled look of disapproval.

“Once will do, thanks,” muttered Clancy. “I’m frosted so badly I’ve got
chilblains. Why doesn’t that starter set ’em off?”

The words were hardly out of Clancy’s mouth before Beman shouted: “On
your mark!”

Both sprinters dropped in well-nigh perfect style.

“Set!”

With that word, and the tense preparations of the sprinters for the
start, Merry and Brad began watching Lenning keenly. Merry ticked off
the seconds in his mind—one, two, three—and then intuitively he sensed
the forward plunge of Lenning, coming a fraction of a second before the
crack of the pistol. Lenning had not waited to hear the pistol, and had
got away at the explosion.

“He did it, by thunder!” whispered Brad. “Darrel had the skunk dead to
rights. Eh, Chip?”

“No doubt about it, Brad!”

Further talk just then was out of the question. The first stride of the
race had taken Lenning into the lead, and Darrel, waiting honorably for
the signal to start, was rushing to overhaul his competitor.

“Dig, you kid from Nowhere!” whooped Clancy. “The race isn’t done till
you breast the tape.”

“Go to it, Darrel!” Merriwell shouted. “You’ll pass him at the
eighty-yard line!”

“Wow!” yelped Ballard; “I’ll bet the boy from Nowhere gets Somewhere
before he’s many seconds older.”

A murmur went up from the Gold Hill side of the course. The peculiar
form in which Darrel was racing was recognized. Various little
mannerisms connected with his sprinting were recalled. They were all
here, in this clean-cut athlete whom Lenning had declared an impostor!
Gold Hill sentiments, it was plain, were undergoing a change.

Not the least interested observer in the Gold Hill crowd was the
colonel. He leaned forward, the joy of wholesome sport temporarily
brushing aside the sterner proceedings which were to wait upon the
finish of that hundred-yard dash. The object of that race—the “boy
from Nowhere’s” attempt to prove his identity—did not concern Colonel
Hawtrey. He knew Lenning’s competitor was Ellis Darrel, race or no
race. What flamed up in him, as he gazed spellbound, was a pure love of
track athletics, aroused by a contest that was superb.

In about four seconds after the start the Gold Hillers had loosened up.
There were cries of, “Go it, Darrel!” and, “This looks like old times,
Curly!” which proved that Darrel was already winning the recognition he
coveted, no matter whether he won or lost the dash.

At the eighty-yard line, just as Merry had prophesied, Darrel drew
ahead of Lenning. The latter called on his reserve powers for a final
spurt, but Darrel also had speed in reserve. In ten seconds, or a
trifle more or less, Darrel tore away the tape at the finish, a full
stride in the lead.

A roar went up from all sides. The enthusiasm, which had been held in
check, rushed forth like a tidal wave. A rush was made toward Darrel,
but Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, grim and relentless, waved the throng
back. Stepping to the side of the victor, he dropped an official hand
on his shoulder.

“Youngster,” said he crisply, “I’m sorry a heap to come down hard on
you at a time like this, but you’re under arrest.”

“Arrest?” echoed Darrel, recoiling. “For what?”

“For openin’ your uncle’s safe an’ stealin’ a thousand in cold cash.
Don’t make a fuss, bec’us’ it won’t do you any good.”

Then, amid the dead hush that fell over the mesa, Darrel’s eyes sought
only one face in all the crowd surrounding him. And that face was
Merriwell’s!




                              CHAPTER X.

                            A HELPING HAND.


The explosion of a bomb could not have caused greater consternation
among the throng on the mesa than that official action of the deputy
sheriff. Hawtrey, erect and with a soldierly stride, passed out of the
stunned crowd and placed himself beside Hawkins.

Merriwell, giving Darrel a reassuring look, also advanced. He had
a sweater on his arm, and began pulling it over Darrel’s head and
shoulders.

“You’d better keep out of this, Merriwell,” Hawkins murmured in Frank’s
ear. “I warned you. The kunnel means biz, and no mistake.”

“So do I,” Frank answered, with a flash of his dark eyes. “Keep your
nerve,” he added, in a low tone to Darrel; “we’ve got a few cards of
our own to play.”

“You are Frank Merriwell?” inquired Colonel Hawtrey, leveling his gaze
at Frank.

“Yes, colonel.”

“The son of Frank Merriwell, of Bloomfield, and the T-Bar Ranch, in
Wyoming?”

“Yes.”

“You are also seeking to befriend this misguided young man, here?”

“I am Darrel’s friend,” said Merry, with spirit, “right from the drop
of the hat.”

“Then, my lad, your father will some time hear of it with regret. What
Hawkins said is the truth. This fellow opened my safe and took from it
a thousand dollars in cash night before last. I have the proof.”

“Pardon me, colonel,” returned Frank respectfully, “but inasmuch as I
am Darrel’s friend, will you let me handle this case for him in my own
way?”

“If you mean to defend him,” frowned Hawtrey, “you will have your
trouble for your pains. He has no defense!”

“Will you let me try and see if I cannot make one, and one that will
command your attention and best judgment?”

“Sufferin’ centipedes, Merriwell!” broke in Hawkins. “I never reckoned
you’d be tryin’ to save the scalp of a plain, out-and-out thief!”

The white ran into Darrel’s face and his hands clenched. Merry laid a
soothing hand on his arm.

“This isn’t a time for any snap judgments, Hawkins,” said Frank.
“First,” and he turned to the Gold Hillers, “I want to ask if this boy
from Nowhere has proved that he is Ellis Darrel, of Gold Hill?”

“Yes!” came a chorus of responses.

Merry partly turned to face Lenning. The latter, a sneering smile on
his dark face, was standing at a little distance, keenly alive to
everything that was said and done.

“How about you, Lenning?” queried Frank.

“He’s my half brother, all right,” was the answer. “I reckon there’s
not a shadow of doubt about that.”

“You agree, too, colonel?”

“I knew the fellow was Darrel before the race,” answered Hawtrey. “If
he had proved to be an impostor, this accusation of theft might not
have carried. Now it is absolutely proven—ab-so-lutely.”

“Darrel has been accused here, before all his old friends,” Frank
continued, marshaling all his wits to acquit himself creditably of the
task of clearing Darrel, “and it’s only a fair shake that he should be
proven innocent before them. Colonel, will you please tell us of the
robbery, and show your proofs?”

Hawtrey was visibly annoyed. Nevertheless, he was a great stickler for
fair play, and he had to acknowledge that the position taken by Merry
was logical.

“I have been away from Gold Hill for a week,” said he, “visiting some
of my mining properties. Before I went, I drew a thousand dollars
in cash from the bank to pay to a man from whom I was purchasing an
interest in a ‘prospect.’ I was called from town hurriedly, before the
payment was made. The money was locked up in the safe in my study, at
home. Jode, here, who knows the combination of the safe, was to pay
over the money if the man presented himself during my absence. The man
did not come, and Jode started off on this camping trip, three days
ago. When I reached home yesterday morning, I found the window of my
study unlocked, the safe door swinging open, the thousand dollars gone,
and this knife lying under the window, inside the room. Hand the knife
to Darrel, Merriwell, and see if he recognizes it.”

The colonel seemed averse to having any direct dealings with Darrel. He
gave the pocketknife to Frank, and the latter presented it to Hawkins’
prisoner.

“It’s mine,” admitted Darrel huskily.

“Haff, an official of our athletic club, told Hawkins and me,” the
colonel proceeded, “that a fellow answering Darrel’s description had
been in town the night before I got home, that he had made inquiries
about me, that he had told the fellow I was away from home, and that
Jode was off on a camping trip, and that Darrel started down the cañon
to join the Gold Hill campers. Hawkins and I got horses and hurried on
to Tinaja Wells. Ask Darrel, Merriwell, if he denies being in my house
night before last?”

“No, colonel,” spoke up Darrel, without waiting for Merriwell to put
the question, “I do not deny it. I was there. I pushed open the sash
lock with this knife, and went in through your study and up to my old
room. I had the key to my room—have had it in my pocket for a year. All
I wanted to get was my running suit. After I had taken that, I locked
up the room and left by the window. Naturally, I could not relock the
window from the outside. That’s all, sir. I did not tamper with your
safe.”

A sneer of incredulity crossed Lenning’s face. It faded into a
sorrowful look, however, as the colonel gave him a swift glance.

“You admit being in the house,” said the colonel harshly, “so why not
admit the rest of it?”

“Because it is not the truth,” Darrel answered, with spirit.

“Did you know the combination of the safe, Darrel?” asked Frank.

“Yes—that is, if it hasn’t been changed during the past year.”

“It hasn’t,” put in the colonel. “That was my fault, I suppose.”

“Then, three of you knew the combination,” went on Frank, “yourself,
colonel, and Darrel and Lenning.”

“That is the way of it.”

The crowd on the mesa was listening with absorbed attention to the
talk which was going forward over the hapless head of the “boy from
Nowhere.” Nearly all, perhaps, felt that Darrel’s admission that he had
gone to the house for his running suit was a trivial excuse to cover a
design on the safe. Dark looks were thrown at Darrel, and only here
and there was anything bordering on sympathy shown for him.

“Now,” said Frank, keeping the points he wanted to make well in mind
and working toward them with all the skill he could muster, “you said,
colonel, that Lenning and his camping party left Gold Hill three days
ago?”

“Yes.”

“Less than half a day would be required to make the trip from Gold Hill
to Tinaja Wells, for a mounted party with pack animals. How does it
happen, then, that the Gold Hillers only reached the Wells yesterday
afternoon?”

Colonel Hawtrey seemed puzzled. He turned to Lenning.

“Explain that, will you, Jode?” he requested. “Why didn’t you reach the
Wells day before yesterday?”

“Well, sir,” Lenning answered, “we were about halfway between town and
Tinaja Wells when we found out that Merriwell and his crowd were camped
at the place we wanted.”

“Ah! And what did you do then?”

“I had the boys make temporary camp in a side cañon while I—er—went
back to Gold Hill.”

“That,” said Frank, “would bring you in Gold Hill night before last—the
night of the robbery?”

Lenning reddened and looked confused.

“Why,” he faltered, “I reckon it would.”

“What was your business in Gold Hill, Lenning?”

“I don’t know,” snapped Lenning, “that you’ve got any call to pump me.”

“Answer his question, Jode,” put in the colonel.

“Well, if you want to know,” scowled Lenning, “I went back to the Hill
to lease Tinaja Wells from Struthers.”

A growl ran through the ranks of the Ophirites. Frank silenced the
growing indignation with a quick glance.

“That was hardly fair,” he went on to Lenning. “We were in peaceable
possession of the camping ground, and you deliberately set about
getting a lease and kicking us out.”

“Tut, tut, Merriwell!” interposed Hawtrey. “Jode is not that sort of a
lad. I am sure he would not intentionally inconvenience you.”

“Ouch!” cried Clancy, and the colonel stared sternly at him in rebuke.

“Well,” went on Frank, “we’ll not tangle up with that part of the
proposition. The fact remains that, on the night of the robbery, two
persons who knew the combination of your safe were in Gold Hill. As
soon as Lenning got his lease, he came on to Tinaja Wells—which brought
him here yesterday afternoon. Now, colonel, why do you suspect Darrel,
and not Lenning?”

“Because,” and the colonel’s voice showed that he was nettled. “Jode is
worthy of my confidence, while Darrel has proved that he is not. Were
you at the house, Jode, during the time you were in Gold Hill after the
lease?”

“No, sir,” answered Lenning.

“There you have it,” said the colonel, in a tone of finality. “All this
talk, Merriwell, is getting us nowhere. I have excused Darrel once, but
I cannot do it a second time. Although he is my sister’s son, he must
bear the consequences of this piece of wrongdoing. I feel it a duty to
press the matter to an issue. Where will he end if he keeps on as he is
going?”

There was a triumphant look on Lenning’s face. Darrel, on the other
hand, seemed utterly crushed.

“There’s no use, Merriwell,” breathed Darrel, in a broken voice. “The
plot is too deep, and you are only injuring yourself by trying to
defend me.”

“Kunnel,” spoke up Hawkins, who had been following every angle of
Frank’s work with closest attention, “don’t you lay anythin’ up agin’
Merriwell. He’s sized Darrel up wrong, but he’s the clear quill, as I
happen to know.”

“I have only the highest respect for Merriwell,” said the colonel. “He
tries to stand by his friends to the utmost of his ability—and his
ability, let me tell you, is of no mean order. But, my lad, you can
accomplish nothing in the face of the facts,” he added, in a kindly
voice, to Frank.

“Let us see,” Frank went on. “Pink,” he said to Ballard, “just step up
and show the colonel what you have in your pocket.”

Then another surprise was sprung. Ballard, taking a package of bills
from his pocket, handed it to the colonel.

“Is that the stolen money, colonel?” he asked.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                          A PARTIAL VICTORY.


The colonel started back from the package of bills as though from
a coiled and striking serpent. A breath of icy air seemed to cross
the hot mesa, bringing a weird shiver to more than one of the crowd
surrounding the actors in that little drama of check and countercheck.
Necks were craned forward, and fascinated interest showed in every face.

But there was something more than interest in the face of Jode Lenning.
A flicker of consternation, and of wild despair, pulsed through his
features—but only for a moment. He was quick to get himself in hand.

“It—it’s the same package of bills which I drew from the bank,”
murmured the distracted colonel, taking the bundle from Ballard and
looking at the inclosing band. “Where did you get it, young man?”

“He’s a chum of Merriwell’s,” spoke up Lenning, with ugly significance,
“and Merriwell is helping Darrel. It’s easy to guess where Ballard got
the money.”

Ballard jumped for Lenning with a savage exclamation.

“You mealy-mouthed runt,” he cried, “you can’t plaster me with the same
pitch you’ve got on yourself. I’ll——”

Merriwell leaped in between Ballard and Lenning.

“Now, Pink,” said Merry, “just stow your temper. We’ve got to keep our
heads, you know, if we pull Darrel through. It’s Colonel Hawtrey we
want to convince, not Jode Lenning.”

Ballard, with a fierce, warning glance at Lenning, drew back.

“Fritz!” called Frank.

“On teck, you bed you,” boomed the Dutch boy.

“Where were you last night, Carrots?” inquired Frank.

“Hunding puried dreasures mit Pallard,” beamed Fritz. “I haf a tream
mit meinselluf dot I findt more goldt as I can tell a shtone under mit
a gross on. Pallard goes mit me, last nighdt, to get der dreasure. Ve
go down der gulch, und ven ve vas a leetle vays from der camp, along
comes a feller pehind us alretty. Ve hite, und dot feller hites der
money under a rock. Ve get him oudt, und Pallard takes him, und ve keep
it on der q. ts., excepting dot it vas toldt to Merrivell. Dot’s all
aboudt it.”

“What foolishness is this?” demanded the colonel.

Merry smilingly explained Fritz’s delusion about buried treasure, and
how a joke had been played upon him and Silva, in the cañon. Then
Ballard, dipping into the details, recited his midnight adventure with
Fritz. Ballard threw so much fun into his account that more than one
laugh went up from the bystanders. A little merriment, dropped into a
serious situation, is an excellent thing occasionally.

“Merriwell,” said the colonel, “you could not be the son of your
father and be anything else but trustworthy. I do not know your father
personally, but I have seen him pitch many a game of ball, and I honor
him as a man, and as one of the greatest wizards of the national game
that ever lived. All this nonsense about the German youth and his
buried treasure makes not the least impression on me; but, if you say
that this money came into Ballard’s hands in the manner just described
to me, I will believe it.”

“You have heard the exact truth, colonel,” answered Frank, thrilled at
this expression of the colonel’s confidence in him.

“Very good,” went on Hawtrey. “Now, Ballard,” he continued, facing
Pink, “who was the man you and the German youth saw hiding the money in
the cañon?”

“Neither of us was able to recognize him, colonel,” Ballard answered.

“What?” cried the colonel. “You could not recognize the fellow when
you, by your own statement, were close enough to reach out and touch
him?”

“Remember, sir, that it was midnight, and that the walls of the cañon
make the trail pretty dark. I couldn’t tell who the fellow was from
Adam, and that’s the truth.”

“Why didn’t you spring upon him and capture him?”

“You forget, colonel,” put in Frank, “that the fellow was gone before
Ballard and Fritz found out what he had cached. And you also forget
that, at that time, none of us knew that Darrel was suspected of
robbing your safe—or, for that matter, that any robbery had occurred.
Another thing: Last night Darrel was sleeping in our tent, in a blanket
bed between Clancy and me. He could not have stirred without wakening
us. From ten o’clock last night until six this morning Ellis Darrel
never left that tent.”

“Then, of course,” deduced the colonel, “he could not have been the one
who hid the money.”

“Nor the one who took it from your safe, sir,” added Merriwell; “for
the one who did the stealing must certainly have kept the money in his
hands until he attempted to secrete it in the cañon.”

“That,” said the colonel, “is plausible, but not conclusive. Darrel
might have given the money to some one to take care of for him, and
that some one may have been the person who hid it under the rock. I do
not say that this is so,” he added, “but that it might have happened.
As the matter now stands, the whole thing is a mystery. By your
excellent work, Merriwell, you have thrown doubt upon my suspicions of
Darrel. Possibly—I may say probably—he had no hand in taking the money
from my safe. But who did commit the robbery?”

“I reckon Merriwell’s right,” spoke up Hawkins, his face glowing with
delight over the way Frank had conducted the defense of Darrel. “You
never could send this feller up, kunnel, agin’ the showing Merriwell
has made for him.”

“I shall not try to,” said Hawtrey. “I am happier than I know how to
express over the outcome of this little conference here on the mesa.”

Impulsively Darrel started toward his uncle with outstretched hand.

“Uncle Alvah,” said he, his voice tremulous with emotion, “I thank you
for giving me any consideration at all. I——”

The colonel, giving Darrel a stern look, put his hands behind him.

“Thank Merriwell,” said he curtly, “and not me. You are freed of this
charge of robbery, but you are just where you were before, in my
estimation—just where you were when that railroad accident was reported
to us, and everybody believed you had been a victim of it. I have
tried to forget you, for that thing you did, more than a year ago, is
something I cannot overlook, or forgive. However, I am not willing that
you should be penniless; I feel that I should make up to you, in some
way, for the unpleasant position in which my suspicions placed you.
Take this thousand dollars, Darrel, and try, from now on, to be a true
sportsman. Cultivate Merriwell—he will point you along the right road.
But as long as you are under that cloud—you know what I mean—there can
be nothing in common between you and me. That is all.”

The colonel’s form was bowed, as he turned away, and there were lines
of suffering in his face. He had flung down the packet of bank notes,
but Darrel caught it up and ran after him.

“Your money is of no use to me, colonel,” he said, with a touch of
pride, “and I want none of it. I can work and earn my own way, just as
I have done for the last year.”

There were tears in his eyes as he thrust the money into the colonel’s
hand and came back to Merriwell.

“Chip,” said Clancy, “here’s where you win and lose, both at the same
time. You’ve kept Darrel out of Hawkins’ hands, but you haven’t been
able to win over that high-strung old boy to Darrel’s side.”

“Maybe,” said Frank, taking Darrel’s hand, “that will come later. We——”

“Look!” called Ballard, pointing off toward the edge of the mesa.
“There’s a man on horseback just riding up from the flat and handing
something to Hawtrey. What’s this? Another knock for Darrel?”

“I reckon,” returned Darrel, with a wan smile, “that I’ve had about all
the knocks I’m entitled to. Merriwell, you’re a friend worth having!”

“Whoosh!” laughed Frank. “I’m a pretty bum lawyer, Darrel, and only won
out because we had such a clear case. Surprised you, didn’t we?”

Before Darrel could answer, Colonel Hawtrey was seen to turn back from
the edge of the mesa and start toward the crowd that still lingered
about the scene of the race. He held an open letter in his hand.

“Here’s where the lightning strikes again,” muttered Clancy.




                             CHAPTER XII.

                          THE DOVE OF PEACE.


“Friends,” said the colonel, as those on the mesa clustered around him,
“a messenger has just arrived from Gold Hill bringing me a note from
Struthers. He has lost his lawsuit against Packard, and consequently
his claim to Tinaja Wells is null and void. Inasmuch as our party holds
a lease from Struthers, there is nothing left for the Gold Hill campers
but to pack up and look for some other camping ground. I do not think,
Merriwell,” the colonel added, thrusting the letter into his pocket,
“that this can be done before to-morrow, but Jode and his friends will
leave at the earliest possible moment.”

“Take your time about it, colonel,” Frank answered; and then he went
on to Darrel, Clancy, and Ballard: “And so, fellows, the dove of peace
swoops down on Tinaja Wells.”

“I’m glad as blazes Jode is getting out of here,” said Darrel. “I
reckon, though, that I’ll have to pick up and begin drifting again.”

“No, you don’t,” returned Frank; “that is,” he laughed, “not unless
you’re tired of this Ophir bunch and want to get away from us.”

“I don’t want to stick around and sponge a living off you fellows.”

“Never mind that, Darrel. If you’re around, we’ll make you work.
Perhaps we can do something to wipe out that forgery business.”

“That’s a large order,” said Darrel gloomily. “I doubt if I ever get
to the bottom of that.”

“Well, consider this,” pursued Merry. “Isn’t it possible that the skunk
who put up that robbery dodge on you may have had something to do with
the forging of that check?”

“Why, yes, it’s possible. But who was back of the robbery? Ballard and
Fritz couldn’t see who the fellow was.”

“We didn’t produce all our evidence, in clearing you, for the good
and sufficient reason that we didn’t want to bear down too hard on
Jode—just at present. We may need him in our business later.”

“Jode?” echoed Darrel wonderingly. “What has he to——”

“When the money was found by Ballard,” broke in Frank, “it was wrapped
in a handkerchief. That handkerchief had been to the laundry, and there
were two initials marked on the hem. Show him the initials, Pink.”

Ballard took the soiled handkerchief from his pocket, ran the hem
through his fingers, and then showed a section of it to Darrel. The
initials, “J.  L.,” were in plain evidence.

“Well, strike me lucky!” muttered Darrel. “So it was Jode! Still,” he
added, “you wouldn’t call that evidence conclusive, would you?”

“Mighty strong,” put in Ballard, “even if not conclusive. But there’s
other evidence, Darrel. Lenning knew the combination of the safe and
was in Gold Hill on the night of the robbery. He said he wasn’t at the
house, but—well, maybe that was a lie.”

“Suppose,” remarked Merry, “Lenning was at the house, and saw you
there? That’s possible, isn’t it? Then suppose that he hatched up
this little scheme of taking the money, after finding the knife you
carelessly left behind. There’s the colonel’s evidence against
you—mighty good evidence, and all manufactured!”

“Those are suppositions,” said Darrel, “and it’s evidence in black and
white that we ought to have, in a matter of this kind.”

“Sure,” agreed Merry, “and that’s the reason we didn’t show the
handkerchief to the colonel, or spout any of our theories. He’s all
wrapped up in Lenning, and wouldn’t believe anything against him.”

“There’s something else that makes me feel positive that it was Lenning
who brought the money into the gulch last night,” said Ballard. “As the
fellow came along, Fritz and I heard a sort of tinkling sound like bits
of metal striking together. It was mighty faint, but we heard it. Now,
that fancy hat of Lenning’s, I noticed yesterday, has bits of silver
dangling from the brim, allee same Mexicano. Don’t you think——”

“Pink,” cried Merry enthusiastically, “you’re a born detective! By
thunder, this last clew of yours is the best of the lot. It was Lenning
who worked that game on Darrel, no two ways about it. Eh, Darrel?”

“Looks that way,” answered Darrel cautiously, “but we can’t be sure.
Jode may have learned that I had come back, and possibly that scared
him, so he tried to do me up with that supposed robbery.”

“Why was he scared?” demanded Merriwell. “It was because he evolved
the notion that you were back to look into that forgery matter. And
that wouldn’t scare him unless he had had a finger in it. Jode Lenning
is our mark! We’ll keep after him until we clear you, Darrel. While
we’re getting the football squad in shape here, we’ll do a little
gum-shoe work on the side, and see if we can’t give you a clear title
to the colonel’s friendship. How’s that?”

“I don’t know what I can ever do to square things with you fellows,”
murmured Darrel, “but it was certainly a lucky day for me when I found
Ophirites, instead of Gold Hillers, at Tinaja Wells!”

“Can that!” grunted Clancy. “You’re one of us, Darrel, and, like the
Musketeers, with Chip and his chums, it’s ‘one for all, and all for
one.’ And Darrel’s a chum, eh, Chip?”

“Just as long as he wants to be,” answered Merriwell heartily.




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                        GERMANY VERSUS MEXICO.


“I say, Chip! For the love of Mike come up on the mesa! There’s
something going on up there that would give a cast-iron cat a
conniption fit.”

It was afternoon in the camp at Tinaja Wells. All the Ophir squad
of football players had been taken up Mohave Cañon by Handy, the
captain, on a hike. Only a camp guard consisting of Merriwell, Ballard,
Clancy, and their new chum, Ellis Darrel, had been left behind. Fritz
Gesundheit, the fat German cook, and Silva, the Mexican packer and camp
roustabout, had not gone up the cañon, having nothing to do with the
Ophir eleven, but they had vanished from the flat soon after a dozen
lads, in running togs, had trotted out of sight. Professor Phineas
Borrodaile, whose duties as tutor for Merry and his chums were over
for the day, had gone off somewhere on a geological excursion. Clancy
also had strolled off, but suddenly he reappeared in camp, his freckled
face red with suppressed mirth. He was scarcely able to talk, but as he
reeled around and gasped for breath he managed to make his request for
the others to go back with him to the mesa.

Merriwell, Ballard, and Darrel jumped up from the shade of the
cottonwood where they had been sitting and stared at the red-headed
chap in amazement. Clancy, unable to control himself, leaned weakly
against the trunk of the cottonwood and laughed until he choked.

“What the mischief ails you, Clan?” demanded Merry.

“Where’d you get the funny powder, anyhow?” inquired Ballard.

“Pass the joke around, pard,” urged Darrel.

With a violent effort Clancy managed to smother his hilarity.

“Carrots and Hot Tamale have got the athletic bug,” explained Clancy,
“and the stunts they’re doing on the mesa would bring tears to a pair
of glass eyes. One is trying to make a better showing than the other,
and, if I’m any prophet, they’ll get to slugging before they’re many
minutes older.”

The campers had not only given Fritz the nickname of “Carrots” but they
had also dubbed Silva the “Hot Tamale.”

“We don’t want those two fellows to get to hammering each other,”
Merriwell remarked. “Ever since Carrots took the Mexican’s place as
cook there’s been bad blood between those two.”

“What would we do for our meals,” asked Ballard anxiously, “if Hot
Tamale put Carrots in the hospital?”

“You’re always thinking of the eats,” grinned Clancy. “But never mind
that, Pink. Come on up, all of you, and see the circus. We’ll hide and
watch ’em, and if they get to using their fists, we can interfere.”

The lads started forthwith for the low bank of the mesa, just back of
the camp, hurrying along after the excited Clancy.

“Fat Fritz must have another delusion,” observed Ballard. “Yesterday
it was buried treasure, and to-day it’s athletics. But who’d ever have
thought that Silva could catch the athletic fever?”

“I thought he was too much of a mañana boy to catch anything but the
measles,” laughed Darrel. “I’ll bet a bunch of mazuma Hot Tamale is
going in for athletics just because he wants to beat out Carrots at the
same game.”

“That’s the only reason,” Merriwell answered. “One of them can’t bear
to see the other try anything without trying it himself.”

Carefully the lads crept up the slope of the mesa and, from behind a
screen of rocks, looked out on the athletic field. They took one long
look and then doubled down behind the bowlders to laugh.

Fritz and Silva had raided the camp equipment for a couple of gymnasium
suits. Probably they had not been able to choose their costumes with
discrimination, but had been obliged to annex the first outfits that
came to hand. Yet, be that as it might, each presented a picture that,
to use Ballard’s words, would have made “a horse laugh.”

The Dutch boy was too big around for his clothes and too short the
other way, while in Silva’s case the matter was exactly the reverse:
the running pants flapped distressingly about his bony shanks, while
the sleeveless shirt failed to connect with the pants by a good six
inches.

Fritz was sweating and grunting and trying to do a pole vault. The bar
was about four feet from the ground, and, from the looks of things,
seemed some three feet too high.

Silva was doing a Nautch dance in a seven-foot ring and trying to throw
a hammer. He would whirl around a dozen times or so, and then, when he
tried to let the hammer fly, was so dizzy he fell on it.

With dismal regularity Fritz would knock his shins against the bar, and
Silva would stagger and fall. Sometimes the vaulting pole would come
down and crack the Dutch boy on the head; and, as a general thing, the
Mexican would forget to let go of the hammer, and the wire would wrap
around his body and the weight would hit him in the small of the back.
These accidents, naturally, were hardly warranted to sweeten the temper
of the would-be athletes. Fritz was exploding choppy remarks, and Silva
was hissing maledictions in liquid Spanish. Finally, the inevitable
happened, and during a period of rest the two began saying things about
each other.

Fritz, sitting on the ground and more or less tangled up with the pole
and the bar, looked over at Silva. The latter had just thrown himself
to his knees, and the weight had drummed into his back with a thump
that had drawn Fritz’ attention.

“Vat you try to do mit yourselluf, you greaser lopster?” shouted the
scornful Fritz. “Dot veight iss for drowing, und not for pounding
yourselluf your ribs on. You will not make an athletic feller in a
t’ousant years.”

“_Ay de mi!_” flung back Silva, through his teeth. “You make big talk,
but you not so much. I t’row de weight before you jump de bar, dat is
cinch. _Caramba!_ You one tub, one gringo rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos! _Si_,
dat is all—rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!” Silva pushed out a hand and pointed
an insulting finger at Fritz. “Rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!” he repeated, in a
burst of fury and contempt.

“By shiminy grickeds,” fumed Fritz, “no greaser feller iss going to
call me someding like dot! I take it your hide oudt, py shinks!”

He floundered about on the ground until he had succeeded in getting to
his feet. Silva, scenting a resort to fisticuffs in the Dutch boy’s
move, likewise arose. The two, separated by perhaps a dozen feet, stood
glaring at each other.

“Lopster!” taunted Fritz, “greaser lopster!”

“_Gringo chingado!_” screeched Silva. “Rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!”

Fritz picked up the bar and started toward the Mexican. Somehow, the
bar got between his fat legs and he tripped himself and again went
down. Silva, still holding the hammer, made a defensive movement with
it, and the weight swung back against one of his knees. With a howl of
pain he dropped the hammer and fell to rubbing his kneecap.

“I tell you vat I do, py shiminy Grismus!” wheezed Fritz, once more
getting erect and kicking the bar angrily to one side. “I kick you mit
der footpall. Der vone vat kicks der pall farder as der oder feller iss
der pest man, hey?”

“I keek, or I fight, or I t’row de weight, or I jump,” yelled Silva.
“What I care, huh? I beat you at ever’t’ing.”

“Talk,” returned Fritz, “iss der cheapest ding vat iss. Ve kick each
odder mit der footpall, und I send him sky-high und make you feel like
t’irty cents. Fairst I kick, den you. I peen der pest kicker vat efer
habbened. Vatch a leetle.”

Merry and his friends, behind the pile of rocks at the edge of the
mesa, had been enjoying themselves hugely. They had thought, for a few
moments, that the time had come for them to interfere and stop a fight,
and it was with a good deal of satisfaction that they saw a personal
encounter give way to a kicking match.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Merriwell, watching while Fritz stepped to
one side and picked up a football, “they’ve got our best five-dollar
pigskin. Those fellows must be given to understand that they can’t
tamper with our football equipment.”

“See this out first, Chip,” pleaded Ballard. “Don’t interfere until
the kicking match is over with. Look at Fritz, will you. From the
preparations he’s making you’d think he was going to kick the ball
clear into the middle of next week.”

Very carefully Fritz was heaping up a little pile of sand; then, still
with the same elaborate care, he stood the ball on this mound, drew
back, and swung his foot. Once, twice, the foot went back and forth;
the third time, Fritz nerved himself for a supreme attempt. One would
have thought he was making ready to kick in the side of a house.
Forward flew the foot, missed the ball altogether, and the kicker came
down on his back.

A cackle of insulting laughter came from the Mexican.
“Rhi-rhi-no-cer-oos!” he taunted. “Dat is not de way I make de keek.
Watch, and you see.”

With that Silva ran at the ball and lifted it high and far. No doubt it
was an accident, but it made Fritz green with envy.

“I can do petter as dot!” he shouted. “Vait, now, vile I haf some
shances mit it!”

Silva, however, wouldn’t wait. Fired with his initial success, he ran
after the ball and lifted it again before Fritz could come near enough
to kick. The ardor of the Mexican took him and the ball off the mesa
and southward along the high, steep wall of the cañon, below Tinaja
Wells. Fritz was in hot pursuit, and Frank and his chums came out from
behind the bowlders and hurried along after the Dutch boy in order to
see the outcome of the one-sided “match.”

Silva, the bounding ball, and Fritz were lost in the rough country
adjacent to the cañon’s brink; and when the trailers had come up with
the Dutchman and the Mexican they found the two locked in a deadly
struggle.

Silva, it seems, had kicked the ball into the cañon, and while he was
peering over the rim looking for it, fat Fritz had overhauled him and,
in his wrath, had gone for him hammer and tongs.

While Merriwell, Ballard, and Darrel were separating the combatants,
Clancy was kneeling on the rim rock and peering downward in an attempt
to locate the ball. Suddenly he got up and whirled around.

“Here’s a go!” he exclaimed. “A five-dollar ball has gone to blazes,
Chip. It’s about thirty feet down a sheer wall, on a bit of a shelf.
We’ll have to sprout wings before we ever get hold of that ball again.
You’ll have to dock Carrots’ and Hot Tamale’s wages for the price of
it.”

A howl of protest went up from Fritz and Silva.




                             CHAPTER XIV.

                        AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


“Keep these scrappers apart, Pink, you and Darrel,” said Merry, moving
over to Clancy’s side. “If that ball is only thirty feet away, Clan,”
he added to his red-headed chum, “we’ll be able to get it, all right.”

“I don’d pay for nodding,” puffed the enraged Fritz. “Dot greaser
feller kicked him ofer, und you vill take der money oudt oof der pay
vat comes py him.”

“_Diablo!_” snapped Silva. “Dat Dutchmans get de ball from de camp—I no
get him. Take dat dinero out of me, and I quit _muy pronto_.”

“You peen some pad eggs,” wheezed Fritz, “und I preak your face in!”

“Yah, yah, yah!” taunted the Mexican. “You not able to break de face
in.”

Ballard and Darrel, enjoying the situation more than they cared to show
before Fritz and Silva, clung to the two would-be sluggers and held
them apart. Merriwell, on his knees at the rim of the cañon, turned to
look around at the Dutch boy and the Mexican.

“Cut out this fighting,” said he sternly. “The one that strikes the
first blow will have the five dollars taken out of his pay. Keep hands
off of each other and neither of you will have to pay a cent if the
ball is lost. Understand that, Fritz? And you, Silva?”

The warlike ardor of the two was appreciably lessened. Fritz ceased his
floundering struggles to get at the Mexican, and Silva suddenly grew
docile. Merry’s threat was a master stroke.

“Let them go, fellows,” went on Merry, smothering a desire to laugh.
“You and Silva go back to camp, Fritz, and if you’re not peaceable,
just remember that your pay will be docked. And hereafter leave our
athletic equipment alone. I don’t object to your doing a little
training—in fact, I think it would be a good thing for each of you—but
when you go at it again you’d better have an instructor. I’ll be glad
to put you through a course of sprouts any time you feel the need of
it.”

Without indulging in any remarks, Fritz and Silva started off in the
direction of the mesa and the camp. They did not travel in company but
straggled along at a distance from each other. As soon as they were out
of sight, Ballard turned around with a laugh.

“That five-dollar play of yours, Chip,” said he, “was a winner. Fritz
is a tightwad, and Silva pinches a dollar till he makes the eagle
squeal. They’ll be peaceable for a while, take it from me.”

“How about the ball, Chip?” inquired Darrel, hastening to join the two
on the edge of the cañon wall.

“There it is,” Merry answered, pointing downward.

The wall was a sheer drop, and the ball could be seen lying on a narrow
shelf at least thirty feet below. A small bowlder lay near the edge of
the shelf, and the oval had been caught between that and the clifflike
wall from which the shelf projected. Below the shelf was another fall
of thirty or forty feet to the bottom of the cañon.

“How the mischief do you suppose the ball happened to lodge there?”
inquired Clancy. “If it had been kicked over the cliff, I should think
it would have fallen too far out to hit the shelf.”

“Probably,” Merriwell suggested, “it just rolled over the rim and
dropped straight down. Anyhow, there it is, and it’s up to us to get
it.”

Darrel straightened on his knees and looked around him at the lay of
the land adjacent to the brink.

“It’s easy enough to get the ball, fellows,” said he. “There’s a
paloverde, just back of us, growing in the edge of that clump of
greasewood. We can splice a couple of reatas, hitch one end to the
paloverde, and I can shin down and be back with the ball in no time.”

“Where’ll we get the reatas?” returned Clancy. “I’ve got one, but it’s
a scant thirty feet long. Fritz—darn him!—cut off a piece of it the
other day to use for something or other.”

“As far as that goes,” put in Merry, “I guess we could pick up an extra
piece of rope around the camp. But maybe we won’t have to try this
reata business. Get some sticks and let’s see if we can’t dislodge the
ball and knock it into the bottom of the cañon.”

They gathered pieces of dried timber and rained them down on the shelf.
Several clubs reached the ball, but the bowlder held it firmly.

“No earthly use,” said Ballard. “The pigskin is wedged there as though
it was in a vise.”

“Thou art so near, and yet so far!” hummed Clancy, staring down at the
ball. “I wonder,” he continued, “if we couldn’t come up from below? The
cliff doesn’t seem so steep under the shelf.”

“I was thinking of that, Clan,” Merry answered.

“It won’t take me more than half an hour to scare up that reata and an
extra piece of rope,” said Darrel. “I reckon the spliced ropes are our
best bet, Chip.”

Merry had been taking stock of the cliff face above the shelf. Wind and
weather had worn it smooth and slippery, and there was not a projection
in the whole thirty feet from the brink to the shelf which a climber
could use in getting back to the top of the wall.

“Strikes me,” said Merry, “it’s a difficult job, not to say dangerous.
How are you on the climb, Darrel?”

“Well,” he admitted, “I can throw a rope a heap better than I can climb
one, but I’ll gamble my spurs I can come over that thirty feet of wall
without much trouble.”

“It’s as smooth as glass,” remarked Ballard. “All your weight would be
on your arms from the moment you left the shelf—you couldn’t use your
feet at all.”

“My arms would stand it.”

“Suppose you had the ball under one arm, Curly?” Clancy queried.

“What’s the matter with kicking the ball into the cañon?” returned
Darrel. “I wouldn’t have to tote it back.”

“That’s right, too,” said Clancy.

“Before we try the rope trick, Darrel,” spoke up Merry, rising to his
feet, “we’ll go back to camp; come down the cañon and see if the wall
under the shelf can’t be scaled.”

“It can’t,” asserted Darrel, with conviction. “I can see enough of it
from here to make me sure of that.”

“We’ll look over the ground from below, anyhow,” said Merriwell. “Come
on, fellows; there’s no use hanging around here.”

“Wait a minute, Chip,” called Ballard, who was still standing at the
cañon’s brink. “There’s a man on a horse coming up the gulch. Wonder if
he’s bound for Tinaja Wells? I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’ve a notion
the rider is Colonel Hawtrey.”

At this Darrel whirled with a muttered exclamation and peered down at
the white streak of trail angling back and forth among the trees and
masses of bowlders. The horseman was proceeding slowly northward, his
head bowed in deep thought. In a few moments he would be abreast of
the lads on the top of the wall, and almost under the shelf.

“It _is_ the colonel!” muttered Darrel, in an odd, strained voice. “Why
do you suppose he’s riding this way? I’ll take my solemn Alfred he’s
bound for our camp.”

“Don’t be too sure of it, old man,” said Merriwell. “He pulled out with
the Gold Hillers early this morning to see them safely settled in a
camp of their own. That bunch went south, didn’t they? Well, it stands
to reason that the colonel has to come this way in order to get back to
Gold Hill.”

“No, Chip,” disagreed Darrel, “the colonel’s easiest course to
Gold Hill from below Tinaja Wells would be by the other trail from
Dolliver’s. He’s got business at our camp, and that’s the reason he’s
coming this way. Maybe,” and Darrel’s face filled with foreboding,
“what he’s got in mind has something to do with me.”

“Don’t be in a taking about it, Darrel,” Merriwell answered, laying
a hand on his new chum’s shoulder. “It’s a cinch that anything the
colonel may have in his mind can’t hurt you. If he’s going to be a
visitor, we’d better go down and see what he wants.”

Without delaying further, the boys started on their return to camp. In
spite of Merriwell’s reassuring words, however, the troubled look did
not leave Darrel’s face.




                              CHAPTER XV.

                          TRUE SPORTSMANSHIP.


When Merriwell and his friends reached the flat they found Colonel
Hawtrey sitting on a bench under a cottonwood. His horse, with reins
hanging from the bit rings, stood a little way off. It was evident that
the colonel intended making his visit brief.

As the boys approached, the colonel arose from the bench. His eyes met
Darrel’s for a moment, and then swerved abruptly to Merriwell.

“I’d like a few words with you, Merriwell,” said he.

“Can’t you stay with us for a while, colonel?” Merry inquired. “We’d be
delighted to have you take supper and——”

“I thank you for the invitation,” he broke in, “but I must be back in
Gold Hill to-night. I came the cañon trail purposely to speak with you.”

The others withdrew, Darrel with a lingering look of apprehension at
Merriwell.

“Sit down here,” invited the colonel, resuming his place on the bench.
“You don’t smoke, of course,” he went on, taking a cigar from his
pocket when he and Frank were seated, “for, if you did, you wouldn’t
be following the footsteps of your father before you.” He scratched a
match thoughtfully and applied it to the tip of the cigar. “‘Chip,’
they call you, eh?” he proceeded presently, with the hint of a smile
under his gray mustache. “I suppose that means that you’re a ‘chip of
the old block’?”

“That’s where the nickname comes from, colonel,” young Merriwell
answered, with a laugh.

“I don’t know your father personally,” said the colonel, with some
enthusiasm, “but I have seen him on several occasions, both in the East
and at his T Bar Ranch in Wyoming. I have also heard a great deal about
him. I reckon he typifies everything a man can express in the term true
sportsmanship.”

“Thank you, colonel,” answered Frank. “Dad is all you think him—and
more.”

“If you’re a chip of the old block, you ought to stand for all that
your father stands for.”

“Why, yes,” said the puzzled youngster, “as well as I can.”

“Well,” continued Colonel Hawtrey, “I’ve stopped here this afternoon to
appeal to you as a true sportsman, and as a son of the Frank Merriwell
I have seen a few times and of whom I have heard so much.”

He paused. Frank was already over his head wondering what the colonel
was trying to get at. He said nothing, but waited respectfully for the
other to broach the subject he had in mind.

“As you doubtless know,” remarked the colonel, “I founded the Gold Hill
Athletic Club, and have been its best patron during the few years it
has been in existence. Some people say”—and he smiled slightly—“that
I am cracked on the subject of athletics. It’s a hobby with me, for I
believe that, rightly directed, sports of the track and field do more
to develop properly a young man’s character than anything else in the
world. On the other hand, if wrongly directed they are a source of
much harm. Just at the present time, and much as I regret to say it,
the club at Ophir and the one at Gold Hill are heading in the wrong
direction.

“A bitter partisan spirit has crept into the competitions between
the two clubs. Some of the members—I won’t say all of them—have
proved that they are not good losers. Rancor has shown its ugly head,
Merriwell. I think that you, more than any one else, can help to foster
a different spirit between the clubs.”

Frank tried to speak, but the colonel lifted his hand.

“Just a moment, my lad,” said he. “I want to place the whole matter
frankly before you, and then get your sentiments regarding it.
You don’t belong in Ophir any more than you do in Gold Hill. As I
understand it, you are in Ophir only temporarily, and Bradlaugh,
president of the Ophir club, got you to coach the Ophir eleven for the
coming Thanksgiving Day game with Gold Hill. This is all right, and
Bradlaugh is to be congratulated. I believe that you will give Ophir
a good team, perhaps a winning team. In the interests of true sport I
wish you every success. For the past two years Gold Hill has had nearly
everything its own way—too much so, for sharp competition is the life
of athletic sports; it’s the only thing that brings out the best that
is in us.

“I have heard, with much regret, that there was almost a clash between
the two clubs when Gold Hill, by mistake, came here to claim this
camping site. This is all wrong, and not at all as it should be. Sport
is bound to suffer if the hard feeling is not done away with.

“Now, you have befriended Ellis Darrel. So far, Merriwell, it has been
commendable in you to take his part as you have done. I am hoping that
your friendship will do much for the boy. Although personally I am done
with him, yet I cannot forget that he is my sister’s son. I confess an
interest in him on that account. But I wish to warn you against letting
Darrel prejudice you against his half brother, Jode Lenning. Jode is a
dutiful nephew in every way, and, above and beyond that, he is a true
sportsman.” The colonel paused, then added impressively: “I know Jode
better than any one else, and I assure you that what I say is true. I
am an old man, Merriwell, and I have been for years in the military
service of my country. I want you to believe that my judgment is sound,
and I want you to accept Jode as I know him, and not as Darrel may
offer him to you.”

“Colonel,” said Merry, “Ellis Darrel has said nothing against his half
brother that would cause me to take a different estimate of him than
you wish me to have.”

“Then I am to presume that your estimate is favorable? If anything is
done to wipe out the bitterness between the two clubs, there is the
point where the work must begin.”

Merriwell’s estimate of Jode Lenning was a good way from being
favorable. The sly trick by which Lenning had tried to get possession
of the camping ground at Tinaja Wells was well known to Merry and to
all the Ophir fellows. Had not the colonel been so completely dominated
by Lenning’s influence, he would have seen and recognized that trick
himself. Furthermore, it was Merry’s settled conviction that Lenning
had tried to involve Darrel in that theft of the thousand dollars; and
Merry had a belief that, when the bottom of the forgery affair was
reached, Lenning would be found to have had a hand in that.

But what good would it have done to tell all this to Colonel Hawtrey?
He would merely have thought that Frank had been influenced by Darrel
against Lenning. Besides, Frank had no proof in black and white
connecting Lenning with the robbery, and only a suspicion of him in the
matter of the forgery.

“I have tried to do what I could to patch up the differences between
Ophir and Gold Hill, colonel,” said Frank, “and I’m willing to keep on
trying. I believe I can promise that the Ophir fellows will show the
right spirit, if you and Lenning can induce the Gold Hill club to meet
them halfway.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the colonel, with deep satisfaction, “there you have
it! Now we’re getting together in the right sort of style. My lads have
found a most excellent camp in a gulch leading off Mohave Cañon, below
here. They have a mile of deep water which serves admirably for water
sports, and all they lack is a mesa like yours for an athletic field.
Some of them are now clearing brush from a patch of desert for their
football practice. Now,” and the colonel gave a winning smile, “why
can’t the Ophirites and the Gold Hillers be neighborly? Why can’t you
visit back and forth and have pleasant little contests of one kind and
another? That need not interfere very much with your football work, and
ought to afford an agreeable change in the monotony of camp life. It’s
about eight miles to Camp Hawtrey, as the boys call their place, if you
go through the cañon and the gulch, but across country it’s hardly more
than half that. How does the proposition strike you, Merriwell?”

“First-rate,” Frank answered. “We Ophir fellows wouldn’t like anything
better. That stretch of water, over at Camp Hawtrey, would be a fine
place for boat races—and we haven’t any such layout here.”

“Exactly!” beamed the colonel. “I should be delighted to come out from
town and see some of your contests. A friendly rivalry, Merriwell, will
go far toward inculcating a different spirit between the clubs. Eh?
I’m more than obliged to you for meeting my advances in the matter so
agreeably. Jode is coming over here this afternoon to get an expression
from you relative to a football game for to-morrow, or next day. What
are the prospects?”

“Good, I should say,” said Frank. “I’ll broach the matter to Handy as
soon as he gets back from up the cañon.”

“That’s the talk!” cried the colonel enthusiastically.

Merriwell was more than pleased with Colonel Hawtrey’s suggestion for
a series of competitions between the two camps. Incidentally, if the
contests were conducted in the right spirit, they would go far toward
healing old wounds. Mainly, however, Merriwell wanted to come into
closer contact with Jode Lenning, and see what he could discover, if
anything, that would prove a benefit to Ellis Darrel. These proposed
contests could not but help him in this desire.

The colonel, having achieved the purpose that brought him to Tinaja
Wells, got up from the bench in high, good humor.

“You are really a chip of the old block, Merriwell,” he laughed, “and
it’s something for you to be proud of.”

Merry thought he might take advantage of the colonel’s amiable nature
at that moment and do a little something for his new chum.

“Have you any word to leave for Ellis Darrel, colonel?” he asked.

The good humor left the other’s face. He straightened his shoulders
stiffly and his eyes narrowed under a black frown.

“The one word I have for Darrel,” said he harshly, “is this: that he
keep away from me. If he’s got it in him, he’ll live down the past; if
he hasn’t, he’ll go to the dogs. I shall be glad to learn that he’s
making something of himself, but—but I never want to see him again.”

There was sadness in the colonel’s voice as he spoke, but sternness
and determination were there, as well. Frank’s heart grew heavy as he
watched the colonel pull the reins over the head of his horse and swing
up into the saddle.

“Good-by, Merriwell,” he called, waving his hat as he rode off the flat
and headed northward along the cañon trail.

“Lenning has the old boy right under his thumb,” Merriwell muttered, as
he turned away.

Ballard, Clancy, and Darrel had disappeared. Merry asked Fritz about
them, and was told that Ballard and Clancy had gone down the cañon to
see if they couldn’t get up to the shelf and recover the football; but
where Darrel was, Fritz did not know.

“He’s probably with Ballard and Clancy,” said Frank. “Keep away from
Silva, Fritz, if you don’t want to get fined!”

“Dot greaser feller,” answered Fritz scornfully, “ain’d vort’ fife
cents, say nodding aboudt fife tollar. You bed my life I leaf him
alone.”

Frank, hastily leaving the camp, made his way down the cañon to do what
he could to help recover the lost football.




                             CHAPTER XVI.

                          A TERRIBLE MISHAP.


Merriwell found Ballard and Clancy surveying the cliff from a spot
almost under the shelf where the football had lodged. That they were
extremely dubious about recovering it from below was evident from their
actions.

“Here’s Chip, Pink,” said Clancy; “perhaps his eagle eye can pick out a
trail up the side of that wall.”

“If it can,” returned Ballard, “Chip’s entitled to a leather medal.”

“Where’s Darrel, fellows?” was Merriwell’s first question when he
reached the side of his chums.

“Search me,” answered Clancy, in some surprise. “He was back there on
the flat when Pink and I left.”

“Probably he ducked into one of the tents,” said Ballard. “The look
Hawtrey gave him, there under the cottonwood, was enough to make
almost anybody squirm away and get out of sight. Holy smoke, but that
colonel’s a cold-blooded proposition!”

“Darn shame, too, the way he hands it to Darrel,” growled Clancy. “Jode
Lenning’s a skunk—any one can see that with half an eye—yet here the
old colonel coddles up to Lenning and throws a frost into Darrel every
time he gets the chance. Hawtrey must be dippy. What was the chin-chin
all about, Chip?”

Merriwell repeated the gist of the colonel’s remarks.

“Listen to that!” exclaimed Clancy. “So he thinks Lenning is a true
sportsman, does he? How do you suppose Lenning manages to pull the wool
over his eyes?”

“Because he’s slick, and hasn’t any scruples to amount to anything,”
said Ballard; “that’s how.”

“I don’t think we ought to have anything to do with Lenning and that
bunch of his, Chip,” declared the red-headed boy wrathfully. “Because
Lenning has the colonel landed and strung, that’s no sign we should let
him repeat the operation with us.”

“Why, you old lobster,” said Merry, with a laugh, “the landing and
stringing is to be the other way around. How are we going to help
Darrel unless we can get close to Lenning? Don’t be so thick, Clan. No
matter what our convictions are, can’t you see that we haven’t an atom
of proof against Lenning? It’s easy enough to call him a skunk, but the
next thing is to prove it.”

“Chip’s right,” said Ballard, “we’ve got to get the goods on Lenning.
That’s the only way we can help Darrel. And how are we to get the goods
on him if we don’t have anything to do with him or the Gold Hillers? If
we have a series of contests with that rival camp, it will give us a
tiptop chance to find out a few things about Lenning.”

“Sure thing,” said Frank. “Furthermore, if we take up these contests in
the right spirit, there’s no reason on earth why Ophir and Gold Hill
can’t come to be friends as well as rivals.”

“But the colonel is off his trolley about one thing, Chip,” put in
Clancy, “and that is that Lenning is a power for peace on the other
side. Simmer the business right down, and I’ll bet you find that
Lenning is the biggest trouble maker in the Gold Hill crowd.”

“I think so myself, Clan,” said Merry, “but I haven’t any cold facts to
prove it. Let’s get the facts, and then we can talk to some purpose.”

“That’s the idea!” agreed Ballard. “I’m glad we’re going to have a
little preliminary try-out with Gold Hill on the gridiron. We’ll be
able to see just how good they are, and can go after some of their weak
points.”

Merriwell grinned.

“Strikes me, Pink,” said he, “that they’re thinking exactly the same
thing about us. But we’d better cut out this powwow and see what we can
do to get our hands on that ball.”

Merry drew back and passed a swift, keen glance over the face of the
cañon wall. What he saw was not at all reassuring. There were a number
of projections, below that upper shelf where the ball had lodged, but
at its base the cliff sloped inward instead of outward. To scale the
lower twenty feet of wall a fellow would have to cling to the rocks,
like a fly to the ceiling.

“We could use wings to better advantage from down here, Chip,” observed
Clancy, “than from the top of the cliff.”

“If a fellow could get over that first stretch of twenty or twenty-five
feet,” mused Merriwell, studying the wall, “he would have tolerably
clear sailing from that point to the top shelf. There are plenty of
bushes and projections to help in the climbing, and the wall has a bit
of a slope in the right direction. By Jove!” he suddenly exclaimed, “I
believe I see a way to make it.”

“Don’t take any chances, Chip,” urged Ballard anxiously. “The foot of
the wall is covered with stones, and it would be a bad place to take a
drop.”

“It would be a drop too much,” punned Clancy, “and you know what that
does to a fellow, Chip.”

“I don’t intend to take a drop,” answered Merriwell, walking down the
cañon for about twenty feet and then turning directly toward the cliff.

At that point the inward slope of the wall was not so pronounced, and
there was a fissure, with a projecting lower lip, angling across the
face of the rocks, its upper end clearing the bad bit of wall under the
shelf which it was necessary to gain.

“Going to try to climb up that crack, Chip?” yelled Ballard.

“Why not?” was the cool response. “It leads to a place where climbing
is easy.”

“Stop it!” whooped Ballard. “You’re crazy to think of such a thing!
You’ll tumble off the rocks just as sure as the world.”

“Come on back, Chip!” called Clancy. “The pesky old ball isn’t worth
it.”

“Keep your shirts on, both of you,” was the calmly confident reply.
“I’m not such a fool as to risk my neck for a five-dollar ball.”

Nevertheless, to Ballard and Clancy that seemed exactly what Merriwell
was about to do. They watched him, almost holding their breath.

With a little spring, Merriwell landed on the lower edge of the
fissure. Less than three feet above him was the overhang. This overhang
came close to the shelf below at a distance of four yards upward in its
oblique course, and at that place the lower lip of the fissure began to
jut out and afford a foothold.

Slowly, digging into crevices with his toes and reaching for others
with his hands, Frank began traversing the crack in the wall. Once his
foot slipped, and both lads who were watching gave vent to a yell of
fright.

“My nerves are all shot to pieces, Chip,” shouted Clancy. “Next time
you do a thing like that I’ll throw a fit.”

Frank clung to his place and turned to look smilingly down at his chums.

“Rot!” said he. “Why, fellows, this is as easy as pie.”

He climbed on, crouching lower and lower as the overhang descended
toward the shelf below. Presently he was in the narrowest part, hanging
to the steep slope of the lower lip of the crevice and compelled to
drop on all fours in order to keep inside of it.

“You can’t make yourself thin enough to get through it,” shouted
Ballard discouragingly. “Ten feet farther up, Chip, the crack isn’t
wide enough for a chipmunk.”

“It looks a whole lot harder from down there,” Frank called back, “than
it does from here. When I get to that narrow place, I’ll step out and
walk around it.”

“Yes, you will! You’ll play the deuce trying that. I think——”

What Ballard thought did not appear. Just at that moment, he and Clancy
heard a swishing sound which attracted their eyes to the wall above the
shelf. Exclamations of astonishment escaped them. A rope had dropped
its length downward from above, and there, on the very crest of the
cliff, the rope in his hands, sat Darrel!

“What’s going on down there, pards?” yelled Darrel.

“Chip’s trying to break his neck walking a rock tight rope,” Clancy
answered, making a trumpet of his hands.

“This is my job,” whooped Darrel, “and I don’t think it’s fair for Chip
to cut me out of it. Tell him to come down. In about two shakes I’ll be
kicking the ball off the shelf and right into your hands.”

“Is that Darrel up there?” Frank asked.

“Sure it’s Darrel, Chip,” replied Ballard. “He’s got a rope hitched to
the paloverde, and is all ready to come down.”

“Tell him I can get the ball easier than he can, and for him to pull up
the rope and give me a chance at it.”

Darrel heard the words, and did not put those below to the trouble of
repeating them.

“No, you don’t, Chip!” he shouted. “If you’re climbing up to the shelf,
go back down to the foot of the wall. I’ll have the ball before you can
come anywhere near it.”

There was finality in Darrel’s voice, and Frank knew it was useless to
argue with him.

“Wait!” he cried. “Don’t slide down, Darrel, until I get to the bottom
of the wall. Will you wait?”

“Sure I’ll wait. I’ll give you all the chance you want to see the
performance.”

Frank went down the fissure much faster than he had climbed up, and
without a mishap of any kind had soon regained the bottom of the cañon.
Making his way to where Ballard and Clancy were standing, he turned his
eyes upward. Darrel waved his hat to him.

“So that’s what you were up to, eh?” called Frank. “Why didn’t you tell
us what you were about and we could have helped you get the ropes.”

“I don’t think you would,” came the laughing reply from Darrel. “You
thought the work was too dangerous. Here I come!”

He swung half around, preparatory to lowering himself.

“Better wait until a couple of us come up there, Darrel!” Frank called.

“Don’t need anybody. You can’t see the paloverde, as it’s screened by
the greasewood, but you can gamble that I tied the rope good and hard.
Now, watch!”

Thereupon Darrel lowered himself down and was presently swinging
against the smooth wall. He was agile enough, and twisted one leg
around the dangling rope and slid slowly toward the shelf. Then,
when he was some ten feet above the shelf, a most horrifying thing
happened. Before he could cry out, or make any move to save himself if
that had been possible, he dropped like a stone to the ledge, struck
heavily upon his side, lengthwise of his body, rolled off limply, fell
sprawling to a jutting bowlder four or five feet below and lay there,
silent and motionless. A scraggly tree, growing from a crevice among
the stones, was all that held him from dropping to the foot of the
cliff!

The rope, strangely separated at the loop which had coiled around
the paloverde, fell writhing through the air, pulled itself out
of Darrell’s nerveless hand, and dropped at the feet of the three
horror-stricken lads below.




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                           A DARING RESCUE.


A yell of consternation broke from Clancy’s lips. Merriwell and Ballard
were silent. With white, drawn faces and wide, staring eyes, all three
of the boys stood as though rooted to the ground.

The accident had happened so suddenly that those below were stunned. It
took them a few moments to realize the awful thing that had occurred.
Frank was the first to break the thrall of inaction that bound them.

“He can’t be badly hurt, fellows!” he called. “It wasn’t much of a
fall—about ten feet to the ledge and four or five feet from the ledge
to the bowlder. He’s stunned, that’s all, but worse things are likely
to happen if we don’t get him down before he begins to revive.”

“How in thunder did the rope break away from the paloverde?” cried
Ballard. “Darrel said he was careful to tie it securely, and——”

“Never mind that now, Pink,” Merriwell interrupted. “As long as
Darrel’s unconscious he won’t make a move, but when he begins to come
to himself, he’s liable to stir around. If he does that, he’s going off
that bowlder, sure!”

Certainly it was a gruesome situation for Darrel. His body hung over
the projecting bowlder, face downward, and only the tree’s twisted and
stunted trunk, rising at the bowlder’s edge, kept him from falling to
the bottom of the wall. It was a precarious support at best, however,
and the slightest move on Darrel’s part would dislodge him in spite of
the tree.

“Get him down?” breathed Ballard. “How the blazes can we do that,
Chip? The best way is to get more ropes and go down to him from the
paloverde.”

“It would take too long.” Frank, his mind working swiftly, had picked
up the end of the spliced rope and was making it fast around his waist.
“I’m going up after him,” he finished briefly, and started for the
lower end of the fissure.

If Ballard and Clancy had watched Merriwell with bated breath before,
when only the recovery of a five-dollar football was to be the result
of his dangerous climb, how much greater was their trepidation now,
when the life of a chum was at stake?

The worst feature of the nerve-racking situation for Ballard and Clancy
was this, that they were absolutely powerless to help Merriwell. No
more than one could make the climb through the fissure, and no more
than one could work around the jutting bowlder and the stunted tree.
For the lads in the bottom of the cañon, a little active work would
have loosened the tension of their taut nerves and made the situation
more endurable. There was nothing for them to do just then, however,
but to wait and watch.

The swiftness and precision with which Frank scaled the fissure aroused
the admiration of his chums, even in that breathless moment. Frank’s
brain was as cool and his nerves as steady as though life or death was
not hanging on the result of his efforts.

“Good old Merry!” whispered Ballard huskily. “He’s going as steady as a
clock, and doesn’t seem to have the least notion that Darrel may tumble
down on him at any moment.”

“Talk about your true sportsmen,” returned Clancy, “if a piece of work
like that doesn’t prove a fellow is one, then I don’t know what does.”

With the rope trailing after him and gradually paying out from the coil
below as he climbed higher and higher, Merriwell continued his rapid
ascent of the crevice. On reaching the narrow part, he shifted around
it with an agility and skill that were wonderful to see. Getting back
into the fissure again, at a point where it widened, he made his way
on hands and knees to the place directly over the point where the wall
sloped inward to the base, and began another inward slope to the shelf.

Getting out of the crevice and upon the slope was a hair-raising
performance, but Frank accomplished it successfully. Then began
the crawl from projection to projection and from one stunted bush
to another, up the face of the cliff. At last the daring youth was
directly under the bowlder and the stunted tree that supported the
unconscious form of Darrel. With his left arm over the bowlder and his
feet in crevices of the rocks, Frank began removing the rope from his
waist with his right hand.

“Good work, Chip!” shouted Ballard. “What are you going to do now? How
do you expect to get Darrel down? Can’t we do something to help?”

“Nothing you fellows can do, Ballard,” Frank answered. “I’ve got to
hang on with my eye winkers and work with one hand.”

“If Darrel should make a move,” cried Clancy, in a spasm of fear, “he’d
bring you both down!”

“I’ll have the rope around him before he moves,” was the reply.

Working with one hand, as Frank was obliged to do, it was a difficult
task to manage the rope. If the cable were dropped, all Frank’s work
would have gone for nothing, and before he could do it over again
Darrel would probably revive and slip from the bowlder.

First, Frank passed the rope around the trunk of the stunted tree. A
brief examination of the tree had convinced him that it was strongly
wedged into the rocks and could be depended upon to support Darrel’s
weight.

In getting the hempen strands around the tree, Frank was obliged to
push the rope over the trunk, then hold it in his teeth while he
withdrew his hand and passed it around the trunk a second time. Again
taking the cable in his teeth, he withdrew his hand to lay hold of it
once more. Thus he had made a half hitch around the tree and could
control the rope under the pull of a heavy weight.

His next step was to make the end of the cable fast about Darrel’s
shoulders, under the arms. This was not so difficult as the work with
the tree had been, for Darrel hung from the bowlder with head and
shoulders down.

After getting the cable about Darrel’s body, Frank used his right hand
and his teeth and rove the end into a bowline knot. Scarcely had he
accomplished this, when Darrel uttered a low groan and attempted to
shift his position. The moment he did this, he slipped from the bowlder.

A yell of horror came from Ballard and Clancy. To their frightened eyes
it looked as though both Darrel and Merriwell would be precipitated
to the bottom of the cañon. The rope, however, and Frank’s quickness
served to avert the catastrophe.

Releasing his left arm from the bowlder, Frank gripped the trailing
rope under the tree with both hands. His weight, on one side of the
dwarfed trunk, served to balance Darrel’s weight on the other side,
and the two, for a few terrible moments, swung into mid-air. Then,
carefully but as quickly as possible, Frank found fresh footholds, and
so lessened the weight on his end of the rope. Just as he had planned,
Darrel began slipping downward, the rope sliding through Frank’s hands
and around the tree trunk.

Drooping limply in the noose that encircled his body, Darrel twisted
and swayed in sickening fashion as he dropped foot by foot down the
face of the cliff. In a few minutes he had been lowered into the
outstretched arms of Ballard and Clancy, and the lads below sent up a
cheer that reverberated loudly between the cañon walls.

Frank’s descent was made safely and speedily, for he knotted the rope
around the trunk of the tree and slid down its length to the side of
his chums. Ballard had Darrel’s head on his knee, and Clancy had gone
to the creek for a capful of cold water. Merriwell, breathing heavily,
dropped down on the rocks.

“You got that rope around Darrel just in the nick of time, Chip!” said
the admiring Ballard. “If you had been a second later, Darrel would
have brought both of you down in a heap. Gee, man, but it was a close
call!”

“A miss is as good as a mile, Pink,” answered Merry.

Clancy arrived with the water and allowed it to trickle over the white,
haggard face of the unconscious lad. Darrel’s eyes flickered open,
and a haunting expression of pain was in them as they rested on his
friends. He ground his teeth to stifle a groan.

“Are you badly hurt, Darrel?” queried Frank.

“My—my left arm,” panted Darrel, “it’s broken, I think.”

With a muttered exclamation, Frank threw himself to his knees close
beside Darrel. As he lifted him by the shoulders, the left arm swung
limply and a moan was wrenched from Darrel’s lips.

“The arm is broken,” said Frank, “there’s no doubt about that. Clan,”
he added, “go to the camp for our mounts. You needn’t bring a horse for
Darrel—he can ride behind me on Borak.”

“Going to take him to Ophir?” asked Clancy, bounding to his feet and
starting up the cañon.

“No, to Dolliver’s. Hustle, old man!”

Clancy disappeared up the narrow trail at a keen run.

“I—I’ve made a monkey’s fist of this, all right,” muttered Darrel. “If
I’d left you alone, Chip, you’d have got the ball with ground to spare.
But I had to try to star myself, and this is what comes of it.”

“Don’t fret about that, old man,” said Merry. “The thing to do now is
to have the arm attended to.”

“Why don’t you take him to the camp?” asked Ballard. “We could get
there in a mighty small part of the time it would take to reach
Dolliver’s.”

“Darrel has got to have a comfortable bed, for one thing, Pink,” Merry
answered. “Mainly, though, we can use the phone from Dolliver’s and
get the doctor out from Ophir by motor car. By going to the ranch at
the mouth of the cañon, we’ll not only save time, but make Darrel more
comfortable into the bargain.”

“What happened to me?” queried Darrel, smothering his pain with a
heroic effort. “Did I drop all the way down the cliff wall? I can’t
remember a thing after hitting the shelf.”

“You rolled off the shelf and lodged on a bowlder,” Frank answered. “We
got you down by means of the rope.”

“‘We’ didn’t have a thing to do with it,” spoke up Ballard. “It was
Chip did it all, Darrel. He swarmed up the side of the cliff with the
rope, took a half hitch around a bit of a tree, and then lowered——”

“Don’t worry him with all that,” struck in Merry. “Just lie as quietly
as you can, Darrel. Here, put your head on this.”

Jerking off his coat, he rolled it up for a pillow, and Darrel was
gently lowered until he was lying at full length on the rocks. His eyes
closed. Although he made no sound, yet the contracting muscles of his
face showed that he was fighting hard with pain.

At last a clatter of hoofs announced the coming of Clancy with two led
horses. Handy and the rest had not returned from up the cañon, and
Clancy had seen nothing of Fritz, Silva, or the professor. Because of
his failure to see anybody at the camp, he had been unable to report
the accident.

“Everybody will know about it soon enough, Clan,” said Frank. “Now, you
ride on to Dolliver’s as fast as you can and use the phone. Ask Mr.
Bradlaugh to bring out the doctor in his motor car. Ballard and I will
come on with Darrel.”

“On the jump,” answered Clancy.

Merriwell took the reins of the led horses, and the red-headed chap dug
in with his heels and vanished toward the mouth of the cañon.




                            CHAPTER XVIII.

                        QUICK WORK FOR DARREL.


“There’s a little ginger left in me, pards,” murmured Darrel, sitting
up. “I’m not letting a busted wing put me down and out entirely.”

He got up slowly and stood beside Ballard.

“You’re to ride behind me, old man,” said Merriwell. “I’ll mount, Pink,
and then you help him up.”

Frank swung into the saddle, pulled the restive Borak down sharply, and
kicked a foot out of the stirrup for Darrel’s use. Darrel was game, if
ever a boy was. With a little aid from Ballard, he succeeded in getting
astride the horse, and held himself there with his right arm around
Merriwell.

“Can you hang on, Darrel?” asked Frank.

“Sure,” was the reply. “Just hurry, that’s all.”

With a shouted request for Ballard to follow, Frank headed Borak down
the gulch. Five miles lay between Tinaja Wells and the ranch at the
mouth of the cañon known as Dolliver’s. There was no horse in that part
of the country that could cover the ground more speedily than Borak.
Knowing that the ride was plain torture for Darrel, Frank sought to get
it over with as quickly as possible.

Although the broken arm swung cruelly during the rough ride, yet never
once did so much as a whimper escape Darrel’s lips. In less than
half an hour the treacherous trail was covered, and Frank drew up in
front of the ranch building. Both Dolliver and Clancy were in front
to receive the injured lad. It was well that they were there, and
ready, for no sooner had Borak been drawn to a halt than Darrel pitched
sideways from his back. He was caught in the outstretched arms of the
rancher and Clancy, and swiftly borne into the house.

Ballard came up, a moment later, and he and Frank dismounted, secured
their horses at the hitching post, and went in to learn what luck
Clancy had had with his telephoning.

“The doctor’s on the way, Chip,” said Clancy. “I got Mr. Bradlaugh
right off the reel. He said he knew the doctor was in town, and that
he would be snatching him toward Dolliver’s in less than five minutes.
That wasn’t so very long ago, though. You must have ridden like blazes
to get here so quick.”

The agony of the rapid ride down the gulch must have been intense
for Darrel. He had kept himself in hand pretty well until reaching
Dolliver’s, and then a wave of weakness had blotted out his endurance.

A bed in the main room of the ranch was ready for him, and he was
now lying in it, as comfortable as he could possibly be under the
circumstances.

“I’m putting you fellows to a heap of trouble,” remarked Darrel weakly.

“Oh, bother that!” answered Merry. “It’s mighty good to know that
you’ve come off with only a broken arm. You’ll not be laid up long, old
man.”

“I’m wondering how that rope happened to give way. It——”

“Don’t wonder about a blooming thing, Darrel. Wait till you feel
better.”

“I can’t get it out of my mind,” persisted Darrel. “Where did it break?
Did you see?”

“It broke in the place where you had it looped around the paloverde,”
said Ballard.

“Strike me lucky!” muttered Darrel, a puzzled look battling with the
pain in his face. “Why, it couldn’t have broken there! That rope was
Clan’s reata, and was as sound as any rope you ever saw.”

“That’s what happened, anyhow,” said Frank.

“I’m blamed if I can understand it!”

Frank and the other two were also at a loss to understand it. There was
certainly something queer about the breaking of that rope.

A little later, the hum of a motor car was heard along the trail.

“Mr. Bradlaugh has come over the road for a record,” remarked Clancy,
starting for the door. “But I knew he’d hit ’er up.”

When the boys reached the front of the house, the big car was just
slowing to a halt.

“Nothing but a broken arm, eh, boys?” asked Mr. Bradlaugh, as the
doctor tumbled out with his surgical case.

“That’s all, sir,” Frank answered.

“I didn’t catch the name over the phone. Whose arm was it? Not
Hannibal’s?”

“No, Darrel’s.”

Bradlaugh’s face suddenly clouded.

“That young rascal, eh?” he muttered.

Frank was quick to catch the significance of Mr. Bradlaugh’s remark.

“You know something about Ellis Darrel, Mr. Bradlaugh?” he asked.

“I know that his uncle made a home for him, treated him indulgently in
every way, and that he rewarded Hawtrey by forging his name to pay a
gambling debt. I was sorry to hear that you’d taken up with the fellow,
Merriwell, or that you were making room for him in the Ophir camp. He’s
a wild one, and won’t do any of you much good.”

Here was an impression which Frank was determined to change for one of
another sort. While Clancy and Ballard were helping the doctor set the
broken arm, and while an occasional groan of pain echoed out through
the open ranch door, Frank leaned against the side of the car and
earnestly explained a few things to Mr. Bradlaugh.

He went into the details of that thousand-dollar robbery, just as he
had done once before for the benefit of Colonel Hawtrey, and by the
time he had finished his defense of Darrel, Mr. Bradlaugh was almost
convinced that he had made a wrong estimate of “the boy from Nowhere.”

“Well, well,” smiled the president of the Ophir Athletic Club, “you’re
a red-hot champion of Darrel’s anyhow. If you’re so positive that the
boy has been a victim of some designing scoundrel, I can’t help but
think there may be some mistake about that forgery matter. Hawtrey’s a
very wealthy man, and the only ones he can leave his property to are
Jode Lenning and Ellis Darrel. If Darrel is out of it, then it all goes
to Lenning. There’s a point that demands consideration. I don’t know
much about Lenning except that he’s a pretty good sprinter, and seems
to be the apple of the colonel’s eye—now that Darrel appears to have
gone to the bad. If you think you’re doing the right thing by taking up
with Darrel, all right. I’m willing to trust to your judgment. And now,
tell me, how’s everything at Tinaja Wells?”

“Fine as silk,” Frank answered. “This accident of Darrel’s is the first
one we’ve had.”

“How did it happen?”

Frank recounted the details, in a general way, putting himself very
much in the background.

“Own up,” smiled Mr. Bradlaugh; “you’re the one who picked Darrel off
the shelf, and kept him from breaking his neck as well as his arm.
Isn’t that the size of it?”

Merriwell dodged the question as well as he could, and began telling
about Hawtrey’s visit to the camp, and his proposals. Mr. Bradlaugh was
in hearty agreement with the colonel.

“It’s up to you, boys,” said he, “to wipe out this bitterness between
the two clubs while you are out in the hills in neighboring camps. If
that’s accomplished, it will be something worth while. Remember, too,
all Ophir is counting on you to give us a winning eleven for the game
with Gold Hill.”

“I’ll do my best,” Frank answered. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Bradlaugh,
and meet Darrel?”

“He’s probably in no condition to make acquaintances now,” answered Mr.
Bradlaugh, shaking his head; “and, besides,” he added, “I’d a good deal
rather shake hands with him after you prove he’s innocent of forging
his uncle’s name.”

In an hour, the doctor’s work was finished. The broken arm had been
set and bandaged with splints, and there was an odor of drugs around
Dolliver’s and much relief and satisfaction in the minds of Frank and
his chums. There were no internal injuries, so far as the doctor could
see, and, in a month or so, Darrel was promised that he should be as
well as ever.

It was growing dark, by that time, and, as Frank knew the lads at the
camp would be wondering over the absence of most of those left on guard
duty, he and Clancy started back to Tinaja Wells shortly after Mr.
Bradlaugh had whirled away toward town with the doctor. Ballard was to
remain behind and look after Darrel.

It was eight o’clock when Merriwell and Clancy rode up on the flat and
got wearily down from their horses. As Silva hurried up and took the
mounts, a throng of lads surrounded the latecomers.

“Where the dickens have you fellows been?” demanded Hannibal Bradlaugh.
“Fritz has been howling his Dutch head off trying to get you to come to
supper. And that was all of two hours ago. The last seen of you, you
were on your way down the cañon to help Clancy and Ballard get that
football that Silva had kicked over the cliff. Some of us went down
there looking for you, but all we could find was a rope hanging from a
stunted tree on the cliffside. It was the biggest kind of a mystery.
And it only got deeper and deeper when Silva discovered that mounts
belonging to you, Ballard and Clancy had vanished from the herd. Come
across with the news, Chip. We’re all of us on tenterhooks.”

“Can’t we eat while we’re palavering?” wailed Clancy. “I feel as though
I hadn’t hit a grub layout for a week.”

“Come on mit yoursellufs,” said Fritz, “und haf a leedle someding vich
I peen keeping hot. Dit you get der pall?”

“Hang the ball!” answered Clancy, “we’ve had something else to think
of.”

While they ate, the two chums told of the accident to Darrel, and how
they had taken him to Dolliver’s and left him there with Ballard. There
was general regret expressed on every hand, for Darrel, greeted with
distrust when he had first reached the camp, was fast becoming a prime
favorite.

“While we were hiking back down the cañon,” said Handy, “we met
Hawtrey. We talked with him for a spell, and he batted up that
proposition of competing in a friendly way with the Gold Hillers. He
said you favored it. When we reached camp we found Lenning and Bleeker,
from Camp Hawtrey, waiting for us. They proposed a football game for
to-morrow afternoon, and I took them on for two fifteen minutes of
play. Didn’t think it best to tire the boys for a full game. I reckon,
though, that I’d better send over to their camp and call it off.”

“Don’t you do it, Handy,” protested Merriwell. “Let ’em come. I’m
particularly anxious to get better acquainted with Jode Lenning.”

Handy and Brad studied Frank’s face earnestly, for a minute, and then
they both chuckled.

“I see your signal smoke, Chip,” grinned Handy. “You’re thinking of
Darrel. All right, we’ll let them come; and I hope something happens,
during the set-to, that will be of some benefit to Curly.”




                             CHAPTER XIX.

                           UGLY SUSPICIONS.


Before Spink, on a battered old bugle, sounded reveille for the camp,
next morning, Merriwell and Clancy crawled out of their tent, took a
dip in the swimming pool, hurriedly dressed, and went down the cañon.
The object of their secret expedition was to recover the rope which had
given way under Darrel’s weight, the preceding afternoon. This rope,
it will be remembered, had been left tied to the stunted tree when
Merriwell descended to the cañon bed after lowering the unfortunate
Darrel.

Clancy, first to reach the trailing cable, examined the end of it and
then flung it from him disappointedly.

“Hang the luck!” he exclaimed; “this is the wrong end, Chip.”

Merriwell laughed.

“Of course, it’s the wrong end,” said he. “The end that was tied to the
paloverde is up close to the place where Darrel was hanging from the
bowlder. You see, Clan, when the rope dropped, the end that had not
been tied to the tree lay uppermost. One end was as good as another to
me, so I lashed that to my waist and carried it up to Darrel. That, of
course, was the end I made fast around Darrel’s body, and it came down
with him, leaving the end we want to examine pretty much aloft.”

“Another climb has to be made in order to get it?”

“Sure, old man, unless you can think of another way for getting it
down.”

This was more than Clancy had bargained for. He had thought that about
all he and Merry would have to do would be to walk down the cañon, cut
off the end of the rope they were interested in, then stroll back to
camp and examine the section of hemp at their leisure. But Merry, as
usual, had considered the matter more thoroughly.

“I nearly had heart failure,” said Clancy, “when you made the climb
yesterday. Pass it up, Chip. It’s just a spasm of curiosity on our
part, anyhow. It would be rank foolishness for you to risk your neck
because we’re curious as to how the rope happened to break.”

“I’ve a notion, Clan,” returned Merriwell soberly, “that this breaking
of the rope reaches deeper than we imagine.”

“How so?”

“There may be a plot back of it.”

“A plot?” The color faded from Clancy’s homely face and left the
freckles standing out in prominent blotches. “You don’t mean,” he
gasped, “that there was a plot to—to kill Darrel?”

“I haven’t said so, and just now I don’t want to go on record as
thinking of such a dastardly thing. All the same, though, I’ll have a
look at the other end of that rope if it takes a leg.”

“If that’s the way you feel about it,” said Clancy, “you can bet a ripe
persimmon I’m not going to let you hog all the dangerous work. Uncle
Clancy will do the climbing this morning, and work up an appetite for
breakfast.”

“Not much you don’t,” was Merriwell’s decided answer, as he flung off
his coat and laid hold of the rope. “Recovering the rope was my idea,
and I’m going up there, cut off what I need, and come back with it.”

“We’ll draw straws,” urged the red-headed fellow. “The fellow that gets
the short one goes up.”

“Just consider that I drew the short one,” chuckled Merry, and began to
climb.

Clancy growled as he watched his chum hand over hand his way up the
first twenty feet, then allow his legs to help his arms the rest of the
distance. It was all so easily and so cleverly done that Clancy lost
his apprehensions.

“You’re certainly all to the mustard, Chip,” he called. “Don’t linger
too long, though. I’m hungry to have a look at the upper end of that
rope myself.”

Frank, climbing to the bowlder which had caught Darrel in his fall,
wedged himself comfortably between the stunted tree and the face of the
cliff, swung his legs out over space and began an examination of the
cable.

There were two ends to it, for it had been looped around the paloverde
and had given away in the middle of the loop. What Frank discovered
he did not make known to his anxious chum at that moment. Severing a
four-foot section of the rope, he tied it about his waist, cautiously
arose to his feet on the bowlder and began climbing again.

“Where the mischief are you going now, Chip?” bellowed Clancy.

Frank was too busy to answer. Presently the lad below saw him hang to
the rocks and reach over the edge of the shelf. The next moment, the
lost football came bounding down into the cañon.

“Darn!” roared Clancy. “I should think that confounded ball has caused
trouble enough without making you take any more chances to get hold of
it. I guess it wouldn’t bankrupt the O.  A. C to lose a five-dollar
pigskin.”

“We’ll need that in the game this afternoon, Clan,” shouted Merry.

Then he slid back to the bowlder, sat down on it, swung off on the
stunted tree, and came down the rope as easily as though it had been a
ladder.

“You wanted to show off,” jeered Clancy, “and I guess you made out to
do it. Now take that piece of rope from your waist and let’s look at
it.”

Silently Merriwell untied the section of rope and handed it to Clancy.
The latter took it in his hands, examined it, and looked up, startled.

“Well, what do you think?” Merriwell asked.

“It didn’t break, Chip.”

“No.”

“It was cut.”

“Yes,” nodded Merriwell. “The strands of hemp were severed with a sharp
instrument of some kind. It was a clean stroke that separated Darrel’s
lifeline from the paloverde, Clan.”

“What scoundrel——”

“Keep your shirt on, Red,” broke in Frank. “At this stage of the game
there’s no use guessing about who did it or why it was done. We can
suppose that somebody crept into the greasewood, watched Darrel as he
lowered himself, and then struck the rope with the edge of a knife,
or a hatchet. The rope would have cut easily. The loop was drawn taut
against the paloverde by Darrel’s weight, and——”

Horror had been slowly rising in Clancy’s eyes.

“What wretch,” he whispered, “what infernal villain, would have dared
to do a thing like that?”

“There you are again,” said Merriwell calmly, “trying to guess who it
was might attempt such a devilish piece of work. If you keep that up,
first thing you know you’ll be doing some one an injustice. After all,
you know, Darrel’s fall might really have been due to an accident.”

“Maybe I’m thick, but I’ll swear I can’t see how it could have been an
accident.”

“Suppose the reata, in kicking around the camp, had been accidentally
cut into near that particular end? Suppose Darrel, in tying the rope
about the paloverde, didn’t notice the weak spot?”

At first Clancy was impressed with this reasoning; then, when his wits
had a little time to work, he believed he saw the fallacy of it.

“If it had been like that, Chip,” said he, “a few strands would have
been left torn and ragged where they had broken. But that’s not the
case. Every strand shows a keen, clear cut. Your argument won’t hold
water.”

“Possibly not,” agreed Merriwell, his face hardening, “but I’d rather,
ten times over, think this was an accident rather than a deliberate
attempt on the part of some fiend to put Darrel out of the way. We may
have our suspicions, ugly suspicions, but let’s keep them to ourselves
until we get a little further light on this business. If no light ever
comes—well, we’ll throw the piece of rope away and try to forget all
about it. It’s an awful thing, Clancy, to think there was a deliberate
plan to throw Darrel down the face of that cliff. There goes the
bugle,” he added, getting into his coat. “Mum’s the word, Clan, when we
get back to camp.”

Coiling up the piece of rope, Merry thrust it under his coat, where it
could not be seen. Very thoughtfully the two lads returned to Tinaja
Wells.

Professor Phineas Borrodaile was in front of the tent, jointly occupied
by himself and Frank and his chums, carefully combing what little hair
nature had spared him. A three-cornered piece of looking-glass, hung
against the canvas-tent wall, aided him somewhat in making his toilet.

Fritz, moving toward the chuck tent with an armful of wood, sighted the
ball under Clancy’s arm. He gave a whoop of delight, and dropped the
wood.

“Py shinks,” he cried, “you got him! Vat a habbiness iss dot! Say,
Merrivell, now I can lick dot greaser feller, don’d it, mitoudt gedding
tocked der fife tollar?”

“Lay a hand on Silva,” answered Frank, glaring at Fritz and winking an
off eye at Clancy, “and you’ll lose the five, ball or no ball.”

Fritz looked grieved, and slowly picked up his wood and waddled away
with it. Clancy threw the ball into the tent and dropped down in the
shade beside Merriwell.

“Merriwell,” said the professor, a troubled look in his face, “ever
since I returned to camp yesterday afternoon I have found myself vastly
concerned over this accident to Darrel—vastly concerned. In fact, I
may say I have become obsessed with the idea that some one—I cannot
say who—may be entangled in the affair in a—er—guilty manner. Tell me,
if you please, do you consider that what happened to Darrel was an
accident?”

The professor doubled up his pocket comb like a jackknife and stowed
it away in his pocket. Then, adjusting his glasses, he peered over the
tops of them at Frank.

“How could it have been anything else, professor?”

“You are beating about the bush, Merriwell,” reproved the professor;
“you are not frank with me. Do you, sir, consider the breaking of that
rope an accident, or not?”

“Not,” spoke up Clancy.

“From the facts at hand,” replied Merriwell, “it is hard to say what
it was.”

“I speak in this manner,” went on Professor Borrodaile, “because,
shortly before the supposed accident happened, I was among the rocks to
the south of that particular part of the cañon. I heard high words from
beyond a bit of chaparral, as of two men quarreling. I had no interest
in the quarrel, if such it was, so I sought to avoid the men and
proceed with my examination of the rocks adjacent to the cañon’s brink.
And yet, I had a glimpse of the disputatious pair. One of them, I am
sure, was Jode Lenning; the other was the young man called Bleeker.”

Clancy cast a startled look at Merriwell.

“Later,” went on the professor, “much later, Lenning and Bleeker
appeared in this camp and spoke to Handy. Where were Lenning and
Bleeker during the interim? I confess, Merriwell, that the thought
annoys me. It certainly could not have taken the two Gold Hill young
men an hour or more to come from the place where I saw them to Tinaja
Wells. What do you think?”

Just then Fritz came forth and announced “grub pile” in his usual
hearty manner, and Merry did not find it necessary to tell Professor
Borrodaile what he thought.




                              CHAPTER XX.

                      A FRIEND FROM CAMP HAWTREY.


Darrel passed a restless night at Dolliver’s ranch. His arm, stiffly
wrapped with splints and bandages, was swollen and feverish. The pain
of it must have been intense.

Ballard did what he could to cheer Darrel up. The boy with the broken
arm, however, had mental worries apart from his physical pains, and it
was hard for Ballard to do anything with him. As the forenoon wore on,
Darrel began to talk, and to reveal the troubles that lay at the back
of his head.

“Pink,” said he, with an air of desperation, “I’ve got to do something
to clear up that forgery matter. The colonel won’t have a thing to do
with me until I prove that I didn’t sign his name to that check.”

“Chip’s going to look after that, old man,” returned Ballard. “Leave
it to him. You’ve got enough to fret about, seems to me, without going
into any of your family affairs.”

“It’s on my mind a whole lot, pard,” continued Darrel, gritting his
teeth to keep back a groan. “I hate to be treated like a yellow dog by
Uncle Alvah. If I had really forged the check, then I’m getting no more
than what’s coming to me; but I didn’t—I’d take my oath I didn’t.”

“What’s that old saw about, ‘Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again’?
Just keep your shirt on, and wait. In the end, everything will come out
O.  K. Chip’s on the trail, and you can bet a pinch of snuff against a
bone collar button that he’ll run it out. Take matters easy, Darrel,
and wait for Merriwell to play his hand.”

“I can’t leave it all to him,” fretted Darrel.

“You’ve got to leave it to somebody until you can get up and around,
haven’t you? A few days, or weeks, won’t make any difference. That
forgery business has been hanging fire for more than a year, and I
guess there isn’t any great rush about clearing it up right now.”

Darrel squirmed impatiently as he lay in the bed.

“It was different,” said he, “when I was drifting around in other parts
of the West. Then I was among strangers, and nobody knew anything about
me. Now that I’m back on this range, I can’t meet a soul but knows I’m
the nephew that disgraced the colonel’s family, and I’m looked on with
contempt. Even Dolliver acts as though he thought I was a criminal.”

“Gammon! Say, Darrel, your imagination is working overtime. Dolliver’s
manner is all that can be desired. I haven’t seen a thing in his
actions to suggest that he looks on you as a jailbird.”

“I can see it, Pink, even if you can’t,” insisted Darrel. “Things have
got to be different, and they’ve got to change mighty soon.”

“Leave it to Merry. He, and all the rest of us, believe in you, and are
working for you. Something will turn up, take it from me, and there’s
no earthly use in your worrying yourself blue in the face because it
doesn’t turn up right away.”

“The colonel thinks a heap of Jode,” murmured Darrel.

“Jode is a soft-sawdering beggar, and knows how to get around him. It
gets my goat the way a man as smart as the old colonel allows himself
to be taken in. But it can’t last. Hawtrey’s eyes are bound to be
opened some time.”

“I don’t want to be the one that strips the mask away from Jode. In
order to believe that Jode is a schemer, the colonel will have to find
it out for himself.”

“You can’t be too ladylike about it. When you fight the devil, you
know, you’ve got to use fire.”

Noon came, and the early hours of afternoon began drifting away. It
was about two o’clock when a visitor dropped in at Dolliver’s. He came
on horseback, left his mount at Dolliver’s hitching pole, and pushed a
bulletlike head through the door of the front room.

“How’s the patient?” he asked of Ballard.

Ballard recognized the fellow as one Mark Hotchkiss, a Gold Hiller
belonging with the rival camp.

“Come in, and ask him yourself,” Ballard answered.

A bony youth of seventeen projected himself through the door. Darrel
turned his head on the pillow and looked at him.

“Hello, Hotch,” said he. “What’re you doing here?”

“Came to find out how you’re makin’ it,” grinned Hotchkiss.

“You Gold Hill chaps must be worrying a lot about me,” said Darrel
sarcastically.

“There’s a few of us who don’t think you’ve had a square deal, El.
Jode’s king bee at our camp, and there’s some of the junipers over
there that ain’t got the nerve to call their souls their own. I’m my
own boss, I reckon. Nearly all of our crowd have gone to Tinaja Wells
for a football game this afternoon. Bleeker and me and one or two more
was left behind.”

“Bleeker!” exclaimed Darrel. “Why, he’s one of the strongest men on the
football squad!”

“Sure, but Jode’s hot at him, and Jode’s captain of the eleven, so he
carries his grouch to the extent of orderin’ those he don’t like to
stay behind.”

“Why is Jode hot at Bleeker?”

“That’s too many for me. They ain’t hardly spoke to each other since
they got back from the Ophir camp yesterday. You see, them two went to
the Wells to fix up the details of the game, and they was as chummy
as you please when they left Camp Hawtrey, but they come back mad as
blazes at each other.”

“Maybe,” suggested Ballard, “Bleeker’s beginning to find out some
things about Jode that don’t set well.”

“Like enough,” grinned Hotchkiss. “The football players made for Tinaja
Wells on foot, ‘cross country. Parkman was late in startin’, and just
before he pulled out, Bleeker, with a face like a thundercloud, rushed
from his tent with a note all sealed up in an envelope. He hands it to
Parkman. ‘Give that to Lenning on the q.  t.,’ says Bleeker; ‘tell him
it’s from me, and it’s about El Darrel,’ he says, ‘and about Merriwell
a little, too,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to get myself in no trouble
with Jode,’ says Parkman, half a mind not to have a thing to do with
the note. ‘You’ll get yourself into a whole lot of trouble with me,’
Bleeker says, ‘if you don’t do as I want.’ So, with that, Park takes
the note and slips it away some’r’s inside his uniform. I reckon
Jode’ll get it, all right.”

Darrel was developing a strong interest in that note of Bleeker’s.

“What had Bleeker to tell Lenning about me,” he asked, “that he
couldn’t bat up to him without putting it in a letter?”

“Kin savvy?” returned Hotchkiss, giving the local equivalent for the
Mexican _quien sabe_—who knows? “A few of us what was left behind at
Camp Hawtrey put our heads together and sort of made up our minds about
somethin’. That’s mainly the reason I’m here, El. You see, the reason
Jode’s down on a few of us is because we was stickin’ up for you. We
told Jode flat that we didn’t take no stock in that forgery business,
and reckoned you’d clear yourself some day. That made Jode madder’n
hops. All those that kept their mouths shut Jode took to Tinaja Wells.”

Ballard was almost as deeply interested in Hotchkiss’ remarks as was
Darrel. Here was a friend from the rival camp, and he brought news that
might be of great value.

“Now,” pursued Hotchkiss, “us fellers that was left behind—barrin’
Bleeker—sort of made up our minds that the note Parkman’s totin’ maybe
contains a clew about the forgery matter. Bleeker, as you know, El, has
been mighty close to Jode for a couple o’ years or more. Them two was
thicker’n two peas in a pod at the time the colonel turned you adrift.
It looks to a few of us as though Bleek’s had an attack of conscience,
or somethin’, and has put on paper a few things that may be pretty
important to you. I was delegated to come over here, tell you about the
note, and suggest a plan of action.”

“What plan?”

Darrel’s eyes were big and bright, and he rose on his right elbow and
peered earnestly at Hotchkiss.

“Well, you got friends in the Ophir camp,” said Hotchkiss. “Have ’em
get that note away from Parkman; or, if it’s too late to get it from
Parkman, then have ’em take it from Jode.”

“It’s Lenning’s letter,” put in Ballard. “What business have Darrel’s
friends with it?”

“If it comes to that, what business have Bleek and Len with evidence
clearin’ Darrel of that forgery?”

“How do you know the letter contains anything like that?” demanded
Ballard.

“I reckon us fellers in the Gold Hill camp ain’t deef, dumb, and
blind,” bristled Hotchkiss. “We’ve kept our eyes and ears open, we
have. A bunch of us is friends of El’s, here, and we allow he’s goin’
to clear himself. What Bleek knows about that forgery he’s put into
that letter, more’n likely, and right here’s a chance for El to be
cleared by a little snappy work. You see, Bleek’s so mad at Jode he
won’t speak to him, and Jode’s so mad at Bleek he won’t take him to
Tinaja Wells. Maybe he’s afeared, if Bleek was near Merriwell, that
he’d split on the hull business.”

Darrel swerved his glimmering eyes to Ballard.

“Pink,” said he, deeply stirred, “I’m banking on Hotchkiss and the
few friends I have in Camp Hawtrey. Meddling with correspondents
that doesn’t concern the meddler is pretty bum business, but we have
Bleeker’s word for it that the letter he sent Jode concerns me—and
Merriwell, too. Doesn’t that give us the right to get hold of it, if we
can?”

“That’s a pretty fine point,” frowned Ballard, “but I should say that
you and Chip have a right to that letter.”

“Sure,” exploded Hotchkiss, “they have a right to it! The next thing
is for some of you friends of El’s to get it. I’ve done all I can.”
Hotchkiss got up, stepped to the side of the bed, and took Darrel’s
hand. “Some of us Gold Hillers, pard,” he went on, “have pinned our
faith to you. We can’t say much, or do much, because the colonel purty
nigh owns the club, and because Jode stands ace high with the colonel.
But we’ve put you wise to this letter, and it’s up to your Ophir
friends to help you out. Somethin’ will have to be done pretty quick,
I reckon, for that game’s due to come off before long. Some day, El,”
and Hotchkiss dropped Darrel’s hand and started for the door, “I hope
you’ll get Lenning on the mat for the count. He’s a two-faced coyote,
and that shot goes as it lays. _Adios!_”

A few moments later, the hoofs of the Gold Hill boy’s horse could be
heard drumming a diminishing tattoo up the cañon.

“Are my Ophir pards going to help me, Pink?” queried Darrel.

“You can bet your life they are, Darrel!” answered Ballard. “Think you
can get along while I ride to Tinaja Wells, and put this up to Chip?”

“Sure I can,” and a look of happiness overspread Darrel’s face. “At
last,” he murmured, “I think I’m on the right track.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Ballard blithely. “I’m off on the keen jump, old
man,” and he rushed from the house to get his horse under saddle.

A little later, he flashed past the door, waved his hat in a parting
salute to Darrel, and pushed at speed in the direction of Tinaja Wells.




                             CHAPTER XXI.

                        TRYING TO BE FRIENDLY.


During the forenoon of the day that was to witness the preliminary
skirmish with Gold Hill, Frank’s mind was not wholly on his studies.
He had been disturbed by his examination of the severed rope, and by
the professor’s remarks concerning Jode Lenning and Bleeker. It was
impossible for Frank to get away from the ugly suspicions of foul play
that had taken hold of him. He felt relieved when Fritz sang out the
dinner call, and books and recitations could be dismissed for the rest
of the day.

Following the noon meal, Merry collected the football squad and started
in to give them a little talk.

“Now, fellows,” said he, “we’re going to have thirty minutes of play
with Gold Hill this afternoon, and I want every one of you to be right
up on your toes. Gold Hill is going to watch you to see whether you
have improved any over last year, and we’re going to keep our eyes
peeled for weak points in the Gold Hill team. I don’t think they’ll
find out any more about us than we will find out about them, so honors
will be easy. Play the game, that’s all. The mesa isn’t quite so
good as the O.  A.  C. athletic field, but it’s plenty good enough
for this little try-out. I’m not at all particular whether you win a
little sawed-off preliminary set-to like this one, but I _am_ mighty
particular that you don’t let Gold Hill win. Hold them.

“Another thing: There has been too much knock-down and drag-out in this
rivalry between Gold Hill and Ophir. A petty feeling of partisanship
has crept into all the contests between the two clubs, and it has
reached a point where it has become a disgrace. It’s up to you, by your
actions to-day, to wipe out the bitterness. Colonel Hawtrey is anxious
to have an era of good feeling crop out between the rival clubs, and
I guess it’s about time something of the sort did crop out if every
contest doesn’t end in a free-for-all rough-house. The colonel says the
Gold Hill fellows will meet us halfway in friendly sport, and I know
that you will do your part to have everything pleasant and agreeable.
Mr. Bradlaugh wants it that way, too. He told me so himself, and what
he says ought to carry a good deal of weight. Let’s be true sportsmen,
fellows, and when the other squad comes over here, just remember that
bygones are to be bygones, and that, with this afternoon, we’re setting
a new mark in the competitions with Gold Hill.”

A cheer, which tried to be hearty, greeted Merriwell’s remarks. Handy,
the captain, stepped out to ease himself of a few words.

“Most of you were up the cañon with me yesterday afternoon,” said he,
“and heard the talk I had with Colonel Hawtrey. The colonel’s as fine
as they make ‘em, fellows, and he’ll do his part to keep the Gold
Hillers in line. I reckon we’ll do ours. From now on, instead of being
licked by Gold Hill, every clatter out of the box, we’re going to do
some of the licking ourselves. It’s a fine thing to be a good loser,
but it’s just as fine, according to my notion, to be a good winner,
and show some consideration for the other fellow. Gold Hill never
showed us much consideration, but we’re going to forget the habit they
used to have of ‘rubbing it in.’ All we’re to remember is that we’re
making a cut for a new deal to-day, and that we’re meeting on neutral
territory— which is a good place to start the good work. We’re to play
thirty minutes, with a fifteen-minute interval between the quarters. Be
a credit to Ophir. That’s all.”

The cheering still lacked the vim and heartiness which Merriwell would
like to have seen, but the Ophir fellows had a long string of bitter
defeats to live down, and they were human, and the remembrance of their
fights with the rival club could not be wiped out in a minute. It
would take a good many friendly competitions, with both sides showing
consideration and forbearance, to bring the relations of the clubs into
the zone of true sportsmanship. But that would come, Merriwell felt
certain, and to-day would mark the beginning.

It was one-thirty when Colonel Hawtrey rode into camp. He had been
notified by telephone that the game was to be played, and he had come
personally to help inaugurate the “era of good feeling.” Mr. Bradlaugh
had also been notified, but business matters compelled him to remain
away from Tinaja Wells. He sent his regrets, however, and warned the
Ophir lads that he would expect them to prove that they were true
sportsmen in every sense of the word.

The colonel was taken into camp with every expression of good will. Not
one in the Ophir crowd had any fault to find with the big man from Gold
Hill. For years he had tried his utmost to smooth out the differences
between the rival clubs, but had found a mysterious influence working
against him and upsetting all his plans. He had not the remotest idea
that Jode Lenning was back of this evil influence, but had he given
some attention to Jode he might have succeeded long before in bringing
affairs of the two clubs to a more amiable basis.

When two o’clock came, ten Gold Hill men came trotting into the camp
on the flat, Jode Lenning at their head. The colonel, after greeting
Jode, passed his eye over the fellows behind him.

“Only ten!” he exclaimed. “What does this mean, my boy?”

“Parkman was late in starting,” Jode answered, “and we didn’t wait for
him. He’ll be along soon.”

“Where’s Bleeker?”

“He has a grouch of some kind, colonel, and wouldn’t come.” Lenning
laughed good-naturedly. “He’ll get over it, though,” he added. “You
know how Bleek is!”

“I know he’s one of the best men on the team,” the colonel remarked,
“and that you’re handicapped without him. You haven’t any substitutes.”

“We’re not going to need any, with this bunch.”

There was lofty contempt in Lenning’s voice. Here, at the very start of
the new schedule of friendly rivalry, Lenning was giving vent to the
spirit that had done so much to put rival athletic affairs in a bad way.

“Tut, tut!” said the colonel, with a look of annoyance, “these Ophir
fellows are as fine a lot of players as I’ve ever seen, and we’ll find
that we’re up against a pretty stiff proposition.”

Hooking his arm through Lenning’s, the colonel led him off to one side
and began talking with him in low and earnest tones. Lenning could be
seen to smile and put on his most agreeable manner.

“Did you hear that, Chip?” Handy asked, in a husky and angry whisper,
of Merriwell.

“Never mind Lenning,” Frank answered. “Have the fellows circulate among
the visitors and show them there’s no hard feelings. Because Lenning’s
a cad, that’s no reason the rest of the Gold Hill team are cut on the
same pattern.”

The Ophir lads went bravely at their task of inaugurating a new spirit
of friendliness with the other team. Going among them, they drew them
apart in groups, and before long there was considerably less frost in
the atmosphere than there had been.

Presently the colonel and Lenning approached Merriwell and Clancy.
Lenning wore a furtive smile which he no doubt intended to be genial
and winning. He put out his hand to Merry.

“Hello, Merriwell!” said he. “I’m sorry we had that disagreement over
the camping site. I was in the wrong entirely. You see, I had my heart
set on this place, and when I learned that you Ophir fellows had it, it
made me mad. I acted like a fool, and that’s no lie. But we’ve got a
fine place, over at Camp Hawtrey, and I hope you and the Ophir fellows
will return this visit, and give us a chance to convince you that we
mean to be friends, and all the better friends because we are rivals.”

Frank took the offered hand, passing it on to Clancy, who came up at
that moment.

“There’s no sense in being at loggerheads, Lenning,” said Frank. “You
may be sure that we’ll soon visit your camp.”

Intuitively, Frank had felt that Jode Lenning’s clutching fingers
reflected anything but a genial nature. He could not help but think
that Lenning was acting a part, and for Hawtrey’s exclusive benefit.

“I’m going to make it a point, my lads,” put in the colonel jovially,
“to be present at all your contests. And,” he added, “I’m looking
forward to a little wholesome excitement.”

Just at that moment Parkman, the straggler, arrived in the camp. There
was a queer expression on his face as he sidled up toward Lenning,
turning away suddenly when he found the colonel’s eyes upon him.

“Got here at last, eh, Parkman?” observed Hawtrey pleasantly. “I
suppose you were mending some of your gear. It’s a good thing to
overhaul your football equipment occasionally and make sure that
everything is in proper trim for use.”

A blank look crossed Parkman’s face, but vanished when he caught a
significant glance from Lenning.

“That’s right, sir,” said Parkman, and walked away.

“I heard,” spoke up Lenning, “that Darrel met with an accident
yesterday. I—I hope it wasn’t serious?”

He threw a doubtful look at the colonel as he put the question. The
colonel seemed to be paying little attention to what was said, and yet
Frank felt sure that he saw a glint of sudden anxiety rise in his eyes.

“Broken arm, that’s all,” replied Merry. “Darrel will be all right in a
few weeks.”

“You’d better take your crowd out for a little signal practice, Jode,”
suggested the colonel. “I’ll go with you. It will soon be time for the
game,” he finished, looking at his watch.

“Good idea, sir,” assented Lenning; and called to the Gold Hill players.

With the colonel at his side, Lenning led the way toward the mesa.
Parkman dodged along at their heels, seeking a chance for a word in
private with Lenning, but finding none.

“Say, Chip,” said Clancy, when the Gold Hillers had vanished over the
edge of the mesa, “when I took Lenning’s hand I felt as though I had
a fistful of cold fish. Allow me to repeat what I said before—that
Lenning person is strictly nig.”

“Let it go at that, Clan,” answered Merry. “The rest of the Gold
Hillers are all right.”

“It’s a hard job, making friends with that outfit,” said Handy, coming
up just then and mopping the sweat from his face. “Everybody’s under a
good deal of a strain, and most of the Gold Hillers seem to be taking
their cue from Lenning. He’s a pill.”

“Sugar-coated,” grinned Clancy, “when the colonel’s around.”

“He makes me sick,” grunted Handy bluntly. “We’ve taken the colonel on
for referee,” he continued, to Merriwell, “by way of showing our good
will. Let’s go up on the mesa and get busy. I’ll be glad as blazes when
this game is over with.”

“Them’s my sentiments, too, old man,” added Clancy, dropping in beside
Merriwell as the Ophir team started for the field.

Gold Hill won the toss. The wind was at its back, and a Gold Hill toe
lifted the ball far into the field.

The game was on. From the side lines, Merriwell and Clancy were
watching every move with keen, critical eyes.




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                              SHARP WORK.


“The Gold Hillers shape up well, Chip,” remarked Clancy. “So far as
beef is concerned, they put it all over our lads.”

“Headwork does more than ‘beef’ to win a game, Clan,” replied Merriwell
confidently. “Look at Brad, will you!”

Hannibal Bradlaugh, playing half back for the Ophir team, had caught
the ball and run it back twenty yards before he was downed. In another
moment came the first scrimmage. Neither Clancy nor Merry had any time
for further talk, just then, so anxious were they not to miss a single
detail of the play.

Brad tried to get through the center. He gained a little, and Handy,
captain and full back, went around the end for a couple of yards. The
Gold Hill line was putting up a good defense, and both Merriwell and
Clancy were finding time to note the work of Lenning, at right guard.

“Remember how he beat the pistol in the race with Darrel?” Clancy said
to Merriwell. “If Lenning was tricky in one thing you’ll find him
tricky in all. He’ll try something or other here, if I’m any prophet,
Chip.”

“Not while the colonel is watching him, Clan,” Merry answered.

Handy retreated, and kicked. The colonel, carried away by the game and
perhaps forgetting that an impartial spirit was to be looked for in a
referee, was shouting excitedly and urging the Gold Hillers to do their
best, and applauding their resistance.

Merriwell was eager to learn whether the Ophir fellows could hold the
rival eleven as well as Gold Hill had held their Ophir opponents. The
players crouched, then, as though touched by an electric wire, flung
into action. The result was a disappointment, for Gold Hill had gone
through the Ophir line for five yards.

The colonel’s excitement increased. He was cheering his club
frantically when he suddenly seemed to remember his official position,
and put a damper on his ardor.

“Hold them, Ophir!” whooped Clancy. “You’re just as good as they are!
Aren’t you going to hold ’em?”

This urging seemed to have no effect, for there was another play, and
this time the ball went through for a seven-yard gain.

“Well, well!” muttered Merry. “What do you think of that?”

There followed a fierce drive at center, and Joe Mayburn let the runner
get past him for ten yards. Clancy was dancing around like a wild man.
Handy was doing all he could to steady the boys, but it was plain that
they were badly rattled by the sharp work of the other team.

Another play was aimed at center, but Mayburn was on his mettle, and
the attack was thrown off.

“Bully work, Mayburn!” roared Merry. “That’s the style!”

“I guess they don’t find Mayburn so easy as they thought,” chuckled
Clancy. “There they go again,” he added.

And again Gold Hill failed. Confidence was returning to the Ophir men.

“They’re getting their nerve back,” commented Merriwell. “Oh, I guess
we’ll show those fellows that Ophir is a different crowd to-day from
what it was a year ago. Now let Gold Hill kick.”

The way Ophir came up the field was beautiful to see. Savagely Gold
Hill fought for every yard of the way. After two downs and a total gain
of twenty yards, Handy tried for a field goal and missed. The colonel
waved his hat, and then calmed himself into the correct official
impassiveness. A little later, he blew the whistle.

“Fifteen minutes?” cried Clancy. “Thunder, Chip, it seems more like
fifteen seconds to me.”

“The colonel’s holding the watch,” laughed Merry, “so he must have it
pretty nearly right.”

“We ought to have a full sixty-minute session out of this. Why the
deuce did Handy stipulate that only two quarters were to be played?”

“His head was level. A little of this sort of thing is a great
plenty—with the real game some three weeks off.”

Parkman moved over toward Lenning, who was walking from the field. The
two sat down to rest on a heap of bowlders close to the edge of the
mesa.

The colonel, his face beaming, made directly for Merriwell and Clancy.

“It’s as even a thing, Merriwell,” he exclaimed, “as you’d find
anywhere! You’ve done wonders with this Ophir eleven. If I wasn’t so
old and warped with rheumatism I’d take a hand in it myself. Why don’t
you get into it?”

The colonel did not wait for an answer, but saw Handy coming up and
turned in his direction.

“I’d like an hour of this, Handy,” he cried. “Why don’t you let ’em box
the compass for the limit?”

Handy looked at Merriwell, and what he saw in the latter’s face
convinced him that his stipulations were fully approved.

“I don’t want to work our boys too hard, just at the present time,
colonel,” said he. “The first quarter ended with the ball in the center
of the field, and with everything pretty well balanced, so far as I
could make out.”

Merriwell, seeing Bradlaugh beckon to him, left Clancy and Handy
talking with the colonel, and moved over to hear what Brad had to say.

“Chip,” whispered Brad excitedly, “there’s a hen on!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Lenning is up to some dirty move or other, that’s what I
mean.”

“Bosh! I’ve been watching him like a weasel, and I——”

“I don’t mean during the play,” Brad interrupted, “but over there on
that rock pile where he’s been talking with Parkman.”

“What’s happened?”

“I was over there myself, stretched out for a little rest. I was on
one side of the bowlders, and those two came up and sat on the other
side. Parkman handed Lenning something. ‘That’s from Bleeker,’ I heard
him say, ‘and he says it contains some hot news about Darrel and
Merriwell.’ That’s all that was said. Parkman sneaked off as though he
was afraid some one would see him. I got up to move away, and looked
back, to see Lenning reading a note. His face was savage. He made as
though he’d tear up the note, then changed his mind and pushed it in
between the lacings of his jacket. What do you suppose is going on?”

“Whatever it is, Brad,” answered Merriwell calmly, “it’s none of my
business.”

“But Parkman mentioned your name and Darrel’s. Certainly it is some of
your business.”

“I can’t figure it that way, or——”

Merriwell bit his words short. Ballard was just hurrying up over the
edge of the mesa and laying a course in his direction. Merry’s first
thought was that something had happened to Darrel, and he hastened to
get close to Ballard.

“Game begun?” panted Ballard.

“Begun, and half over,” was the reply. “We’re only to play two
quarters, and there’s a fifteen-minute interval between them. What’s
the matter, Pink? Why are you here? Darrel all right?”

“Darrel’s getting along in good shape,” Ballard answered, “but there’s
something up that ought to be attended to.”

“What?”

“It seems there’s a division of sentiment in the Gold Hill camp
regarding Darrel. A few of the Gold Hill fellows think Darrel isn’t
getting a fair shake. Lenning found it out, and made them stay behind
when he and the rest came to Tinaja Wells for this game. He’d had a
quarrel with Bleeker, I don’t know what about, and the two have hardly
spoken since last night. Hotchkiss, one of Darrel’s Gold Hill friends,
came to Dolliver’s a while ago and said Bleeker had given Parkman
a letter to be delivered to Lenning, and that the letter contains
evidence that will clear Darrel of that forgery charge.”

Merriwell jumped. Bradlaugh, too, was wildly excited.

“Jupiter!” muttered Brad, “I reckon we’re getting this down pretty
fine.”

“How do you know the letter contains evidence of that sort?” asked
Merriwell.

“Hotchkiss said so.”

“Well, how does Hotchkiss know?”

“He and one or two more of Darrel’s friends at Camp Hawtrey got their
heads together and figured it out. Hotchkiss rode over to Dolliver’s
to tell Darrel that some of his friends must get the letter away from
Parkman.”

“Parkman has already delivered it,” put in Brad.

“Then, Hotchkiss said, it’s got to be taken away from Lenning.”

Merriwell’s dark eyes flashed. He believed fully in Darrel, and he had
no confidence whatever in Lenning. In his own mind, Merry was convinced
that Lenning had fabricated, and carried into effect, that dastardly
plot to make it appear as though Darrel had looted the colonel’s safe
of the one thousand dollars.

Was it possible that here, during this brief try-out with Gold Hill,
evidence could be deduced proving Darrel innocent of that forgery
charge?

Ballard, in his excitement, had not stated the case exactly as it
was. Hotchkiss had qualified his assertions somewhat in saying that
the communication from Bleeker to Lenning contained forgery evidence.
Ballard had merely left out the qualifying words of the friend of
Darrel from Camp Hawtrey.

This, at first blush, might seem like a trifling omission, and yet
had Merriwell not believed absolutely that Hotchkiss knew what he was
talking about, and that the note really contained evidence in the
forgery matter, his action would have been vastly different from what
it was.

It would soon be time to put the ball into play again. Merriwell, his
eyes roving over the field and the scattered players, was thinking
deeply.

“You think, Brad,” he asked, “that Lenning still has that note where
you say he placed it?”

“It’s a cinch!” Brad declared.

“Keep this under your hats, both of you,” said Merriwell. “If that
evidence concerns Darrel, and indirectly myself, we’re going to have
it.”

He spun around and ran back to the field. Lenning was right guard for
the Gold Hill team, and Spencer Dunn was left guard for Ophir.

“Spence,” said Merry, “I want some of your harness. If you’ve no
objection, I’d like to take your place in the game for the second
quarter.”

“Go to it, Chip!” answered Dunn cheerfully, and began shedding as much
of his costume as Merriwell thought necessary and had time to take.

Colonel Hawtrey witnessed the proceeding.

“Couldn’t stand the strain, eh, Merriwell?” he laughed. “Well, I don’t
blame you, my boy. Now I expect to see some real football.”

Merriwell smiled a little. “I wonder what Hawtrey would say,” he
muttered to himself, “if he knew just what sort of a game within a
game this was going to be?”




                            CHAPTER XXIII.

                         GETTING THE EVIDENCE.


Merriwell was not disposed to be at all considerate of Jode Lenning.
Into Merry’s mind, again, came those ugly suspicions of the favorite
nephew.

It was conceivable that Lenning, jealous of his half brother, had
plotted to have him cast off and set adrift, just as he had, Merriwell
felt sure, engineered that robbery plot against him. What had caused
the accident on the cliff still remained a mystery; yet, terrible as
that accident had been, if the result of a plot, then the plot was less
heinous than the one by which it had been made to appear that Ellis
Darrel was a forger. Through the first, life might have been lost; but,
through the second, honor, which men of integrity hold dearer than
life, hung in the balance.

The blood ran hot through Merriwell’s veins as all these thoughts
trooped through his mind. Here was a chance to do something for
Darrel, was the idea that filled him, to the exclusion of anything and
everything else.

Taking his place on the field, opposite Lenning, Merriwell strove to
note the exact place where the note from Bleeker had been stowed. His
eyes, peering hawklike from either side of the rubber nose guard,
sought the lacings of the other guard’s jacket. Between two of the
crossed thongs he believed he caught a flash, the merest flash, of
something white. Then, while Merriwell’s brain was still lashed with
those ugly suspicions of Lenning, the playing began.

Ophir ran the kick-off back a bare seven yards. Line plunges, during
which Merry sought in vain for a chance at that scrap of white, netted
another gain of four yards. Then, as in some weird dream, Merriwell
found himself crouching in the middle of the line, staring into the
face of Lenning, with its shifty eyes and its overtopping mop of black
hair. The swaying lines locked and clashed as the ball flew out of the
scramble and into the arms of the Gold Hill half back.

Merry plunged forward in an attempt to break through. Lenning threw out
a leg to trip him. Merry’s hands pawed at the jacket as he went down,
but he was up again in a flash with something clutched in his fist.

“You’re not so much!” snarled Lenning.

Merriwell laughed. He could afford to. The evidence was in his
possession now.

The playing went on, and gradually Merriwell began to take more
interest in the battle and less in the scrap of evidence which had come
into his hands.

Ophir had the ball and was going down the field with it, five yards
through tackle, five more stolen through the guard, and then five more
around the end. A tackle run netted ten yards, and a forward pass
twenty, Brad grabbing the ball on a perfect throw.

Gold Hill’s confidence was oozing away steadily. Her men were rattled,
and Clancy and Dunn and Ballard were doing their utmost from the side
lines to make their confusion more complete. Before Ophir’s attack, the
Gold Hill line slumped and gave way.

And then, when close to Gold Hill’s goal, Mayburn lost the ball on a
distressing fumble. That nearly broke the center’s heart. Hawtrey hung
over the scramble as the players disentangled themselves, and it was
discovered that a Gold Hill man had the ball.

“Somebody kick me!” wailed Mayburn. “Oh, what a bobble!”

Gold Hill had no use for a scrimmage at that stage of the game, and
immediately lifted the pigskin into safer quarters. Both sides were
still without a score when, a few minutes later, the quarter ended.

Merriwell had smothered his desire to do his best. Ophir, he knew, had
outplayed Gold Hill, and it was better for all concerned that there
should be no scoring. On the face of it, the teams might be called
evenly matched. As for the rest of it, the game Merriwell had played
within the game had been entirely successful.

The best of good feeling prevailed. It was much easier for the right
spirit to manifest itself over a scoreless game than if one side or the
other had made a touchdown or had kicked a goal.

Led by the colonel, the Gold Hill fellows collected in a group and
cheered the Ophir team, while Ophir, with Handy and Merriwell leading,
returned the compliment for their opponents.

“This,” beamed the colonel, taking Merriwell and Handy off to one
side, “starts our series of friendly competitions, and leaves nothing
to be desired. I have enjoyed myself this afternoon, and it has been
a pleasure to me to notice the utter absence of anything like ill
feeling. Keep up the good work, boys. I’ll have to leave you now, for I
want to get on my horse and ride over to the other camp. Jode and his
teammates will make the trip ’cross country.”

Merriwell and Handy walked with the colonel to the camp. As he was
about to mount his horse for the ride to Camp Hawtrey, the colonel
turned and gave Merry his hand.

“I wish that some day you might come to town with Jode and have dinner
with me,” said he. “I should esteem it a great pleasure, Merriwell.”

“Thank you, colonel,” Frank answered, “but I’m afraid I shall be too
busy here to accept many social invitations.”

“You won’t forget to take the Ophir boys over to the other camp?”

“They can look for us over there almost any day.”

“Good!”

He swung into his saddle, waved his hand, and started at a gallop down
the gulch.

“We could have scored,” mourned Handy, “we ought to have scored.
Mayburn——”

“I’m glad he fumbled,” interrupted Frank. “As I told the boys before
they went on the field, I wasn’t eager to have them win, but I was more
than eager to have them keep Gold Hill from winning. We outplayed them,
and that’s enough.”

“You got into it yourself in order to study the other team at close
quarters?”

“That wasn’t my idea exactly,” Frank answered, “although the experience
will probably be a help. Come on,” he added, suddenly shifting the
subject, “and let’s take our plunge in the pool.”

Ballard and Bradlaugh were feverishly eager to have a few words in
private with Merriwell. The opportunity did not offer until some time
after Merriwell had had his swim and had got into his clothes; then, as
he walked toward the camp, Ballard and Bradlaugh and Clancy joined him.
Already Ballard had confided to Clancy, Merriwell’s real reason for
getting actively into the football game.

“Did you win out, Chip?” asked Bradlaugh.

Merriwell nodded, and slapped his pocket.

“What’s the evidence?” queried Ballard. “Does it clear Darrel?”

“Haven’t looked at it yet,” was the reply.

Astonished exclamations came from the other three.

“Don’t mean to say you haven’t had time?” Clancy asked.

“I’ve had the time, Clan, but not the inclination. We’ll let Darrel
look at the note first. Maybe,” and Merry grew thoughtful, “I jumped
into this thing too quick. Suppose Hotchkiss was wrong? Suppose there’s
no evidence in the note about the forgery? If that’s the case, I’ve
done a measly trick.”

“You were justified in getting that note, Chip,” declared Ballard,
“just on the strength of what I told you.”

“I hope so,” said Frank, “but that’s a thing we’ll leave to Darrel.
Shall we ride down the cañon this afternoon?”

“I’ve got to go back,” returned Ballard, “and you fellows might as well
go with me.”

Without delay, they started to get their horses ready. Half an hour
later they were speeding along the narrow cañon trail in single file,
Merriwell hardly knowing whether he ought to feel elated or depressed
over his exploit on the football field.

The high ideas of honor, inculcated by his father, would not have
pardoned his afternoon’s work unless it set right the great wrong that
had been done Ellis Darrel. Merriwell felt that, in his eagerness to
help his new chum, he might have committed a deed which he would later
regret. He had acted on the impulse of the moment, and with implicit
faith in what Ballard had repeated as coming from Hotchkiss.

A fine point of ethics was involved, and Merriwell believed that no
eyes save Darrel’s should read the note unless it was really found to
have an important bearing on Darrel’s affairs.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                       CONCERNING THE EVIDENCE.


When the four lads reached Dolliver’s, they found Darrel anxiously
awaiting news from Tinaja Wells.

“Did you get that letter, pards?” were his first words, as the four
from the camp trooped into the house.

“Yes,” said Frank. “Parkman had delivered the letter to Lenning, and
Lenning was in a temper when he read it. He seemed on the point of
tearing the note in pieces, then changed his mind and pushed it into
the front of his jacket. Brad saw him.”

“How did you get it from Lenning?”

“During the football game. I got into the play and secured the note in
a scrimmage.”

“Merriwell,” said Darrel, with deep feeling, “you’re a loyal friend, if
a fellow ever had one.”

“It’s something I wouldn’t have done unless it seemed best,” answered
Merriwell, “and I wouldn’t have done it, Darrel, if I had thought there
was the slightest doubt that it’s not what Hotchkiss said.”

“Hasn’t it anything to do with me, or—or that trouble with the colonel?”

“I don’t know what the letter contains. I have brought it to you,
Darrel, and you can read it. If it hasn’t any bearing on you, I’m going
to take it back to Lenning and tell him how I got it.”

Clancy and Ballard were about to cry out against such a proceeding, but
there was a look in their chum’s face which assured them that he had
made up his mind as to the course he should follow, and would keep to
it if the circumstances warranted.

“Let’s see the letter, Chip,” said Darrel huskily.

Merriwell removed the soiled and crumpled paper from his pocket and
silently handed it to Darrel. The latter’s hand trembled as he took
the folded scrap and slowly opened it. His eyes widened as he read
the note’s contents; and then, when he had finished, his hand dropped
nervelessly at his side and he stared at Merriwell with wide eyes.

“What is it?” asked Merry. “Has it anything to do with you?”

“Yes,” was the muffled response, “and with you, too. Read it. I think
you have a perfect right to do so, Chip.”

Merry took the note and read as follows:

 “LENNING: I know about your cutting the rope and dropping Darrel down
 the cliff. There are some things I won’t stand for, and that’s one of
 them. If you try any dirty work during the football game, I’ll blow
 the whole measly business to Merriwell.

  BLEEKER.”

Merriwell gasped. There was no further doubt about that supposed
accident on the cliff. It was no accident at all, but the result of
a fiendish design. It seemed hardly possible that Lenning, if in his
right senses, could have attempted such a villainous deed.

Without a word, Frank handed the note to Clancy, and it went from one
to the other until all had read it. No one spoke. The crumpled paper
came back to Darrel again, and he held it thoughtfully in his trembling
fingers.

Distant voices were heard outside the house. Through a window beside
his bed Darrel could look into the mouth of the cañon.

Two horsemen had ridden out of the ragged entrance of the gulch and
had halted, their mounts pulled close together. One of the riders was
Colonel Hawtrey and the other was Lenning.

The colonel, it was evident, was on his way back to Gold Hill after
visiting the camp of the Gold Hill Athletic Club. Lenning, it was
equally evident, had ridden part way with him, and was now about to
face the other way and return to the camp.

Through the window, all the boys in the ranch house looked at the
horsemen. The colonel was smiling and happy. On his face could be seen
a look of affection for the lad at his side. Taking Jode’s hand, he
pressed it warmly, then used his spurs and rode off along the trail
toward home.

Jode watched him for a few moments, shouted a last farewell, waved his
hat, and then vanished at a gallop between the rugged cañon walls. A
mist arose in the eyes of Ellis Darrel. He began tearing the paper to
pieces, using his teeth and the one hand which was still serviceable.

“What are you doing that for, Darrel?” demanded Ballard.

“It would kill my uncle if he thought both his nephews were
scoundrels,” Darrel answered. “I can’t have a hand in blackening Jode’s
character like this. I’ve put up with a whole lot, and I can put up
with a good deal more than I have, but this fight of mine is to prove
that I didn’t sign the colonel’s name to a check. See what I mean? I—I
can’t kill the colonel’s faith in Jode—not in this way. Don’t say a
word about this, any of you. Promise me that you won’t.”

There was something fine and noble about Darrel’s act in destroying the
evidence against Jode. It was not the evidence that Darrel wanted. The
temptation to ruin his half brother was not so strong as his love for
the misguided old colonel, or his desire to prove his own innocence.

Merriwell stepped to the bed and clasped Darrel’s hand.

“That’s right, old man,” said he, “exactly right. Say, Darrel,” and his
voice quivered, “you’re a brick!”




                             CHAPTER XXV.

                            THE UNDER DOG.


“Great Scott, Chip! Say, I didn’t think there was a place like that in
Arizona.”

Young Merriwell and his red-headed chum, Owen Clancy, stood on the
crest of the long, sloping wall of a gulch and looked downward at a
scene that filled them with wonder and admiration.

The gulch was perhaps a hundred and fifty feet deep, and a quarter of a
mile from rim to rim. On either side the slopes fell away in a gentle
descent, sparsely covered with pine trees, and with here and there a
patch of flaming poppies touching the brown of the hillsides as with
fire.

In the depths was a long, silvery vista of water, placid, and cool,
and deep. At the foot of the slope on whose crest the two lads were
standing, was a wide strip of clean yellow sand. Here there were half
a dozen white canvas tents, pitched close to the water, with camping
equipment scattered in all directions.

Four or five canoes were drawn up on the beach. On a float, a few
yards from shore, several lads in “Nature’s raiment” were sitting and
splashing their feet in the water; others were diving from the float,
their white bodies flashing outward and downward like so many darts,
disappearing under the smooth surface of the river and leaving a jet of
spray and a quiver of silvery ripples; and still others were swimming,
far up and down the stream. All were enjoying themselves to the utmost,
if their laughter, echoing and reverberating between the slopes could
be taken as an indication.

“This is certainly a peach of a place for a camp,” said young
Merriwell. “In some ways it has our own camp at Tinaja Wells beaten
a mile. The sight of those canoes down there makes me hungry for a
paddle!”

“And to think,” went on Clancy, “that this is nearly the middle
of November, and that back home the snow is beginning to fly, and
overcoats are trumps, and folks are hunting up their galoshes! Wow! It
hardly seems possible. Down here in southern Arizona a fellow can have
his out-door sports all the year ’round. So that’s Camp Hawtrey, eh?
Well, it’s a bully place, if you ask me.”

“The only thing these Gold Hill fellows haven’t got is a good athletic
field. I hear they’ve cleaned up a patch of desert back of the gulch,
and are using that for sports and practice. But that slice of raw
ground isn’t in it with our mesa, Clan.”

“You’re right there, Chip. Our camp at Tinaja Wells has certainly got
it over this one so far as a field is concerned, but I wish we had a
nice stretch of river like that for canoeing. Where’s Lenning? Can you
see him down there in that bunch of swimmers?”

The boys above studied carefully the ones below, but failed to discover
Lenning.

“He’s not there, Clan,” said Merriwell, “and I can’t see Bleeker,
Hotchkiss, and several more of the Gold Hill Athletic Club whom we know
tolerably well.”

“Jode Lenning, I guess, is the main squeeze of that outfit, and he’s
the one we’ll have to talk with.”

“I hate to have anything to do with him,” muttered Merry, “but he’s
Colonel Hawtrey’s nephew, and the colonel is the backbone of the Gold
Hill club, and if our fellows and the Gold Hillers have any more
friendly competitions, we’ll have to arrange with Lenning.”

“Lenning’s a skunk,” growled Clancy. “If it hadn’t been for him we know
mighty well that Ellis Darrel, his own half brother, wouldn’t be laid
up at Dolliver’s with a broken arm. We know, I say, that Lenning cut
the rope that dropped Darrel over the cliff, and——”

“Cut it, Clan!” interrupted Merriwell. “We promised Darrel we’d keep
that to ourselves.”

“Well, I’m not blowing it around, am I? The way Hawtrey snuggles up to
Lenning and hands Darrel, his other nephew, all the hard knocks makes
me pretty darn tired.”

“Hawtrey will be all right when he finds out that Darrel didn’t forge
his name to that check more than a year ago.”

“Yes, _when_ he finds it out—and that’s never. Lenning, I’ll bet a peck
of dollars, was at the bottom of that forgery, and you can’t bring
forward any proof against Lenning that the colonel will consider. You
know that as well as I do, Chip.”

“Something will turn up, Clan,” asserted Merriwell confidently. “When
a fellow gets in wrong it’s bound to come out unless he changes his
ways. And Jode Lenning isn’t changing—that is, not so you can notice
it. Luck is going to turn Darrel’s way—I’ve got a pretty good hunch to
that effect. The old colonel will find out for himself just which of
his nephews is the more reliable. Wait, that’s all.”

“I can’t see anything rosy in Darrel’s future,” growled Clancy, “so
long as Jode has his big stand-in with his Uncle Alvah. But there’s
no use chinning about that now. We’re over here from our camp as a
games committee to fix up a schedule of sports with Gold Hill, and
we’re supposed to be loaded to the gunnels with peaceable sentiments
and loving regards for Ophir’s athletic rivals. Oh, slush! I’m in such
an amiable mood, right this minute, that I’d like to take a crack at
Lenning with my bare knuckles.”

“Lenning’s only one of that Gold Hill crowd, old man,” said Chip
soothingly. “Bradlaugh, president of the Ophir club, and Hawtrey,
who backs the Gold Hillers, are both tired of having the rival
organizations at loggerheads. They want peace and friendship between
the two camps, and I don’t blame them. We’re going to do what we can
to make the rivalry more sportsmanlike, and less bitter. ‘Fair play
and no favor,’ that’s our motto. When we find Lenning, Clan, just hold
yourself in and don’t bite.”

“All right,” assented Clancy, although with a show of some reluctance.
“Let’s go down there, find Lenning, and get the business over with.”

Before they could start down the long slope that led to the bottom of
the gulch, both lads were suddenly startled by the sudden note of a
firearm. The report came from a considerable distance, evidently, yet
was perfectly clear and distinct.

“What’s that?” demanded Clancy, wheeling about and staring at his chum.

“Sounded like a revolver,” was the reply. “Somebody trying a hand at
target practice, more than likely.”

“The sound didn’t come from below—the shooting is going on up here,
somewhere. Maybe Lenning is mixed up in it.”

“We’ll mosey around and find out,” said Merry.

Another report was heard, and the two chums, laying their course by
the sound, started along the top of the gulch wall. A third shot was
followed by a sharp yelp, as of some animal in pain.

“Was that a dog, Chip?” queried Clancy.

“Strikes me it was,” said Merry. “This way,” he added, turning from the
gulch and moving off into some low, rocky hills.

As they advanced, the boys heard voices and laughter. One of the voices
they recognized as Jode Lenning’s. Presently, from behind a bit of a
ridge, they looked out and discovered what was going on.

Lenning and three more of the Gold Hill crowd—fellows of about his same
stamp—had tied a dog to an ironwood tree. At a distance of about fifty
feet they were taking turns shooting at the poor brute—evidently seeing
how close they could come without making a hit.

The dog was about as homely an animal as Merry had ever seen. His tawny
hide was scarred in a dozen different places, and one eye was gone and
a front leg was crooked—apparently the leg had been broken and Nature
had healed it alone. There was some object tied to the dog’s tail by
a section of stout twine—the lads behind the ridge could not make out
exactly what the object was.

_Bang!_ went the revolver. A flurry of dust was kicked up under the
wretched brute, which almost turned a somersault at the end of the
rope. Lenning and his companions laughed at the dog’s antics.

Clancy’s face went black as a thundercloud. His fists clenched and,
with a muttered imprecation, he started to hurl himself around the end
of the ridge. Chip caught him and held him back.

“Are you going to stand for this, Chip?” asked the red-headed fellow in
a savage whisper.

“No,” said Merriwell; “we’ll interfere at the right time. Wait a
minute.”

Clancy restrained himself and once more sank down behind the rocks.
Parkman, one of Lenning’s companions, had begun to speak.

“I reckon we’d better stop shooting, Jode,” said he, “or the dog will
hit the cap on the stones and set off the dynamite.”

“You’re right, Park,” answered Lenning. “We’ll pass up the shooting,
touch off the fuse, and set the ki-yi adrift. When the cartridge goes
off,” he chuckled, “I bet there won’t be enough of that tramp dog left
to wad a gun. Lamson, you light the fuse. You can cut the rope, Park,
when the fuse is going. Be quick about it or the whelp will take a
piece out of you.”

Clancy’s eyes were fairly burning as he leaned toward Merry and gripped
his arm.

“Do you know what those skunks are up to, Chip?” he whispered. “They’ve
tied a dynamite cartridge to that brute’s tail, and they’re going to
light the fuse and turn the dog loose!”

“No, they’re not,” said Merriwell decisively. “That’s what they’re
aiming to do, Clan, but we’ll interfere with the game. They’re a fine
crowd of cannibals, I must say,” he went on scathingly. “The colonel
ought to be here and see that precious nephew of his in his real
colors. Hang it, Clan, I’m so worked up I can’t see straight.”

Clancy gave vent to a gruesome laugh.

“Here we come from Tinaja Wells with an olive branch,” he chuckled,
“and now we’re going out to lam Jode over the head with it. Come on.
Lamson is getting ready to scratch a match and light the fuse.”

“Here we go,” answered Merriwell.

With a rush the two boys got out from behind the ridge. They were
nearer the cowering dog than they were to Lenning, and, the first thing
Lamson knew, Merriwell had tipped him over and knocked the blazing
match from his fingers. Clancy, at the same time, had grabbed Parkman
by the collar and pulled him back so quickly that the open jackknife
fell out of his nerveless hand.

Jode Lenning, stunned into momentary inaction by the unexpected
appearance of Merriwell and Clancy, suddenly recovered himself, gave an
angry yell, and started toward the newcomers at a run.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.

                              BAD BLOOD.


As the only heir of a very rich and influential man, Jode Lenning had
a number of followers of a certain sort. Parkham, Lamson, and “Klink”
Hummer, who were bearing a part with Jode in his doubtful “sport” with
the tramp dog, were three of these satellites; and they revolved around
Jode and made his will their law, just for the favors which he could
dole out to them. There was a community of interest among the four
lads, but no real friendship.

As Lenning rushed toward Merriwell and Clancy, Hummer raced along at
his heels. Finally the two halted close to the pair from the other
camp. Lamson and Parkman, scowling over the rough treatment they had
received, had regained their feet and stepped shoulder to shoulder with
Lenning.

“What are you two butting in here for?” shouted Lenning, his shifty
eyes a-gleam with anger.

“We think you’ve tortured that dog enough, Lenning,” replied Merriwell,
smothering his own wrath and trying to use a persuasive tone. “You’d
better cut away that dynamite cartridge and let the brute go.”

Here was a suggestion that thinly veiled a command. Although
Merriwell’s voice was like velvet, yet it cut like steel, and Lenning’s
temper boiled more briskly than ever.

“You’re a private little society for the prevention of cruelty to
coyote dogs, eh?” Lenning sneered. “That cur has been snooping around
our camp for days, stealing our grub. We’re going to put him out of
business, and you chumps can’t come crow-hopping around here and meddle
with our plans.”

“There are other ways of putting a dog out of business,” said Frank,
“than singeing him with bullets and then blowing him up with dynamite.”

“It’s none o’ your put-in,” scowled Lamson, rubbing a blister on his
hand where the match had burned him.

“I reckon we can do as we blame’ please in our own camp,” said Hummer.

Merriwell, stepping to the cowering brute, bent over to remove the
string from his stump of a tail.

“Keep away from that dog, Merriwell!” stormed Lenning, taking a couple
of threatening steps in Frank’s direction.

Clancy promptly jumped in front of Lenning.

“That will be far enough,” he said curtly. “Go on, Chip,” he added to
Frank. “I’ll look after this duffer.”

The words were hardly out of Clancy’s mouth before Lenning struck
him. The blow caught the red-headed chap in the shoulder and spun him
half around. The next instant Clancy was going for Lenning, hammer
and tongs. Before Lamson, Hummer, or Parkman could interfere, a stiff
right-hander had put Lenning on his knees.

“That’s enough of that kind of work!” cried Merriwell, leaping up and
tossing the dynamite cartridge into the bushes. “We didn’t come here to
kick up a row. Hands off, you fellows!” he ordered, facing Lenning’s
restive comrades.

“Go for ’em!” whooped Lenning, nursing a bruised chin with both hands.
“If they want a rough-house, give ’em a-plenty. There are only two of
them and three of you. What are you hanging back for?”

Probably Lamson, Hummer, and Parkman had no great amount of courage,
and Merriwell and Clancy looked rather formidable to them. Be that as
it may, yet when Lenning had dropped to his knees his three companions
had held back.

Now, under their leader’s urging, Hummer threw himself toward Frank.
The latter side-stepped a savage blow and turned suddenly to put out a
foot and trip Lamson, who was making a headlong rush at him from the
side. Lamson fell sprawling into Hummer, and both dropped in a tangle.
Clancy laughed.

“A little ground and lofty tumbling by Lamson and Hummer,” he remarked.
“Why don’t you get up, Jode, and take a hand in this set-to yourself?
Where’s your ginger? You’re not going to leave all this to your
friends, are you?”

“Just a minute,” put in Frank, as Lenning, muttering wrathfully,
struggled erect. “This thing can stop right where it is. Clancy and I
don’t want to stir up any hard feelings. We came over from our camp
this afternoon to arrange for a competition of some kind with you Gold
Hill chaps. Now, let’s drop this and——”

“I’ll drop that red-headed freak over there,” cut in Lenning, “if it’s
the last thing I ever do! Who wants any competitions with that Ophir
bunch of yaps? All we want you fellows to do is to stay away from Camp
Hawtrey and leave us alone.”

He was edging slowly toward Clancy, his face contorted with rage.
Lenning wasn’t a pleasant sight, and Frank wondered how a fellow could
give away to his temper in such fashion.

“That will do you, Lenning!” said he sternly. “Keep your shirt on—if
you don’t want to get more than you bargain for.”

The glint in Clancy’s eyes meant trouble, and Frank knew that his
red-headed chum would go the limit with Lenning if the latter got close
enough for a fight. At this stage of the affair, when a one-sided
scrimmage seemed inevitable, Bleeker and Hotchkiss, of the Gold Hill
crowd, stepped out from behind a pile of rocks and rapidly approached
the scenes. Hotchkiss, on his way, halted to cut the dog adrift, and
the harassed brute vanished among the low hills like a streak.

“This will be fine news for Colonel Hawtrey!” exclaimed Bleeker, coming
close to his camp mates. “He’ll be tickled to death when he hears about
this—I don’t think. You must be going bug house, Jode!”

Lenning whirled on Bleeker like a fury.

“Get away from here!” he flashed. “You’re a cheap skate, anyhow, and I
reckon you know pretty well what I think of _you_!”

“I reckon I do,” returned Bleeker slowly. “We’ve hardly been on
speaking terms for a week.”

“You attend to your own business,” snapped Lenning, “and I’ll take care
of mine.”

“There’ll be no more fighting with Merriwell and Clancy,” asserted
Bleeker firmly. “There are four of you and two of them, and if you try
any more of this rough-house business, Hotch and I will jump into it
ourselves and show you where you get off. You’re about as near a yellow
pup, Lenning, as I know how to describe.”

This did not, in the least, tend to placate Lenning’s ugly mood.

“Why don’t you move over and join that Ophir crowd?” he taunted.
“You’re stuck on El Darrel, and think he’s the whole thing. Why don’t
you and Hotchkiss take your truck and emigrate to Tinaja Wells, so you
can be with Darrel’s friends?”

“We’ll emigrate,” answered Hotchkiss darkly, “but it won’t be to the
Wells. When we hike, by thunder, it’ll be for home. Eh, Bleek?”

“Surest thing you know,” Bleeker replied. “And when I see the colonel,”
he added significantly, “I’ll have something to tell him.”

Lenning was a little startled at that; but his dismay was only
temporary. He was too much enraged to consider the consequences of his
own acts, or of anything else.

“Talk to my uncle,” snarled Lenning, “and you’ll get the biggest
calling-down you ever had in your life. Furthermore, Bleeker, if you
and Hotch don’t get out of Camp Hawtrey before sun-down, I’ll see that
you’re properly kicked out. Come on, fellows,” he added to his three
stand-bys, whirling on his heel.

The angry, sullen quartette walked to a little distance, and Lenning
stooped down and picked up the dynamite cartridge from the place to
which Merriwell had thrown it. Bleeker turned to Frank.

“He’s a pup, that’s all,” grunted Bleeker. “He has ordered Hotch and me
out of camp, but we were about ready to go, anyhow. We’ve been having
merry blazes at Camp Hawtrey for some time. A few of us Gold Hillers
won’t lick Lenning’s boots—not so you can notice—and we think Ellis
Darrel hasn’t been having a square deal. That’s put Lenning down on us,
and he has been taking most of his spite out on Hotch and me. I reckon
this is about the finish.”

“I’m plumb satisfied,” grinned Hotchkiss. “If it hadn’t been for you,
Bleek, I’d have hit the trail for Gold Hill several days ago.”

“I’ve hung on,” continued Bleeker, “hoping we could do a little to
make a better feeling between our club and the Ophir fellows. But
there’ll never be anything but scraps and bitterness between the rival
athletic clubs as long as Jode is king-bee of the Gold Hill crowd.
That’s straight. Colonel Hawtrey lets Jode wind him around his fingers.
I should think,” Bleeker added hotly, “that the old colonel would have
sense enough to see through that measley, two-faced nephew of his. I
know him, by thunder, from a to izzard, and he’s plumb yellow.”

“Clancy and I,” said Merriwell ruefully, “came over here as a games
committee to arrange for a visit of the Ophir fellows to Camp Hawtrey,
but when we saw Jode and his friends torturing that dog, it stirred us
up so that we jumped into them.”

“Don’t blame you,” said Bleeker. “Hotch and I saw it all, Merriwell.
We were behind another pile of rocks, and if you hadn’t interfered, we
would. Pestering a dog like that is mean business. The brute has been
hanging around the camp, stealing provisions, and has been no end of
a nuisance, but he didn’t have to be tortured when he could have been
shot out of hand. Parkman has been laying for that coyote dog for a
couple of days. He got a chance at him this afternoon and dropped a
rope over his head. Jode fixed up that dynamite cartridge, and when he
and his mates started off with the cartridge and the dog, Hotch and I
followed along, expecting some kind of deviltry. This is the outcome of
it. I wish Hawtrey had been behind the rocks with us. I’ll bet a bunch
of dinero what he would have seen would have been an eye opener for
him.”

“I’m sorry as blazes about this flare-up,” muttered Merriwell. “It
certainly puts a crimp into all our plans for getting the two clubs
together on a friendly basis. But Clan and I couldn’t hold in when we
saw Jode abusing that cur dog. What do you suppose Hawtrey will say?”

“He’ll take Jode’s part, sure as shooting. I could tell Hawtrey a few
things, but he wouldn’t believe them. Jode was right when he said that
the colonel would give me a big calling down if I tried to open up on
his favorite nephew.”

“I left O. Clancy’s private mark on Jode’s chin,” chirruped Frank’s
red-headed comrade, “and I can’t remember when anything has happened
that made me feel so good. Be hanged to the rest of it. Things will
work out all right, Chip, so don’t fret.”

“If Bradlaugh——”

Merry never finished what he was about to say, for, at that precise
moment, Bleeker and Hotchkiss sprang into fierce action.

“Run!” shouted Bleeker, as he raced over the rocks; “run—for your
lives!”

Over his shoulder Frank saw a hissing, sputtering object in the
air, coming toward the point where he, and Clancy, and Bleeker, and
Hotchkiss had been standing. Hotchkiss was already bounding after
Bleeker, and in less than half a second Merry and Clancy were also
hustling like mad to get out of the way.

The hissing object struck ground, and in a moment there was an
explosion, and a little cloud of débris was flung high in the air.




                            CHAPTER XXVII.

                       THE BOY WHO DIDN’T CARE.


It was Lenning, of course, who had lighted the fuse and hurled that
infernal machine in the direction of Merriwell and those he had been
talking with. The hot-headed recklessness of the act made Merriwell
gasp. Had Bleeker not seen the hissing bomb in the air, and shouted his
warning, what would have happened?

A wave of indignation and anger rushed over Merriwell. He was running
at top speed at the moment of the explosion, and he continued to run
while the booming echoes reverberated among the hills—but he changed
his course.

Lenning and his friends were clustered together in a compact group,
staring sullenly at the place where the dynamite had “let go.” All at
once they saw Merriwell, eyes flashing and face like a thundercloud,
bearing down on them.

Perhaps Lenning would have stood his ground had not his three
companions deserted him in a panic. His courage was of a sort that
needed backing, and when his supporters fled, he whirled and made after
them. He had not gone far, however, before Merriwell overhauled him,
grabbed him by the collar, and jerked him roughly backward.

Clancy, even more furious than his chum, and Bleeker and Hotchkiss,
both scowling fiercely, made haste to get to Merriwell’s side. Lenning
had been thrown from his feet, and was lying on the rocks half lifted
on one elbow. There was a look of ugly defiance in his face that did
not match the glimmer of fear in his eyes.

“You crazy fool!” cried Frank. “Are you trying to kill somebody?”

“It’s not the first time!” panted Bleeker.

“He ought to be kicked from here plumb to the bottom of the gulch,”
clamored Hotchkiss.

“Let’s pound a little sense into him!” suggested Clancy.

“I don’t care a whoop what happens to you junipers,” answered Lenning.
“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me! The colonel will make it hot for you
if you do.”

“That’s about what I’d expect of you,” came scornfully from Clancy. “As
soon as you earn a good trouncing you begin whooping it up for your
Uncle Alvah. Oh, you’re the limit, all right.”

“Suppose Bleeker hadn’t seen that lighted bomb coming toward us?” went
on Frank. “What would have happened, eh?”

“I don’t care a tinker’s darn,” said Lenning. “You fellows keep your
hands off or you’ll wish you had.”

With a roar of anger Clancy attempted to use his fists on Lenning, but
Merriwell put out a restraining arm and pushed him back. Frank’s temper
had had time to cool a little.

“Stow it, Clan!” said he. “We don’t want to make this matter any worse
than it is, you know.”

“Hang it, Chip,” Clancy protested, “you’re not going to let this crazy
chump try to blow us up and then get off without a pounding, are you?”

“He’ll get all that’s coming to him before long, and without any help
from us. We’ve made a mess of the work that brought us to Camp Hawtrey,
and it’s just as well not to complicate matters any more than they are.”

Frank turned from his chum and gave his full attention to Lenning.

“You’re a good deal of a puzzle to me, Lenning,” said he. “I don’t
believe I ever saw a fellow who was just like you. The reckless way you
have of robbing your uncle and then throwing the responsibility on some
one else, cutting a rope, and dropping your half brother over a cliff,
and lighting dynamite cartridges and throwing them around, is going to
get you into a peck of trouble. I’ve got a hunch that you’re crazy. If
that’s really the case, then you ought to be in a padded cell, for it’s
a cinch it’s not safe to leave you at large. Now——”

Lenning had risen hastily to his feet. Something Merriwell had said had
caused his face to go white.

“Look here,” he broke in, “I reckon you found something I lost on the
mesa, over at your camp, during the football game our crowd had with
yours. It was a note in which Bleeker, there, put down a lie for the
purpose of getting me into trouble. You can’t make any capital out of
what Bleeker says.”

Bleeker, red with anger, tried to get close to Lenning, but Hotchkiss
held him back.

“What I wrote in that note,” cried Bleeker, “was the truth.”

“You can’t get even with me and help Darrel by any such talk,” sneered
Lenning.

“I’ll finish what I want to say to you,” continued Merriwell sharply,
“and then Clancy and I will be going. If you try any more desperate
games, Lenning, you’ll be caught at it, sure as fate. If anything
happens, we know where to look for the cause of it, and you can’t bank
on Colonel Hawtrey doing anything to save your neck. That’s about all.”

He turned away. Lenning, scowling and muttering, hurried to join his
friends, who had kept at a safe distance, and the four vanished on
their way down into the gulch.

“Ain’t that about the worst ever?” murmured Hotchkiss. “Jode’s pretty
near right when he says he don’t care what he does. He counts on his
uncle’s faith in him to pull him out o’ any trouble he gets into.”

“I wish to thunder the colonel wasn’t such a fool,” blurted out
Bleeker. “Why can’t he get next to the coyote?”

“He will, some time,” declared Frank. “Where did that dynamite come
from, Bleeker? Do you know?”

“Yes, I know, although pretty nearly our whole camp is in the dark
about it. When Hawtrey was out here, the last time, he and Jode took
a walk along the south wall of the gulch. Now, the colonel’s got a
scent for mineral-bearing ground same as a hound dog has for a rabbit.
He found a place where he reckoned there might be gold, and on the
q.  t. he sent out some hand drills, a sledge, some fuse, and a little
dynamite, and told Jode to put down a hole. Jode’s been working with
the drill and sledge, now and then, as he could steal away and find the
time. The colonel told him to put the fuse and dynamite where it would
be safe, and to leave ’em there until he—the colonel—came out with a
box of caps and asked for the rest of the blasting material. Hawtrey
intends to load and fire the hole himself, I reckon. It’s dangerous
business, and he doesn’t want Jode, or any of the other fellows, mixed
up in it. Jode got a cap somewhere, and fixed up that cartridge for the
coyote dog.”

“I see,” Frank nodded.

“Jode has made a misplay,” said Hotchkiss. “If that coyote dog had
been killed, I reckon he’d have been all right; but Merriwell stripped
off the bomb the cur was trailin’ and I up and cut the rope. Gee, man,
how that animile skedaddled!”

“How did Jode make a misplay, Hotch?” asked the puzzled Merriwell.

“Ain’t you ever heard about coyote dogs?” returned Hotchkiss. “Why,
they’re that vengeful they hold a grouch for years until they pay it
off. Abuse a coyote dog, by thunder, and he’ll make it a p’int to get
even. How about it, Bleek?”

Bleeker nodded solemnly.

“Go on,” jeered Clancy; “you can’t make me swallow any such stuff as
that.”

“You don’t know coyote dogs same as us fellows that live out in these
parts,” persisted Hotchkiss. “Over at Sacatone a miner kicked one o’
those tramp curs and broke its leg. Six months after that the miner was
found dead in the trail, all chewed to pieces.”

“Maybe it was a panther did that,” suggested Frank.

“Not on your life, Merriwell! The footprints around the miner were
those of a dog. Lots o’ things like that have happened.”

“I’m glad, Chip,” chuckled Clancy, “that you and I are on the safe
side. We did what we could for that homely brute, so he ought to feel
sort of friendly toward us.”

“I guess, fellows,” said Chip, with a laugh, “that there’s a whole lot
of superstition wrapped up in those yarns about coyote dogs. What’s a
coyote dog, anyhow?”

“Just enough coyote in him to make him savage and wild, and just
enough tame dog in him to make him want to be around where human
bein’s congregate. People who know, treat an animile like that with
consideration, but those who are ignorant make a big mistake when they
try to shoot such a brute, or to hit it with a club.”

“Much obliged for the tip, Hotch,” grinned Frank. “Whenever I meet a
coyote dog, after this, I’ll treat him with consideration. So long,
fellows. Clancy and I have got to be going.”

Rather grimly, Bleeker and Hotchkiss said “good-by” to the two lads
from Tinaja Wells and started for the camp where they knew they were
unwelcome. Merry and Clancy turned their faces ’cross country and began
retracing their way to their own headquarters.

Merriwell was in no very pleasant mood. He and Clancy had started out,
that afternoon, with the intention of inaugurating a little friendly
sport with the rival athletic organization, and the coyote dog had
dropped into the equation and played havoc with their plans.

“I don’t know how the deuce we could have avoided that mix-up with Jode
Lenning,” muttered Merry.

“Well, we could have side-stepped it all right,” returned Clancy.

“How?”

“Why, by letting them make a skyrocket of the dog, Chip.”

“Neither of us could stand for that.”

“Sure not, but that was the only way we could have kept on friendly
terms with Lenning. So far’s I’m concerned, I’ll be hanged if I’d be on
friendly terms with the chump if I could.”

“Lenning doesn’t amount to a whole lot, but Mr. Bradlaugh and Colonel
Hawtrey both want the clubs to be on a friendly footing. We made a
fair beginning with that football game, and now, while we were trying
to keep up the good work, we’ve knocked what little true sportsmanship
there was about seven ways for Sunday.”

“Lenning has too much influence with the Gold Hill crowd. He can’t
domineer over Bleeker and Hotchkiss, and so they’ve got to get out. I
wish to blazes that coyote dog would turn up and do business with Jode.
But we can’t hope for any such good luck as that.”

“You’ll be as bloodthirsty as Lenning, Clan, if you keep on,” grinned
Merry.

“Lenning is at the bottom of all the bad blood between the two clubs,”
asserted Clancy warmly, “just as he’s at the bottom of all Darrel’s
troubles. The cub is too mean to live.”

“Speaking about coyote dogs,” said Frank, “that notion of Hotch’s is
mighty interesting.”

“Hotch, and Bleeker, too, seemed to take a good deal of stock in the
idea. But it’s pretty far-fetched, and——”

A startled expression crossed Clancy’s homely face. He came to a dead
halt, the words died on his lips, and he lifted one hand quickly
and pointed. Frank, following the direction indicated by his chum’s
finger, saw a tawny form slipping like a specter among the rocks. The
form paused, reared up on a bowlder, and stood peering over its front
paws for a space at the two lads; then, like an ill-omened wraith, it
dropped to all fours and disappeared as though by magic.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.

                               “SPOOKS.”


When Merriwell and Clancy reached Tinaja Wells and the Ophir camp, late
in the afternoon, it was with the disagreeable feeling that friendly
rivalry between the two clubs had received a setback by recent events
from which it could never recover. Merry at once sought Handy, captain
of the Ophir team, Ballard and Hannibal Bradlaugh—the latter the son of
the club’s president—and went into a star-chamber session with them.

All the unpleasant details of the afternoon were gone over, and
Ballard, Brad, and Handy listened to them with absorbing interest.

“What can we expect,” burst out Brad indignantly, when the recital was
finished, “while such a measly pup as Lenning bosses the Gold Hill
crowd? So long as he’s the king-pin over there, you couldn’t foster a
friendly spirit between the two clubs in a thousand years.”

“That dynamite cartridge gets my goat,” growled Ballard. “That pleasant
habit Lenning has of trying to assassinate the fellows he doesn’t
like will put him behind the bars one of these days. Thunder! Why, it
doesn’t seem possible he could be such a reckless fool.”

“He’s dangerous,” said Merriwell quietly, “but I don’t think he’s
exactly responsible when his temper’s roused.”

“Take it from me,” observed Handy, “there’s something on the fellow’s
conscience. Fear of being found out is goading him to desperate things.
He can’t go on like this; something has got to be done to stop him
before he commits a sure-enough crime.”

“What’s to be done?” asked Frank. “Tell the colonel?”

“The colonel!” exclaimed Ballard. “Why, Chip, Lenning has got the
colonel under his thumb. You can’t do a thing with Hawtrey. Just
breathe a whisper against Lenning to the colonel and there’ll be
fireworks. It beats creation the way Lenning is able to pull the
wool over his uncle’s eyes. Darrel, now, is worth a dozen fellows of
Lenning’s stripe. I’ve been with Darrel for three days at Dolliver’s
place, and I’ve got to know him pretty well. He’s a prince, that’s what
he is; and yet that confounded old muttonhead of a colonel won’t have a
thing to do with him. When I think about it, sometimes, I get so mad I
feel as though I’d explode.”

“We’d better sleep over this, fellows,” suggested Merriwell, “and see
if we can’t think out some move that will be right and proper. Things
are mighty unsatisfactory, as they are. It’s been a long time since
I’ve had anything bump me so hard as what happened this afternoon.”

It was in this way that the important matter was dismissed temporarily.
During supper, and for the rest of that evening, the boys tried to
forget it. When they crawled into their blankets, at ten o’clock,
Merriwell’s mind got busy with the far-reaching subject in spite of
himself.

A guard of three was posted every night. Frank heard the guards changed
at eleven o’clock. Fritz Gesundheit, the Dutch boy who did the cooking
for the camp, was to be one of the midwatch. It took all of ten minutes
for one of the lads who was going off duty to get Fritz out of the land
of dreams and into a fitting realization of the fact that it was his
turn at sentry-go.

Ghost stories had been indulged in around the camp fire during the
evening. Fritz had listened to the wild yarns with both ears, while
washing and putting away the supper dishes. More than once the cold
shivers had crept up his backbone, and he had felt the carroty hair
rising straight up on his head. When called for guard duty, he was
snoring away with his head under the blankets.

Fritz’ post was below the flat, and in a part of the cañon where the
moonlight sifted through the trees in wavering silvery patches. Every
patch looked like a ghost, and the cañon was filled with them.

Fritz was about as eager to go on duty that night as he would have been
to walk into a den of hungry bears. But Silva, the Mexican packer,
was also one of the midwatch, and between Fritz and Silva was a feud
of several days’ standing. Fritz would have scorned to show the white
feather with Silva looking on, and so he armed himself with a stout
club and a half a dozen ham sandwiches and waddled feebly down the side
of the flat and into the ghostly shadows of the cañon.

Once a picketed horse gave a snort, and Fritz went straight into the
air for at least five feet. A little later Uncle Sam, the professor’s
mule, let out a “hee haw” that sounded like thunder in the cañon, and
Fritz almost went into a swoon. Every little while Fritz imagined
a quivering splash of moonlight was a spook, and he would groan to
himself and crowd between the rocks, and say his prayers backward,
forward, and sideways.

Finally, as nothing came up and grabbed him, he began to feel somewhat
reassured. He thought of his sandwiches and started to eat one.

“Shpooks iss nodding, I bed you,” he communed with himself. “Nodding
nefer hurt nopody at all, und I vill eat und forged aboudt it. Vat
a peacefulness is der nighdt! How calm iss der moon und der leedle
shtars! Oh, I lofe der nighdt, you bed my life, und I—_himmelblitzen_,
vat iss dot?”

Fritz jumped, laid down his half-eaten sandwich on a bowlder beside
him, and peered wildly around. He could see nothing but the shadowy
live stock belonging to the camp, and yet, very distinctly, he had
heard a _pat, pat, pat_ as of something traveling among the bowlders.

“Id vas nodding some more,” he chattered. “Imachination makes some
monkey-doodle pitzness mit me. I vill eat der sandvich und forged
aboudt it.”

He reached for the sandwich, and a horrifying surprise ran through him.
The sandwich was not where he had left it. Nor had it fallen off the
rock.

“Br-r-r!” shivered Fritz. “Dere iss a keveerness here, py shiminy
Grismus! Iss a shpook hungry dot he comes und takes my sandvich?”

For several minutes Fritz sat in a huddle and wondered what he had
better do about it. He would have eased his tense feelings with a yell
if Silva hadn’t been around to hear. It wouldn’t do to let the Mexican
know he was scared. With trembling hands, Fritz dug down into his
rations for another sandwich. Laying the sandwich down for a moment,
he bent to twist the mouth of the paper sack in which his lunch was
stowed. When he straightened again, and reached for the sandwich,
another thrill of horror convulsed him. It was gone.

“Py shimineddy,” Fritz fluttered, “dis iss gedding vorse as I can
tell! Vat iss habbening mit me? Iss it a shpook sandvich? Sooch
now-you-see-him-und-now-you-don’t pitzness I don’t like.” Fritz, just
then, had an illuminating idea which not only calmed his fears but
aroused his wrath. “I bed my life id iss dot greaser feller playing
some chokes mit me. I set some draps, und ven I catch him, I preak him
in doo, so hellup me!”

With another sandwich Fritz baited his trap. Laying the sandwich on the
bowlder’s top, he sank down until his eyes were level with it and the
rest of his body hidden in gloom; then, lifting his hands ready to make
a grab, he waited.

_Pat, pat_ came a mysterious sound from the other side of the bowlder.
That must be Silva, Fritz thought, coming up on his hands and knees.

“Now, I bet you someding for nodding,” Fritz chuckled, “I get him!”

Something reared up out of the darkness on the other side of the
bowlder. Fritz grabbed, and his hands closed on an object that felt
like a buffalo robe and squirmed like an eel. Another moment and Fritz
had an armful, for the object plunged straight at him over the bowlder.

“Hellup! hellup!” he howled, as he tumbled backward and began rolling
over and over. “Hellup, I say, oder I vas a gone Dutchman!”

Then, for several moments, Fritz was altogether too busy for words. The
thing in his arms clawed, and snapped, and snarled. Fritz continued
to roll with it, sometimes underneath, sometimes on top. He was too
scared to let go, and too scared to hold on; and while he floundered
and plunged about among the rocks, the boys began to run out of the
tents, wondering what the nation was the matter. At last, locating the
excitement in the cañon, they began racing over the edge of the flat.
As it happened, Merriwell was in the lead.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.

                          THE COLONEL CALLS.


When Merriwell was close to the spot where the rolling, tumbling, and
howling was going on, a blot of shadow darted through the sifting
moonlight and was swallowed up in the gloom of the lower gulch. As the
shadow disappeared, a long, quavering coyote yelp floated back on the
night wind.

A thrill ran through Merriwell’s nerves. Was it a coyote or a coyote
dog that had flung past him and given vent to that yelp? Instinctively
he knew that it was the wretched mongrel for whose life he and Clancy
had battled in the vicinity of Camp Hawtrey.

Merriwell was conscious of an uncanny feeling, which laid hold of
him as that eerie yelp echoed through the cañon. What Hotchkiss had
told him about coyote dogs was no doubt responsible for it. With an
exclamation of impatience he flung the feeling from him and went on to
where a figure was sitting up on the ground among the rocks.

“Py shinks, it vas nod a shpook,” the figure was muttering. “A shpook
iss nodding, und dis vat I hat in my handts vas more as dot. Yas, you
bet my life!”

“Carrots!” exclaimed Merry. “Say,” and he laughed, scenting a joke of
some sort, “what’s the matter with you?”

“I schust hat a fight mit a bear dot vas pigger as a house,” Fritz
cried. “I hat nodding but my hands, und I vas shoking der life oudt
oof dot bear ven you come oop und schkared him avay mit himselluf. Vy
der tickens,” complained Fritz, “don’t you leaf a feller alone ven he
catches some bears?”

“Whoosh!” chuckled Clancy, as he and several more lads grouped around
the shadowy Fritz. “Fritz was trapping a bear with his bare hands, and
he’s mad because we came down here when he yelled for help. If you
wanted to be left alone, Carrots, why the deuce did you make such a
racket?”

“I got some oxcidements, dot’s all,” Fritz explained, as he squirmed
to his feet. “Dot bear vas so pig as a moundain, so hellup me, aber I
chuggled him aroundt like anyding. Fairst, I took him py vone leg und
drowed him der air in, den I took him by some odder legs und tossed him
my headt aroundt, und pooty soon I tropped him der rocks on, und vas
chust gedding retty to sit down und make him some brisoners ven you
fellers schkared him avay. Vat sort oof pitzness you call dot, hey?”

“Fritz,” laughed Merriwell, “you’re a four-flusher. First, you had that
bear as big as a house, and now he’s as big as a mountain. As a matter
of fact, Fritz, the animal was about the size of a dog; and, as another
matter of fact, it was a dog, a coyote dog. I heard him yelp as he ran
down the gulch.”

This came pretty near taking the wind out of Fritz’s sails.

“You t’ink you know more about dot bear as me?” he demanded. “I hat him
in my arms, py shinks, und I fight mit him so glose as vat I am to you.
I know vat I know, and dot’s all aboudt it.”

“_Ay de mi!_” cackled the voice of Silva, “he grab one coyote dog and
think him so beeg lak mountain! It ees most fonny. Fat gringo no tell
coyote dog from bear so beeg lak mountain, huh, huh, huh!”

This, from the hated Silva, was more than Fritz could stand, and he
began forthwith to do a war dance and to brandish his fists. The
clawing he had received from the coyote dog had not done very much to
sweeten his temper.

“So hellup me cracious,” he whooped, “I vill knock you py der mittle
oof lasdt veek! No greaser lopster can laugh my face in same as dot.”

He started for Silva, but somebody tripped him and he pitched sprawling
upon the rocky ground.

“Get out of here, Silva!” ordered Merriwell. “I don’t want any more
fussing between you and Fritz.”

The Mexican retired slowly toward his own post, whistling as though for
a missing dog and calling loudly for the animal to “Come, bonita, come,
li’l wan—hyah, hyah!”

Fritz was fairly boiling with rage. Merriwell helped him up, ordered
him to resume his guard duty, and not to make any further disturbance,
or to try to mix things with Silva. Then, laughing heartily among
themselves, all the boys went back to their blankets.

“So that coyote dog is hanging around our camp, eh?” muttered Clancy,
as he settled down in bed. “I hope to thunder, Chip, he hasn’t
transferred his affections from Lenning to you. There’s something about
that brute that gives me the creeps.”

“Oh, slush!” answered Merriwell. “You don’t mean to say, Clan, that
you’re taking any stock in that stuff Hotchkiss batted up to us?”

“About an abused coyote dog taking the war path as a lone avenger?
Well, no, I’m not so superstitious as all that, but I can’t get out of
my mind that picture of the miserable brute tied to an ironwood tree, a
dynamite cartridge fastened to his tail, and a bunch of hoodlums taking
pot shots at him. I can just see that dog, Chip, turning somersaults at
the end of the rope while bullets are kicking up the dust all around
him.”

“Forget it, Clan,” said his chum shortly; “go to sleep.”

Amid the silence that dropped over the camp, Silva’s voice, from the
grove, could be heard calling: “Bonita! li’l wan, coom dis-a-way! Hyah,
hyah, hyah!”

Then, from down in the cañon, Fritz would howl wrathfully: “Vait, you
greaser scallavag! Bymby, I bed you, I make you vistle by der odder
site oof your mout’.”

Finally the Mexican tired of jeering at Fritz, and the boys in the
tents succeeded in going to sleep.

Next morning, as Frank was getting into his clothes after a plunge in
the swimming pool, he asked Brad and Ballard if they had thought of
anything that could be done to straighten out matters between the two
athletic clubs.

“I’m by,” said Brad. “What we’re to do is too many for me, Chip.”

“Same here,” spoke up Ballard. “I guess there isn’t a thing we can do
but just kick our heels and let things drift.”

Clancy, at that moment, came dancing up the bank, grabbed a rough
towel, and began sawing it over his shoulders.

“I’ve thought of a scheme, fellows,” he remarked.

“What sort of a scheme?”

“Lenning’s the stumblingblock. Why not abduct him, lock him up in some
quiet place about a thousand miles from Nowhere, and leave him there
until the rest of the Gold Hill fellows come to their senses? Take it
from me, Chip, that’s the only way we can work through the trick.”

“Quit your joshing, Clan,” growled Merry. “This is serious business.”

“You might just as well lie down on the whole affair so long as Jode
Lenning is at large. You know that as well as I do. Whenever he cracks
his little whip, everybody in the other camp has to jump—or get out.
Bleeker is one of the best players on the Gold Hill eleven, and yet you
see what happened to him. He and Hotchkiss have the courage to call
their souls their own, and Camp Hawtrey isn’t big enough for them and
Lenning.”

“It’s a tough nut to crack,” muttered Merriwell, frowning. “We’re
supposed to be fostering a spirit of friendly rivalry with Gold Hill,
and here we’ve broken with them entirely. There’ll be music, before
long, and of a kind I won’t like to hear. What do you suppose your
father will say, Hannibal?”

“Pop’s the clear quill, Chip,” Brad answered. “Half a dozen words of
explanation from you will be enough. If he finds fault with you about
anything, it will be because you didn’t give Lenning the worst licking
he ever had in his life.”

“That may be,” went on Frank, “but it doesn’t better the athletic
situation any. I don’t suppose I was—er—very diplomatic. Maybe Clan and
I could have saved the coyote dog without harrowing Jode all up, as we
did. I didn’t stop to consider that part of it when we interfered with
Jode’s amusement.”

“What’s done is done,” said Ballard, “and there’s no use sobbing about
it. I guess, after all, Chip, your best move is to give the colonel the
facts.”

“Wow!” gulped Clancy. “The fur will begin to fly as soon as Chip tries
that. But it’s a cinch that there’s nothing else to be done.”

“If you lay it down to the colonel, Chip,” put in Brad, “don’t hem,
and haw, and side-step. Give Jode the limit. Tell Hawtrey everything
he ought to know about that rough-neck nephew of his. Throw in all the
trimmings.”

“Chip can do it, with ground to spare,” grinned Ballard, “if he once
makes up his mind.”

Merriwell leaned against a tree and dropped his chin thoughtfully into
his hand. He wasn’t more than two minutes in coming to a conclusion.

“I’m going to Gold Hill,” he announced, “and I’ll start right after
dinner.”

“That means you’re going to beard the colonel in his den,” said Clancy.
“Want me along as a bodyguard?”

“And me?” asked Ballard.

“No, Pink, I don’t want you, or Clan, or any one else,” Merry answered.
“I intend to handle this alone.”

“That’s the stuff!” approved Brad. “You can do more, all by your
lonesome, than with half a dozen fellows trailing after you. Hawtrey
has a heap of respect for you, Chip. His admiration for your father
has something to do with the way he sizes you up, I reckon. He knows
you’re a chip of the old block, and a square sportsman from soles to
headpiece. If anybody can talk to him about Jode, and get away with it,
you’re the one.”

“Well, that’s the program,” said Merriwell grimly, “whether I’m the one
or not. When I get after Jode I’m going to handle him without gloves.”

“What will Darrel think about it?” inquired Ballard.

“Search me. I think, though, that he’ll take it all right. Lenning’s
actions have reached a point where they’ve got to receive immediate
attention.”

Following breakfast, that morning, Frank and his chums, under
Professor Phineas Borrodaile’s supervision, took up their studies for
the forenoon. No matter what was going on, the professor insisted
relentlessly on the three lads applying themselves to their books for
the first half of the day.

Merriwell’s attention wandered a good deal. He was wondering how he had
better approach the colonel on the delicate subject he had in mind.
His acquaintance with Hawtrey was not of very long standing, and he
might almost call himself a stranger to the big man of Gold Hill. Frank
winced when he thought of broaching the matter—which was largely a
family affair—to Lenning’s uncle.

As soon as the forenoon was over, and dinner out of the way, Frank made
his preparations for the ride to Gold Hill. While he was engaged with
them, Ballard suddenly thrust his head into the tent.

“You won’t need to take that trip to Gold Hill, Chip,” announced
Ballard.

“Why not?”

“Because the colonel is here, old man. He’s got a chip on each
shoulder, too, if I’m any judge. He wants you, and no one else. Say,
but he’s in a temper!”

“I’ve got a job on my hands,” muttered Merry, “and no mistake. Tell him
I’ll be along in about two minutes, Pink.”

Frank nerved himself for what he knew was to be an ordeal, and
presently he left the tent and made his way toward the place where
Colonel Hawtrey, in the worst kind of a temper, was pacing back and
forth under the cottonwoods.




                             CHAPTER XXX.

                         MERRIWELL MISJUDGED.


The lads of the camp, aware that something momentous was brewing,
kept at a discreet distance from the colonel. They were plainly ill
at ease, although it was equally plain that they were trying not to
show it. Ballard, Clancy, Brad, and Handy formed a little group by
themselves. They had inside information as to what was going on, and
watched developments with considerably more anxiety than the rest of
the campers.

Frank walked briskly up to Colonel Hawtrey and put out his hand with a
smile.

“Good afternoon, colonel,” said he pleasantly. “Glad to see you.”

The colonel paid no attention to the extended hand. Leaning back
against his saddle horse, he hooked his left arm around the pommel of
the saddle and allowed the fingers of his right hand to fumble with a
watch chain. His snapping eyes fixed themselves on the frank, handsome
face of the lad in front of him.

“Merriwell,” said he cuttingly, “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you
were a worthy son of your father, and I repeat that I’ve been badly
disappointed.”

“I’m sorry for that, sir,” Frank answered, flushing a little as he
lowered his hand. “You have been to Camp Hawtrey?”

“I’ve just come from there; and, when I leave here, I’m going back.
What have you to say for yourself—anything? I didn’t think you were a
rowdy and a trouble maker.”

“You’ve heard one side of the story, colonel,” said Frank, keeping
himself well in hand, “and don’t you think, in the interest of fair
play, you ought to hear both sides?”

“What else,” demanded the colonel, “do you suppose I came over here
for?”

“From your actions it looks as though you had made up your mind that I
am in the wrong.”

“I have—I am sure of it. Jode has told me everything, and three of
Jode’s companions have vouched for his statements. The testimony is of
the very best.”

“Then, if you are so sure you have got the right of it, what was the
use of coming here to talk with me?”

Frank was nettled by the colonel’s injustice. He tried hard to restrain
himself and to give the older man the respect which was rightfully his
due, but a little temper flashed in his words.

“Young man,” was the icy response, “I try to be a true sportsman;
and, while you and that red-headed chum of yours have made a sorry
exhibition of yourselves, I have an idea as to where the cause lies.
You are at fault, of course, but I do not think that you are quite as
much at fault as some one else whom I could name.”

“You mean Darrel?” Frank asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“Then,” said Frank warmly, “I want to tell you that you are mistaken,
and that Ellis Darrel hadn’t the first thing to do with what happened
near Camp Hawtrey yesterday afternoon.”

“You are under the influence of that scapegrace nephew of mine,”
stormed the colonel. “Do you think I’m not able to see it? He has
set you against Jode. Do you admire a sneak, Merriwell? What, under
heavens, has got into you that you can’t see through the plans of
that—that young marplot?”

Here was the colonel, wrong in every way because of Lenning’s
influence, accusing his other nephew of being a sneak and a marplot.
Frank rallied promptly to the defense of his new chum.

“Darrel is not a sneak, sir,” said he. “I’m not under his influence,
either, in forming my own estimate of Jode Lenning.”

The colonel tossed his hand deprecatingly.

“Do you deny,” he asked, “that you and Clancy went over to the other
camp, yesterday, and stirred up a disgraceful fight with Jode and three
of his friends?”

“No, sir, I don’t deny that Clancy and I had trouble with Jode.”

“Clancy knocked Jode down. Do you deny that?”

“No. If Clancy hadn’t knocked him down, I should probably have done it
myself. He deserved it. Did Jode tell you that he struck Clancy first?”

“That is not true!” asserted the colonel. “You and your friend began
the fight. All Jode and his friends did was to defend themselves. Any
lad, with the right sort of spirit, will fight back when he’s set upon.
Jode is not a coward. If he hadn’t fought, I should have felt like
giving him a trouncing myself.”

It looked to Frank like a hopeless job, trying to set the colonel
right. He was so dominated by the influence of Lenning, that he took
for gospel all that Lenning told him—especially since Hummer, Lamson,
and Parkman vouched for the truth of Lenning’s statements.

“Is Bleeker at Camp Hawtrey, colonel?” inquired Frank calmly. “Or
Hotchkiss?”

“Those two fellows have made themselves extremely disagreeable to all
the others in our camp,” replied the colonel, “and, very properly, Jode
sent them packing.”

“Bleeker and Hotchkiss could tell you a few things about that row,
colonel, which Jode and his friends didn’t think necessary to mention.”

“They’re out with Jode, and they’d try to injure him if they could. I
don’t care to talk with either of them.”

“Then, colonel, I’m going to tell you what started the racket. If you
think Jode acted like a true sportsman, I’ll have nothing more to say.
I want you to remember, though, that I was brought up to hate a lie,
and that what you hear from me is the truth.”

“Go on,” said the colonel.

“Clancy and I set out for your camp to arrange for a series of
competitions,” went on Frank. “We wanted to do everything possible to
cause a better feeling between the two clubs, and stirring up trouble
was the last thing in our minds. Before we got to the camp, though, we
saw Jode and three of his friends blazing away at a coyote dog with a
revolver.”

“That coyote dog was a camp robber,” put in the colonel. “It was
perfectly right for the boys to shoot him.”

“Why, yes, if it was plain shooting they were going to do; but what
right had they to torture the brute?”

“There was nothing in the way of torture whatever,” declared the
colonel.

“Is tying a dynamite cartridge to a dog’s tail and lighting the fuse
torture?” demanded Frank.

“Nothing of that sort was done.”

Frank gasped. How was he to make any headway against all this
misinformation which the colonel had received from Jode? And it was
misinformation which the colonel accepted in every detail.

“Colonel,” continued Frank earnestly, “I was there and I know what took
place. Clancy and I didn’t interfere, until Jode had ordered one of the
boys to light the fuse and another one to cut the dog loose. It was a
brutal business. Clancy and I stopped it; and, if we had it to do over,
we would stop it again.”

“I shall not dispute with you, Merriwell,” returned the colonel. “I
consider that the source of my information is perfectly reliable.”

“I have something else to tell you,” Frank said respectfully, but
none the less firmly, “and if you don’t believe me now you will some
time. I cut the cartridge away from the dog and threw it off among the
rocks. While Clancy and I were talking with Bleeker and Hotchkiss, Jode
lighted the fuse and threw the cartridge toward us.”

“Merriwell!” The colonel’s eyes dilated, and angry protest was in his
voice.

“Jode,” Frank quietly continued, “never shouted one word of warning
when he let that infernal machine fly at us. Bleeker saw it, and he and
Hotchkiss began to run. Clancy and I took to our heels and just managed
to get out of the way before the cartridge exploded.”

“You are trying to make Jode out a murderous scoundrel,” cried Hawtrey,
“and I shall not stay here and listen to such talk.”

“You’d better listen; not only that, but you’d better take Jode in hand
and do something with him. He’s crazy. If he tries any more tricks of
that sort, I’ll put the matter in the hands of Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff.”

Angrily the colonel swung to his saddle. The subject of the dynamite
cartridge he did not pursue any further. Evidently Jode had given his
version of the affair, and the colonel had more faith in Jode than in
Merriwell.

“What I regret most about all this,” said the colonel, speaking from
the saddle and in a voice which he tried to make calm and judicial,
“is that it breaks off at once all friendly rivalry between the two
athletic clubs. The matter is worse, infinitely worse, than it was
before you came to Ophir and took a prominent part in the affairs of
the Ophir organization. There will be no football game between Gold
Hill and Ophir this year.”

Hawtrey snapped out the last words, set his square jaw doggedly, and
touched his horse with the spurs. Looking neither to left nor right, he
galloped down into the cañon and out of sight along the narrow trail.

Clancy, Ballard, Brad, and Handy hurried over to the place where
Merriwell was standing.

“What did he say?” all four of the youngsters asked, in one breath.

“He said a good many things,” Merry answered, “but about the bitterest
dose I had to swallow was what he said about the football game with
Gold Hill. It’s all off, fellows.”

“All off?” echoed Handy, as though he scarcely believed his ears. “What
has a little row with Lenning got to do with that?”

“I guess the colonel thinks we’re a lot of plug-uglies and might turn
the game into a Donnybrook fair. Jode has pumped him full, and Lamson,
Parkman, and Hummer have backed Jode up in everything. The colonel, of
course, is taking their word for it all. He didn’t tell me flatly that
I lied, although he might as well have done so. Lenning has made him
think, Clan, that you and I went over to Camp Hawtrey just to pick a
row.”

“Of course,” said Clancy sardonically, “what else could you expect?
How did Jode get around the dynamite cartridge?”

“By saying there wasn’t any such thing.”

“All the colonel has got to do, Chip, is to look at the hole in the
ground where it went off.”

“Funny thing about it is,” Merry went on, “the colonel blames Darrel,
he thinks Curly goaded us on to pick a row with Lenning.”

That brought a laugh, all the lads wondering how such a foolish notion
could be entertained by Hawtrey for a single moment. Lenning, they
agreed, must have contrived to give the colonel that impression.

“I’m going down the gulch to talk with Darrel,” said Frank. “If I were
you, Handy, I wouldn’t say anything to the boys about the colonel’s
calling the football game off. There’s a chance that Mr. Bradlaugh may
be able to smooth over the differences, so that the game will be played
according to schedule. Want to ride with me, Pink, you and Clan?”

Ballard and Clancy were eager to go with Merriwell and have a talk
with Darrel. In a few minutes all three of the chums were mounted and
galloping toward Dolliver’s.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                           DARREL’S RESOLVE.


On the afternoon which witnessed Merriwell’s and Clancy’s disastrous
experiences near Camp Hawtrey, Ellis Darrel had been laid up nearly
a week with his broken arm. He had been taken to Dolliver’s because
the Ophir lads knew that the ranch offered more comforts than could
possibly be had in the camp at Tinaja Wells. Dolliver, too, had
telephone connection with Ophir, and but little time had been lost in
getting a doctor.

Darrel was young and, at the time of his injury, in perfect physical
health. A year of roughing it in the West, all the way from British
Columbia to Mexico, had put a keen edge on his powers of endurance. For
him, therefore, a broken arm did not cause the mischief which would
have been the case in one less hardened and robust.

In three or four days he was out of bed, and sitting around Dolliver’s
with his arm in a sling. Enforced idleness worried and fretted him. On
the very day Frank and Owen had saved the coyote dog, Darrel had begun
contemplating a return to Tinaja Wells.

The one thing in all the world which Darrel desired with a full heart
was to prove his innocence in the forgery matter. He felt that he could
not rest easy a moment until he had probed that forgery to the bottom
and had unmasked the person who had written the name of Alvah Hawtrey
on the five-hundred-dollar check.

The colonel, after considering the circumstantial evidence, had
reached the conclusion that Darrel was the forger. He had therefore
turned the boy from his door and would have nothing more to do with
him. To wipe that blot from his name was Darrel’s one purpose in life.
Merriwell had promised his help, but Darrel believed that it was his
duty to do most of the work for himself.

After supper, in the evening of the day so many important events had
happened at Camp Hawtrey, Darrel was sitting with the rancher in front
of the house.

The cloudless Arizona sky was never more beautiful. When the sun sets
in the Southwest, it drops out of sight suddenly, and night falls as
swiftly as a drop curtain. One moment it is day; then, almost the next
moment, the clear-cut stars are glittering overhead.

The entrance to Mohave Cañon was but a little distance away and facing
the front of Dolliver’s house. The opening yawned like a huge black
cavity on the sky line, stretching into the far distance amid ominous
shadows.

With dreamy eyes young Darrel stared across the trail and into the
gloomy gulch. Somehow the last year of his life resembled that cañon as
he saw it then. That forgery had flung him into a black and forbidding
path, through which he had wandered—and was still wandering—aimlessly.
Would he never be able to fight his way out of the gloom and the
dishonor and regain his rightful place in his uncle’s esteem, and in
the eyes of honest men?

While Dolliver, a man of few words, like all who live much by
themselves, sat silently and smoked his short black pipe, and while
Darrel still gazed reflectively into the black mouth of the cañon, two
figures slowly disentangled themselves from the shadows and bore down
on the ranch.

“Some ’un from up the gulch,” Dolliver roused to remark, “mebbyso from
Tinaja Wells.”

But they were not from the Wells. As the riders came close and halted,
Darrel discovered that they were two whom he knew—Bleeker and Hotchkiss.

“Great jumpin’ sandhills!” exclaimed the voice of Hotchkiss. “That you,
Darrel?”

“Sure,” laughed Darrel. “Why not?”

“We reckoned you would still be in bed, El,” spoke up Bleeker. “Must be
pulling along in fine shape, eh?”

“How long do you think a busted arm ought to keep a fellow down,
anyhow?”

“Depends a heap on the fellow, El. Between you, and me, and the
gatepost, I don’t believe anything’ll keep you down very long.”

“Can’t you get off and stop a while?” Darrel asked.

“No. We’re bound for Gold Hill. Been kicked out of Camp Hawtrey.”

“Kicked out? Great Scott! What do you mean by that, Bleek?”

“Down at the bottom of it, we’re friends of yours, and Jode don’t want
us around. Something happened up at the camp, this afternoon, that
brought matters to a show-down.”

“What was that?”

Bleeker crooked one knee around the saddle horn and rested easily while
he told about the trouble over the coyote dog.

“That’s what happened,” said he, when the recital was finished, “and
I’ll bet a pound of prunes against a toothpick that Jode’s laying to
unload a little of the trouble onto you.”

“How could he do that?” queried Darrel.

“Why, by making his uncle believe that your unholy influence sent
Merriwell and Clancy to our camp to kick up a row. Parkham has already
been sent to the Hill after the colonel. He’ll be out here, bright and
early, to-morrow morning; then Jode will sing his little song and make
the colonel believe just what he wants him to. The friendly relations
of the two clubs have had a knock-out blow. There’ll be nothing doing,
in an athletic way, for some time to come. Pretty tough on Merriwell.
But he’ll come out all right, for that’s a way he has. Get well as
quick as you can, pard, and then come on to Gold Hill. There are a lot
of us there that are ready to fight for you. _Buenas noches!_”

Bleeker straightened around in his saddle and rattled his spurs.
Presently he and Hotchkiss were clattering away along the main trail in
the direction of home.

These revelations came to Darrel like a blow. He felt, and perhaps he
was right, that Merriwell’s friendship for him had made an enemy of
Jode.

“What do you think of that, Dolliver?” asked Darrel, appealing to the
rancher.

“Why,” was the answer, “I opine that half brother o’ yourn is about as
onnery as they make ’em.”

“I’m the one who is at the bottom of Merriwell’s trouble with Jode.”

“You can’t help it if ye are. Better hit the hay, son. I reckon you’ve
been up a heap too long as it is.”

Darrel went to bed that night pondering the subject of Merriwell’s
failure to inspire a friendly spirit in the dealings between the two
athletic clubs.

“He could have succeeded,” was Darrel’s bitter conclusion, “if it
hadn’t been for his friendship for me. What will Jode be trying next,
I wonder? Where is that fiendish temper of his going to land him, if
something isn’t done to curb it?”

Long into the night Darrel canvassed the unpleasant problem in his
mind. As a consequence, he went to sleep about midnight and woke up
with the sun at least two hours’ high.

“Has my uncle passed on his way to Camp Hawtrey, Dolliver?” were his
first words when he found the rancher.

“All of an hour ago,” was the reply.

“I wanted to talk with him,” muttered Darrel.

“A heap o’ palverin’ you’d ‘a’ done with _him_,” grunted Dolliver. “The
kunnel ain’t eager for no conversation with you, son.”

Darrel realized that, but it did not alter his determination to see
if he could not talk with his uncle and try to make things easier for
Merriwell.

The morning passed slowly, Darrel deciding one moment that duty called
him to Tinaja Wells and Merriwell, and again that his proper course was
to ride to Camp Hawtrey and interview the colonel.

Noon came, and Darrel ate little of the food Dolliver had set out on
the kitchen table.

“If ye don’t eat,” grumbled Dolliver, “ye can’t expect to git around
very soon.”

Darrel’s mind was on something else besides his dinner.

“I wish you’d saddle up a horse for me, Dolliver,” he said. “I’m going
to take a ride.”

“More’n likely ye’ll fall off before ye’ve gone fur. Where ye goin’ to
ride?”

“Camp Hawtrey.”

“Take a fool’s advice, son, and don’t.”

“I’m going to talk with the colonel. If you won’t put the gear on a
horse for me, I reckon I can manage it myself.”

“Oh, I’ll do it, if ye’re bound ter ride. But wait a couple o’ hours.
It’s plumb in the heat o’ the day, and ridin’ ’ll come a heap harder
for you now than it will later.”

An hour or two would make little difference, and Darrel laid down on
his bed for a short rest before taking the ride. He fell asleep almost
immediately, and was awakened by a familiar voice trying to get some
one over the telephone. It was his uncle, there in the room with him,
asking for Bradlaugh’s office. Bradlaugh was not in, evidently.

“Tell him,” said Colonel Hawtrey, “that I’ll talk with him from here
late this afternoon. This is mighty important—don’t neglect to tell him
that.”

Colonel Hawtrey had just ridden down the cañon after his talk with
Merriwell. He was still red and wrathful. As he whirled from the
telephone, he was confronted by Darrel.

The boy’s face was as white as the bandage that swathed his arm, but he
stood resolutely between his uncle and the open outside door.

“Colonel,” he began, “I want you to listen to me. I’m not talking for
myself, but for Merriwell. Don’t think that I——”

“Not a word,” snapped the colonel. “You haven’t anything to say that I
care to hear.”

He strode around Darrel. The boy stepped forward to lay a detaining
hand on his arm. Roughly the colonel shook him off, hurried from the
house, vaulted into the saddle of his waiting horse, and spurred for
the cañon. He did not so much as look back.

“Nice way for an uncle to treat his nephew!” exclaimed Dolliver, from a
place outside the house near the door. “But I told ye how it ’u’d be,”
he added.

“He can’t shake me like that!” cried Darrel. “I’m going to do what I
can to straighten out this trouble of Merriwell’s. Get the horse for
me, Dolliver, and I’ll hike right after him.”

“Ye’ve got plenty o’ nerve, son, but blame’ poor jedgment,” growled the
rancher.

“Why didn’t you call me,” demanded Darrel, “when you saw him coming?”

“Didn’t see him comin’. Didn’t have a notion anybody had dropped in
till I saw the strange hoss at the hitchin’ pole.”

“Will you get the horse for me, Mr. Dolliver?”

The “mister” was pretty formal. The fact that Darrel used it proved
that he was on edge and would not take “no” for an answer.

Dolliver got the horse and helped Darrel into the saddle. He wished him
luck, too, although in the same breath he declared that the boy was
running a big risk and would have his trouble for nothing.

Darrel’s pale face was set resolutely as he urged the horse into a
gallop and disappeared through the mouth of the cañon.




                            CHAPTER XXXII.

                        THE LEDGE AT THE GULCH.


In a great many ways Merriwell had shown his friendship for Ellis
Darrel. From the very first, when Darrel had reached the camp at Tinaja
Wells as the “boy from Nowhere,” Merriwell had believed in him and had
befriended him.

As he rode toward Camp Hawtrey, Darrel recalled how cleverly Merriwell
had defended him against the charge of robbing the colonel’s safe. So
successful was the defense that even the stern old colonel was forced
to admit that Darrel was innocent.

And again, at the time the rope had given way and Darrel had fallen on
the cliff, it was Merriwell who had risked his neck to climb to the
ledge where Darrel lay unconscious, had fastened a rope about him, and
had lowered him to safety. It was Merriwell, too, who had played “a
game within a game” on the football field and had taken from Lenning
certain evidence of Lenning’s scoundrelly work.

As a slight repayment for all this loyalty and friendship, Darrel felt
that he should do what he could to straighten out the misunderstanding
between the colonel and Merriwell.

Even if he could get the colonel’s attention, Darrel was doubtful of
his ability to sway the colonel toward Merriwell’s side. It was a time,
however, when Darrel was resolved to give himself the benefit of every
doubt, in the hope of being of some service to his friend.

If Jode was successful in making the colonel believe that Darrel’s
influence had caused the trouble between him and Merriwell, then Darrel
would do his utmost to set his uncle right on that point. This, very
likely, would put an altogether different complexion on the clash about
the coyote dog.

If convinced that Darrel had nothing to do with the actions of
Merriwell and Clancy, the colonel might be in a receptive mood so far
as evidence against Jode was concerned. This, at least, was what Darrel
hoped.

A mile or so from the mouth of the cañon the right-hand wall was broken
into by the mouth of a gulch. This gulch was the one in which the Gold
Hill Boys had pitched their camp.

Years before, a mining company had thrown a dam across the mouth of the
gulch. This dam had backed up the water for several miles.

Darrel turned his horse into the gulch and followed a bridle path that
led onward close to the water’s edge. Rapidly, as he advanced, the
gulch widened out. The slopes on either side of the stream became less
steep, pine trees began to show themselves, and flaming poppies, in
irregular beds, made the slopes look like terraced gardens.

“First time I ever knew there was a place like this holed away among
these hills,” muttered the boy, staring around him with all the delight
aroused by a new and pleasant discovery. “It’s a mighty fine place, and
no mistake. Where’s that camp, I wonder?”

Pulling the horse to a halt, he lifted himself in the stirrups and
peered ahead. He could not see the gleam of the tents, but he did see
something else which caused him to utter an exclamation of surprise and
disappointment.

In the distance two figures were moving in his direction, on foot. One
of them was the colonel, as he could see plainly, and the other was
Jode.

“Beastly luck!” grumbled Darrel. “How can I talk with the colonel if
Jode’s around? I’ll just leave the horse in the brush and watch them,
for a spell. Maybe Jode will leave the colonel, and I’ll get my chance.”

Quickly turning the horse from the trail, Darrel spurred up the slope
of the gulch wall for a short distance and rode into a chaparral
of mesquite. Here he dismounted, hitched the horse to a scraggly
paloverde, and crept back to the edge of the bushes to watch.

He had had no exercise to amount to anything for nearly a week, and he
was astonished to find how his exertions tired him. He half reclined as
he stared out of the thicket, resting as he watched the trail for the
colonel and Jode to appear.

It was plain that the two could not be going far from the camp. Had
they been traveling any considerable distance, they would have brought
their mounts.

Not many minutes passed before the two hove in sight. Only a little way
from the place where Darrel had turned from the trail, the colonel and
Jode altered their course and began climbing the slope. The colonel was
carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper.

It seemed evident to Darrel that the two from the camp would pass
within a few yards of the chaparral. What if they discovered the horse?
The boy compressed his lips sternly. If that happened, then he would
show himself at once and talk to the colonel, in spite of Jode. But he
hoped the horse would not be seen, and that he could watch his chances
and have the colonel all to himself for a few minutes.

The climb must have tired the colonel, for he halted and sat down on a
convenient bowlder for a brief rest. Jode dropped to the ground at his
side. They were not more than twenty feet from Darrel.

“It won’t take me ten minutes to load the hole and set off the charge,
Jode,” the colonel was saying, “and then we’ll see what sort of rock we
uncover. There’s a vein there—I’m too old a hand at the business to be
fooled—but whether it amounts to much or not remains to be seen.”

“You’re mighty clever at this sort of business, Uncle Al,” returned
Jode admiringly. “I wish I knew as much about dips, angles, and
formations as you do.”

“It won’t be necessary for you to work along that line, my boy,” said
the colonel affectionately. “You’re to educate yourself for commercial
work, and learn to take care of what I shall one day leave you.”

“I hope,” observed Jode, “that it will be a long time before I shall be
called on to do that. There’s no chance, you think, of patching up our
differences with the Ophir fellows?”

“No chance—at least, not so long as Merriwell has anything to do with
the Ophir team. I’ve cancelled the Thanksgiving Day game.”

“That’s pretty tough! I think, uncle, we could play Ophir, even with
Merriwell in their crowd, and show them that we can be square and let
bygones be bygones.”

“What you say, Jode, does you a lot of credit. Our boys are gentlemen,
however, and not hoodlums. I could not sanction your playing with a
team where such a spirit as Merriwell and Clancy showed yesterday is
liable to crop out at any moment.”

“Whatever you say goes, Uncle Al. But I wish the thing could be patched
up in some way.”

“Well, I don’t see how it can. Mr. Bradlaugh has placed Merriwell in
charge of the Ophir eleven, and a team is bound to reflect the spirit
of the coach. There’ll be no more exhibitions of petty partisanship
between the two clubs if I can help it.” The colonel got up and stooped
to lay hold of the bundle he had been carrying. “What’s the matter?” he
asked, starting quickly erect.

Jode had given a jump and uttered a startled exclamation.

“I—I thought I saw that coyote dog among the rocks, up toward the
ledge,” he answered, in a smothered voice.

“What if you did?”

“Why, I heard—some one in the camp told me—that a coyote dog always
lays for the fellow who tries to hurt him or——”

“Stuff and nonsense!” scoffed the colonel. “You ought to be above such
superstitious notions, Jode. Never mind if you did catch a glimpse of
the dog. Come on and we’ll go up to the ledge and do our work there.”

“I wish I’d brought my revolver,” said Jode, as he again began climbing
at his uncle’s side.

“You’ll not need your revolver.”

Contrary to Darrel’s fears, the two passed well to the side of the
chaparral. The colonel’s mind was busy with the work that lay ahead of
him, and Jode was still plainly experiencing a few qualms on the score
of the coyote dog. As he climbed, Jode’s shifty eyes were fixed on the
rocks where he believed he had caught sight of the skulking animal.

What Darrel had overheard pass between his half brother and the colonel
gave him a queer feeling of regret for the part he was playing. It
seemed almost as though he was a spy and an eavesdropper. The colonel’s
affection for Jode was deep and sincere, there could not be the
slightest doubt; but Jode’s manner, his very talk, to Darrel’s mind,
lacked all that the colonel’s so frankly expressed.

“What business is it of mine?” thought Darrel bitterly. “So long as I
am under a cloud I have no right to criticize Jode. I wish he’d clear
out and give me a chance at the colonel.”

Some twenty or thirty feet above the chaparral, and forty or fifty feet
to the left of it, was a ledge of rock standing straight out from the
sloping gulch wall. A mass of loose bowlders overhung the ledge.

This was the spot toward which the colonel and Jode were climbing.
Observing this, Darrel quietly forced his way upward along one side of
the patch of mesquite. At the upper edge of the chaparral he found a
rift in the slope. It was like a trench, deep enough to hide a man, and
ran straight toward the crest of the gulch wall.

Still watching and hoping for an opportunity to speak a few words in
private with the colonel, Darrel crawled into the trench and made his
way to a point that was on a level with the top of the ledge. When he
finally halted and peered over the edge of the rift, he found that some
thirty feet of rough ground separated him from the colonel and Jode.

The colonel was on his knees, carefully opening the parcel he had
brought with him. A small coil of fuse and a couple of sticks of
dynamite were presently taken from the package.

“There were three sticks here when I wrapped up the package in Gold
Hill,” said the colonel, lifting his eyes to Jode’s. “What’s become of
the rest of the dynamite?”

“Are you sure?” Jode answered. “Some one must have taken out one of
the sticks.”

“Of course I may be mistaken,” muttered the colonel.

Cutting off a length of fuse, he trimmed it with a pocket knife; then,
taking a cap from his pocket, he pushed it over the trimmed end. Next,
he picked up one of the sticks of giant powder, slit it lengthwise on
four sides, and dropped it into a hole that had been drilled in the
shelf. The other stick was pushed down on the first, and both were
gently tamped down on the cap, which was in the bottom of the hole.

“Now, clear out, Jode,” said the colonel. “It’s only a two-minute
length of fuse, and I shall have to scramble for safety when I touch it
off.”

Jode jumped from the ledge and hurried to get away among a lot of
bowlders at a safe distance. The colonel lighted a match, touched it to
the fuse, and Darrel flattened himself out in the bottom of the rift.

The next moment he heard a crash, but it was not the crash of an
explosion. A startled cry came from the colonel, and Darrel, thrilled
with a weird premonition of disaster, rose to his knees and again
looked out over the top of the rift. What he saw, there on the ledge of
the gulch wall, caused him to gasp and close his eyes to shut out the
horror of it.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                           FOLLOWING DARREL.


Frank and his chums, in riding from Tinaja Wells to Dolliver’s, passed
the mouth of the gulch only a few moments after Darrel had ridden into
it. Had Frank encountered Darrel, there is no doubt but that he would
have persuaded him against going on to Camp Hawtrey. In that event,
some very pretty maneuvers of Fate, calculated to benefit Darrel, would
have been effectually blocked.

But Merry and his two friends missed their new chum by a scant margin,
and galloped on to Dolliver’s. Dolliver, smoking his short black pipe,
was sitting in front of his little establishment, mentally considering
uncles and nephews, and the foolishness of a kid with a broken arm
trying to take a horseback ride before he was well able to be out of
bed.

At sight of Merriwell, Ballard, and Clancy, Dolliver’s reflections
went off at a fresh angle. He now began to concern himself with the
contrariness of human affairs in general.

“Hello, Dolliver!” Frank called, pulling in his black mount, Borak.
“How’s Curly?”

“Plumb locoed,” grunted the rancher.

“You don’t mean to say he’s out of his head?” gasped Frank.

“If he ain’t, then, by the jumpin’ hocus-pocus, I never see a feller
that was.”

“We’ll have to see about this!”

Frank slid from the saddle and started hurriedly into the house.

“No use lookin’ fer him in the wikiup, Merriwell,” said Dolliver, “kase
he ain’t there.”

“Not in the house?” demanded Frank, recoiling in amazement. “Where is
he, then?”

“Gone to Camp Hawtrey to make the old kunnel talk with him.”

“What do you know about that!” exclaimed Ballard.

“Thunder!” cried the astounded Clancy.

“How long since he left here?” asked Frank.

“Less’n half an hour.”

“Did he ride?”

“Sartain he did. No more business on a hoss than a two-year-old kid,
nuther. He’s wuss to manage than a case o’ the measles, anyways.
Howsumever, he would go. He reckoned he could talk with the kunnel and
smooth things out fer you.”

“How did he know matters had to be smoothed out for me?”

“Bleeker and Hotchkiss dropped in here on their way to the Hill, and
they cut loose about your troubles. That got Darrel all het up. Right
arter dinner, to-day, the kunnel himself blowed in here and tried to
git Mr. Bradlaugh on the telephone. But Bradlaugh was away on business,
I reckon. I wasn’t in the shack at the time, but I heerd the kunnel
sayin’ the business was important and that he’d call up later this
afternoon. Darrel was in the house, though, and tried to powwow with
the kunnel, but the kunnel wouldn’t have it. Runnin’ out, the kunnel
climbed his hoss and moseyed up the cañon. Nothin’ ’u’d do but Darrel
had to mosey arter him.”

“Here’s news, fellows, and no mistake!” breathed Merriwell.

“Curly wasn’t able to take such a ride,” growled Ballard, “and that’s
a cinch.”

“What does he think he can do, anyhow?” asked Clancy. “He’s not on the
colonel’s visiting list.”

“Have you any idea what he intended to do, Dolliver?” Merry went on.

“Palaver with that grouchy old uncle o’ his,” replied the rancher.
“Jode’s tryin’ to make the kunnel believe Darrel set you up to act like
you done. I allow that Darrel wants to disabuse his mind, thinkin’ that
if he’s out o’ it you’ll have less trouble comin’ to an understandin’
with Hawtrey.”

“Foolish!” muttered Merriwell. “He couldn’t make the colonel believe
any such thing, and it wouldn’t help if he could. I wish we’d get here
in time to head Darrel off. What’ll happen to him when he gets to Camp
Hawtrey?”

“I don’t opine he’ll ever git there,” and Dolliver shook his head
dubiously. “He wa’n’t able to sit a hoss, not noways.”

Frank hurried to Borak and leaped into the saddle.

“Only one thing to do, fellows,” he announced, “and that’s for us to
ride for Camp Hawtrey.”

“Bully!” exulted the red-headed chap. “That gang will sure welcome us
with open arms.”

“They will that,” agreed Dolliver. “Say, if you go to the kunnel’s
camp, jest now, ye’ll have the time o’ your lives.”

“All right,” answered Frank, “I don’t care how hot a time they give us
providing we can do something to help Darrel. Come on, fellows!”

He pointed Borak for the mouth of the cañon, and set off at speed.
Clancy and Ballard made after him.

The cañon trail was narrow and the riders were obliged to proceed in
single file. When they turned into the gulch, however, they were able
to ride stirrup to stirrup.

“I don’t like the prospect a little bit,” said Frank. “Now that Bleeker
and Hotch have left the Gold Hill camp, there isn’t a fellow there
that’s at all friendly toward Darrel.”

“Hawtrey’s there,” suggested Ballard. “Don’t forget that, Chip. Hawtrey
won’t have anything to do with Curly, but you can bet he won’t let Jode
rough things up with him.”

“That’s right, Pink. Darrel must be a little hazy in his mind to start
for the Gold Hill camp at such a time as this.”

“He’s trying to do you a good turn, Chip,” suggested Clancy.

“Sure he is—I give him credit for that—but the crazy old lobster can’t
do me any good, or himself, either. He ought to stay in the house for
another week yet.”

“Bosh!” returned Clancy. “Curly is all rawhide and India rubber. A
broken wing hadn’t ought to bother him much more than a mild case of
the mumps. You’ll notice we haven’t run across him lying along the
road.”

“He’ll stick it out, you can bank on that,” said Ballard. “He’s
probably in Camp Hawtrey this minute. That bunch would be pretty yellow
if they didn’t treat him right.”

Clancy had a sudden thought.

“Say, Chip,” said he, “we’re taking this hike to help Curly, but I
don’t think we’ll do him much good if we plunge full tilt into the
camp. They’re a suspicious lot, and they might think it a frame-up of
Curly’s. Suppose we reconnoiter a little before we show ourselves?”

“How’ll we reconnoiter, Clan?” asked Merry.

“The top of the gulch wall, about where we were yesterday, is a good
place for that.”

“I guess you’ve got the right end of the stick, Clan. If we’re to climb
the bank we’d better begin right here. Strikes me this is as good a
place as we’ll find, and it’s far enough this side of the camp so we
can make the climb without being seen.”

The slope was not steep, but it was easier for the boys to walk up the
incline and lead their horses. In perhaps ten minutes they had reached
the crest, and were able to take a comprehensive survey of the gulch
below.

“Jove!” exclaimed Merry. “There are two fellows on a bowlder down
there. See them? They are just below that chaparral of mesquite. One of
them looks like the colonel to me. Wonder if the other is Darrel?”

“Not on your life!” murmured Clancy. “The other is Jode.”

“Sure enough!” agreed Ballard. “We’d better lead our horses back from
the rim, and drop down on the rocks. If the colonel and Jode happened
to look up here, they’d see us.”

Ballard’s suggestion was carried out at once; then, on their knees, the
lads continued to peer downward. Presently the colonel and Jode got
up and began climbing. They passed well to the left of the chaparral,
angled across the face of the slope, and stepped upon a ledge that
jutted out from the gulch side.

“I’m next to what’s going on down there,” said Merry. “Remember what
Bleek told us, Clan, when I asked him where Jode got that dynamite for
the cartridge?”

“He said something about Hawtrey stumbling on a ‘prospect,’” was the
answer, “and that Jode was to fill a hole, and the colonel was to load
it and set it off.”

“That’s what the colonel is about to do. Let’s move down the gulch a
little way and find a place directly over the ledge.”

A hundred yards carried the boys to a spot above the ledge. Masses of
splintered granite and loose bowlders covered the slope between the
ledge and the crest of the gulch wall. The boys were able to look over
the intervening rocks, however, and get a clear view of the ledge level.

Colonel Hawtrey, on his knees, was at work capping a fuse and ramming
dynamite into the hole where the blast was to be set off.

“You’re right about it, Chip,” said Clancy. “The colonel’s going to
have a little blow-up, down there, and probably he’ll make a ‘strike.’
How many poor prospectors, do you suppose, have passed that ‘prospect’
by? That’s the way things work out, in this world. Here’s the colonel,
with more mines and money than he knows what to do with, just falling
right over a good thing. Now——”

“Look!” broke in Ballard, grabbing Frank’s arm and pointing downward
and to the left of the ledge. “See that long break in the gulch wall,
running from the top right down to that bunch of chaparral? Who’s that
looking out of it?”

“Darrel!” murmured Merriwell, astounded.

“Curly, as sure as you’re a foot high!” fluttered Clancy. “Now, what
the deuce do you suppose he’s up to?”

It was a surprising situation, and no mistake. Darrel, screened in the
rift, was cautiously looking out and keeping track of the movements of
the colonel and Jode.

“Curly wants to talk with the colonel,” said Frank, after a moment’s
thought, “and he’s waiting for Jode to get out of the way.”

“I could slip down that chute,” suggested Ballard, “and slide right
into Darrel. We could bring him up here, with us, and——”

“Wait till after the blast,” cut in Merry. “The colonel’s just touching
it off.”

“See Jode scramble for the tall rocks!” chuckled Clancy. “He’s not
going to take any chances on being knocked over by flying stones.”

“Neither is Curly,” added Ballard. “He has ducked down into the bottom
of that hole of his.”

“Two sticks of dynamite will lift a pretty big chunk out of that
ledge,” said Merriwell, “and before it lets go we’d better push back a
little. The charge——”

The words died on Merry’s lips. A bowlder, just above the ledge, had
slipped from its moorings and was rolling over and over, grinding and
crashing toward the ledge. The colonel had just risen from lighting the
fuse. He saw the bowlder, and tried frantically to get out of the way
of it. In his haste, he slipped and fell prone upon the ledge. The next
moment the bowlder was upon him!




                            CHAPTER XXXIV.

                          A TANGLE OF EVENTS.


Right from that moment a series of thrilling happenings began below.
The slope of the gulch wall was a stage, and from the crest Frank and
his chums watched events breathlessly. Horror gripped them and held
them spellbound. Instinctively they rose from their crouching positions
and stared wide-eyed at the tragic scene below them.

The colonel, as it is already known, had cut off only a two-minute
length of fuse. This meant that, in one hundred and twenty seconds from
the time he applied the match to the fuse, the gulch wall adjacent
to the ledge would be piled with ruin. So, in the short space of two
minutes, one weird event heaped itself upon another with amazing
rapidity.

Frank and his chums saw it all. Not one detail of the awful drama
escaped them. But, as the eye can comprehend infinitely quicker than
the tongue can frame a scene in so many words, it will be well to
describe each occurrence. At the same time, let it be remembered that
most of them happened simultaneously, and that the others fairly
jostled each other, so closely did they follow.

It was the falling bowlder that, primarily, caused the tragic
situation. This had become loosened, perhaps by the pounding Jode had
done in “putting down” that hole for the blast. Poised and ready to
tumble, Fate held the bowlder back until the critical moment when the
colonel had lighted his two-minute fuse and was on the point of rushing
from the ledge.

A cry of horror escaped the lads on the crest when they saw the huge
stone apparently about to crush out the life of the fallen man on the
ledge. But fortune, in a small way, favored Colonel Hawtrey.

The bowlder crashed to a full stop on the ledge, trapping one of the
colonel’s feet. He was held securely, it seemed, for, in spite of his
wild struggles, he could not release himself.

He was lying on the stones with his head toward the sputtering fuse,
and yet the fuse itself was well beyond the reach of his arms. A
terrible fate appeared to be in store for him unless Jode came to his
rescue.

The colonel, of course, knew nothing about Darrel being close at hand,
so his frantic cries were all directed at Jode.

“Jode!” he shouted. “I’m trapped by a bowlder! Hurry, and tear away the
fuse! Jode! Do you hear me?”

At just this moment, when Jode’s presence was so urgently demanded by
the colonel, another factor had come bounding into the weird progress
of events. The coyote dog had been skulking among the rocks above the
ledge. The roar of the falling bowlder had frightened the animal, and
he had uttered a wild yelp and started for the top of the gulch wall.
Before he reached the crest, he saw Frank and his chums, and whirled
and dashed down the slope. His course carried him among the bowlders
where Jode had sought refuge from the débris of the blast.

And now, under the colonel’s own eyes, Jode Lenning gave abundant proof
of the “yellow streak” in his character. He saw the tawny form of the
outcast dog leaping toward him, eyes gleaming, mouth open, and red
tongue protruding. Fear seized Jode, for no doubt he believed in the
superstition that was held by many of the settlers in those parts, and
felt in his soul that the dog was rushing upon him in a vengeful mood.

The frantic shouts of the colonel passed over Jode’s head unheeded. The
colonel might be in danger, but Jode was obsessed with the idea that
his own danger was fully as great. So, why should he think of his uncle
when his own life swung in the balance?

This must have been the trend of Lenning’s reasoning. With a cry of
fear, he rushed out from among the rocks and raced for the trail at the
foot of the gulch wall.

As a matter of fact, the coyote dog had no designs whatever upon Jode.
All the animal was trying to do was to efface himself from the scene as
quickly as possible. Very likely, he was more anxious to get away from
Jode than Jode was to get away from him.

Howling for help, stumbling, and falling, and rolling, Jode put forth
every effort to reach the bottom of the slope. Long before he had
accomplished his purpose, the coyote dog had passed him on an angling
course and had flickered away down the gulch. Jode, in his excitement,
failed to notice this. He had the impression that the enraged brute was
still on his trail, and did not slacken his pace.

Colonel Hawtrey, lying helpless on the ledge with the flame of the fuse
dancing nearer and nearer to the charge of dynamite, was able to watch
his nephew flying down the slope. In that tense moment the boy’s whole
nature must have revealed itself to the colonel in a single flash.

Merriwell had not remained long inactive on the crest of the sloping
bank. As soon as it became evident that nothing could be expected from
Jode, he flung himself among the masses of bowlders and splintered
rocks and began a descent toward the ledge.

But the going was difficult, and Merriwell realized, with a sinking
heart, that it would be impossible for him to reach the ledge before
the charge of dynamite had exploded. Then, at the very moment the
realization came home to him, he saw Darrel pawing and scrambling over
the rocks toward his uncle.

A hopeful thought plunged through Merriwell’s brain. A light dawned
upon him suddenly. Here was the very chance for which Ellis Darrel had
been waiting. Fate had taken his affairs in hand, and, in a short two
minutes of time, was revealing to the colonel the varying dispositions
of his two nephews.

The one who, up to that moment, had had all Hawtrey’s affection and
confidence, was bounding and plunging down the slope and abandoning him
to his fate. The other, the lad that had been cast adrift and had been
looked upon as a ne’er-do-well and a forger, was struggling valiantly
to reach his uncle’s side and extinguish the blazing fuse.

There was danger in Darrel’s attempt. He was handicapped in his work
because of his useless arm, and he had not a second to spare if he
gained the ledge in time. If he failed to reach the ledge before the
fuse exploded the cap and the cap set off the dynamite, then not only
his uncle but he himself would be killed by the blast.

Darrel must have understood this, yet it made not the slightest
difference to him. Furiously he was fighting his way over the rough
ground toward the ledge. Again and again he stumbled and fell. His
broken arm surely received many an agonizing wrench, but physical pain
was as powerless to hold him back as was the prospect of death from his
failure to reach the sputtering fuse in time.

Colonel Hawtrey at last became aware that some one else was coming to
his rescue. He turned and, with glimmering eyes, watched the fierce
efforts of Darrel. The boy’s face was white and haggard, but the same
resolution smoldered in his eyes that had fixed itself there when he
had left Dolliver’s.

The colonel was calm, now. The old military spirit revived in him, and
he turned calculating eyes upon the fuse and measured at a glance the
space that separated Darrel from the ledge.

“Stop where you are, El!” the colonel called, commandingly. “You can’t
get here in time. If you keep on, two lives instead of one will be
lost. Turn back, I tell you!”

Darrel did not answer. Neither did he turn back. He held to his course.
There was a smear of red on the bandage that swathed the arm, but he
continued to fight his way onward.

As a mere exhibition of pluck, the boy’s work was splendid. But what
he was doing reached deeper, and something like admiration filled the
colonel’s face as he watched. He tried no longer to make Darrel turn
back. Possibly he knew any command of his would be useless.

Jode could be seen at the bottom of the slope. He had at last
discovered that the coyote dog was no longer at his heels. Standing in
the trail, he looked upward, and, like Frank and his chums, and the
colonel, witnessed the gallant struggle his half brother was making.

The work Darrel was doing should have been Lenning’s. That fact could
not escape the boy at the foot of the slope. What his thoughts were, in
the circumstances, may easily be imagined.

“Good work, Curly!” shouted Merriwell. “You’ll make it, old man!”

This encouragement, coming in Merriwell’s familiar voice, probably
carried a big surprise for Darrel. He had no time for surprises,
however. Close to the ledge, he flung himself over at full length upon
the stones and reached for the fuse.

The blaze had eaten its way to the very mouth of the drilled hole.
Darrel dug down into the aperture with his fingers, searing his flesh
as he pinched out the fire; then, with a stifled groan, he fell over on
his back and lay silent and still.

“We’ll be with you in a minute, colonel,” shouted Frank cheerily, once
more beginning to descend. “Darrel has prevented a blow-up, and now
everything is going to be all right.”

“Yes,” came from the colonel, in a strained voice that was none too
steady, “you’re right about that, Merriwell. I’ll make it my business
to see that everything is all right—for Ellis.”

Clancy and Ballard had likewise started down the side of the gulch
wall. A tremendous relief had been experienced by both the boys when
they had seen Darrel reach the fuse.

“We’ll be down there in a brace of shakes, Chip,” sang out Clancy as he
saw Merriwell step to the ledge and move toward the colonel.

Frank was kneeling beside Darrel when Clancy and Ballard reached the
ledge.

“Never mind me, Merriwell.” Clancy and Ballard heard the colonel say,
“I’m doing well enough for the present. Just look after Darrel, will
you?”

“Is he hurt, Chip?” asked Ballard.

“He wasn’t in any shape to make a fight like that,” Merry answered,
“and it took the ginger all out of him. He’s fainted, that’s all.”

“One of you go down to the bottom of the gulch and get a little water,”
directed the colonel.

“Curly will be all right, sir,” said Frank, “until we get that bowlder
off you. Strikes me that you’re in a pretty bad situation.”

“It only seems to be a bad situation. As it happens, there’s a crevice
in the bowlder where it rests upon my foot and leg. I’m pinioned here,
but I don’t believe I have been injured at all.”

With a steel drill for a lever, Frank pried carefully at the big stone
while Clancy and Ballard put their combined weight against it. Their
efforts were successful and the bowlder was rolled away.

The colonel pulled himself together and sat up on the ledge.

“That was a close call for me,” he remarked coolly, “and for Ellis,
too. Do you think you could carry him down to the water?”

“Easily,” Frank answered.

All three of the boys laid hold of Darrel, gathered him up in their
arms and started carefully down the slope. The colonel followed,
limping a little as he came.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                         A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS.


Lenning had disappeared from the foot of the slope by the time the
little party from above had brought their burden to the water’s edge.
It was just as well for all concerned that he had not lingered.

Darrel was laid down with a rolled-up coat under his head for a pillow.
The boys scooped up water in their hands and allowed it to trickle over
the white, unconscious face.

“That was about as nervy a piece of work as I ever saw a fellow do,”
remarked Clancy, on his knees at Darrel’s side.

“That’s the sort of a chap Curly is,” spoke up Ballard.

“You’re right, Pink,” said Merriwell shortly.

The colonel’s face was a study. Not much could be learned from it,
however, regarding the state of his feelings.

“How is it,” he asked, “that all of you happened to be around at
the time I needed help? Did you and your friends come with Ellis,
Merriwell?”

“We followed him,” Merry answered.

“Followed him?” echoed the other.

“Why, you see,” Merry explained, “we started for Dolliver’s soon after
you left Tinaja Wells, colonel. From what you said, I gathered the
impression that you believed Darrel had something to do with the way
Clancy and I lit into Lenning, on account of that coyote dog. I was
afraid he’d hear of it, and I wanted to talk the matter over with him.
Besides, I had it in mind to call up Mr. Bradlaugh on the phone from
Dolliver’s, and tell him how matters were getting complicated.”

“I tried that myself,” said the colonel, “but discovered that Mr.
Bradlaugh was out of town.” “Perhaps it’s just as well I couldn’t talk
with him,” he added.

“When we reached Dolliver’s,” Frank resumed, “we were told that Darrel
had left to go to Camp Hawtrey. I didn’t stop to telephone, but turned
and followed him!”

“Why did Ellis start for our camp?”

“He wanted to talk with you—to try and patch up our differences on
account of what happened yesterday.”

“Just an errand of his own out of mere friendship for you, eh?”

“That’s about the size of it, sir.”

“What did you follow him for?”

“Well,” said Frank bluntly, “I wasn’t sure how he’d be treated at Camp
Hawtrey. And then, too, I thought it was foolish of him to try and get
you to change your mind regarding me.”

“Ah!” A queer smile crossed the colonel’s face as he bent down to rub
the knee that had lately been pinned under the bowlder. “You didn’t
have much confidence,” he finished, “in my ideas of fair play?”

“Not when you were banking on information furnished by Jode. I
couldn’t——”

“Darrel’s coming around, Chip,” broke in Clancy.

Merriwell stepped close to Darrel’s side. The lad’s eyes were open and
he was staring up into the faces that bent over him.

“Gee, what a mix-up!” were Darrel’s first words. “I must have stepped
out for a few minutes, I reckon. Who sic’d that coyote dog on Jode?”

“The dog was among the rocks, Curly,” Frank answered. “When the
bowlder fell, it scared him out. He tried to get over the top of the
gulch wall, but Pink, Clan, and I were there, and so he whirled and
rushed for the place where Lenning was holed up. How do you feel?”

“I feel as though I’d been too darned ambitious for a sick man. What
the dickens are you doing here, anyway?”

Clancy chuckled.

“We just moseyed along behind you to try and keep you out of trouble,”
he laughed. “And we didn’t make out.”

“You followed me from Dolliver’s?”

“Surest thing you know. You were batty to even think of going to the
Gold Hill camp. Chip fretted about that, and we all started after you.”

“Well, well!” Darrel changed his position a little and then wriggled
into a sitting posture. “Was the colonel hurt?”

“No, my lad,” said the colonel, stepping closer and speaking for
himself. “I’m all right, thanks to you. You reached the fuse just in
the nick of time, although I’d have sworn you couldn’t make it. What
did you mean by disregarding my orders to turn back?”

“I wasn’t caring a whoop about orders,” said Darrel. “If you gave any I
don’t believe I heard them, anyhow. I know I pinched out the fire, but
what I was wondering was whether you had been hurt by that bowlder.”

The colonel explained how he had escaped injury from the falling rock.

“I’m afraid,” he added, “that you’ve done that arm of yours little good
by this day’s work. If you feel able, you might come along to the camp
with me. We can make you comfortable there, and——”

Darrel shook his head.

“I’m obliged to you, colonel,” he answered, “but I reckon Dolliver’s is
the best place for me for a while.”

“You’re able to ride back there?”

“Yes, and with ground to spare.”

The colonel came closer and stood over Darrel.

“Do you want to shake hands with me?” he asked.

The boy flushed. “I want to,” he answered, “but I’m not going to
until—until I can read my title clear. You know what I mean, colonel.”

“I think so,” was Hawtrey’s answer, and it was not difficult for Frank
to see that the stern old man was pleased.

“I’d like to ask one thing of you, sir,” Darrel went on.

“What is that?”

“Why, that you’ll take Merriwell’s word as to what happened near Camp
Hawtrey yesterday afternoon. If you knew him as well as I do, colonel,
you wouldn’t hesitate a minute.”

“I don’t think,” answered the colonel dryly, “that I shall hesitate
quite so much as I did yesterday afternoon. I’ll come over to Tinaja
Wells this evening, Merriwell,” he finished, turning to Frank, “and
then I will have something to add to our interesting conference of this
afternoon. Good-by, Darrel! Good-by, my lads.”

The colonel turned and limped off up the gulch in the direction of Camp
Hawtrey. He was hardly out of sight before Merriwell stooped down and
caught Darrel by the hand.

“Old man,” said he heartily, “you’ve made a big winning this
afternoon. If we’d manufactured the thing to order it could not have
turned out better. The old colonel had a chance to strike a balance
between you and Jode. His eyes have been opened, and he has seen for
himself just what sort of a fellow Jode is.”

“It happened just about right, that’s a fact,” returned Darrel. “The
old boy has had a hard blow, but you’d never know it to look at him.
That’s his way.”

“That picture he saw of Jode, neck-and-necking it down the hill with
the coyote dog,” laughed Clancy, “will live in his memory a good long
while.”

“What will he say to Jode?” queried Ballard. “I’d like to be around and
hear it.”

“No one can ever tell what the colonel will do,” said Darrel. “Jode, I
reckon, will have a hard time explaining why he ran down the hill when
he ought to have been yanking that blazing fuse out by the roots.”

“We’d better be starting back to Dolliver’s,” put in Merry. “Where’s
your horse, Curly?”

Darrel told where the horse had been left. While Merriwell went after
it, Clancy and Ballard climbed the slope to get the three mounts that
had been left on top of the gulch wall.

Half an hour afterward all the boys were riding down the gulch, en
route to Dolliver’s. They formed about the happiest party that had
ever traveled that particular trail. There had been a rift in the
black clouds of injustice and suspicion that had hung for so long
above Darrel’s head, and through the rift the sun of hope was shining.
Darrel’s luck had taken a sudden turn for the better.




                            CHAPTER XXXVI.

                           A CHANGE OF MIND.


As soon as the boys reached Dolliver’s, they put Darrel to bed and sent
in a telephone call for the doctor. Mr. Bradlaugh was back in town,
and he brought the doctor out in his automobile. While an examination
was being made to see whether Darrel’s arm had suffered any from the
exciting events of the afternoon, Merriwell was out at the car, going
over all the details of the affair for Mr. Bradlaugh’s benefit.

Merry began at the beginning, and that means, of course, that he had
to start with the coyote dog and the dynamite cartridge. When he had
finished, the president of the Ophir Athletic Club was breathing a
little harder than usual.

“That’s a most remarkable story, Merriwell,” said he, “and the most
remarkable part of it, to my mind, is the way Hawtrey let that pesky
nephew of his make a fool of him. He’d call off the football game,
would he, just because Jode Lenning happened to get into a scrap with
you! Wonder if he thinks that’s good sportsmanship? I wish to thunder
he’d got me on the phone and told me about this himself. Say, maybe I
wouldn’t have read the riot act to him.”

“The colonel has woke up, Mr. Bradlaugh,” laughed Merry, “and I’ll bet
Jode’s about at the end of his string.”

“Let me know what Hawtrey says to you when he calls at the Wells this
evening,” said Mr. Bradlaugh. “I think he knows a whole lot more now
than he did earlier in the afternoon, but he’s a queer proposition, and
you never can tell what he’s going to do. If he’s still a bit offish,
I’ll make it a point to see him myself.”

“What do you think about the way we mixed things with Lenning on
account of the dog?”

“If you hadn’t mixed things with him,” laughed Mr. Bradlaugh, “you’d
have had a chance to mix things with me. Plain brutality to a dumb
brute,” he went on, straightening his face, “is more than I’ll take
from any man.”

The doctor reported that Darrel’s arm had not been injured materially
by the rough usage it had had during the afternoon, but the owner of
the arm was warned to stay in bed for several days and not to try any
horseback exercise until given permission to do so.

Darrel was in a more cheerful frame of mind, when Frank and his chums
left, than he had been in for many a long day. He had accomplished
something for himself, and he knew that he would accomplish more. Best
of all, he had saved the colonel.

It was late when Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard got back to Tinaja
Wells. Handy and Brad were anxiously awaiting their arrival.

“The boys have got wind of something, Chip,” said Handy, “and they’re
all up in the air. I think we’d better break camp and go in to town.”

“I think so, too,” said Merry. “We ought to have a week’s work on the
home field before the game with Gold Hill.”

“Why,” spoke up Brad, “I thought that was all off.”

“So it was,” laughed Merriwell, “but I’ve got a hunch that it will be
on again before long.”

During supper he repeated for the Ophir lads the same account that he
had given to Mr. Bradlaugh at Dolliver’s. As might have been expected,
the recital was greeted with delight by all the campers, and the
demonstration wound up with a volley of cheers for Ellis Darrel.

It was quite fitting, perhaps, that Colonel Hawtrey should arrive at
Tinaja Wells during the cheering. As he strode through the half gloom
and into the light of the cook fire, he pulled off his hat and waved it
about his gray head.

“You’re cheering my nephew, Ellis Darrel,” he shouted, “and I reckon I
ought to be allowed to join in. Now that you’re done with Darrel, why
not give three rousers for Merriwell? Come on, boys, all together!”

With that, the cañon fairly rang with a hearty three times three and a
tiger. When silence finally settled over the camp, the colonel, still
keeping his hat in his hand and his place by the fire, made a brief
address to the Ophir fellows:

“I have come here this evening,” said he, “for the purpose of
apologizing to Merriwell. I misjudged him, and because of that
I crowded him pretty hard in a talk I had with him early in the
afternoon. He took it well, and didn’t pitch into me. I suppose,” and
the speaker laughed, “that he kept hands off on account of my gray
hairs.

“During our conversation, if I remember, I told Merriwell that there
would be no further competitions between the Gold Hill and the Ophir
athletic organizations, and I declared, in pretty strong terms, that
there’d be no football game next Thanksgiving Day. Well, I’ve changed
my mind about that. The two clubs are going to meet and mingle in all
the contests the games committees can arrange for. And we’re going to
act like true sportsmen, every one of us, just as the chip of the old
block has acted during his trouble on account of the coyote dog. ‘Fair
play and no favor,’ that’s the idea, and we’ll stand up to it as firmly
as Merriwell has done. I reckon that will be all.”

Clancy started the cheering for Colonel Hawtrey, and when it was done,
all the campers flocked around the colonel and shook him by the hand.

“It’s a great day for Ellis Darrel, Clan,” said Merry to his red-headed
chum.

“It’s a great day for everybody, Chip,” answered Clan, “and especially
for true sportsmanship between the clubs.”

“A great day for everybody,” qualified Billy Ballard, “except Jode
Lenning.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.

                      A MATTER OF THIRTY DOLLARS.


“Pink, this is awful!”

Young Merriwell turned a gloomy face toward his chum, Billy Ballard,
who sat beside him in the grand stand. Ballard fell back with a groan.

“Awful, but true, Chip,” he answered. “After all the grinding,
gruelling work of the last few weeks, the regular eleven can’t any more
than hold their own against the scrubs. What’s got into the bunch?”

The scene was that part of the Ophir Athletic Club field which lay
directly in front of the grand stand and contained the gridiron. Two
teams were sweating and struggling with the pigskin—regulars against
the second-string men. The first half was drawing to a close. There
had been no scoring. The scrubs, playing like fiends, were meeting the
regulars at every point and holding them in a most humiliating way.

The regulars were just back from three weeks of hard practice in the
camp at Tinaja Wells. This was the first game since their return to
town, and the first of the preliminary matches which Merry had arranged
previous to the big game with Ophir’s old and successful rival: Gold
Hill.

Merriwell had been looking forward to a fortnight of fine sport,
in which the regulars would distinguish themselves in battles with
the scrubs and with a cowboy eleven from the Bar Z Ranch, gradually
rounding themselves into a harmonious machine which Gold Hill would
find invincible. Frank had fondly imagined that the team he had
drilled so thoroughly and so conscientiously would go through the
remaining two weeks’ of practice in a beautiful romp, piling point
upon point in each preliminary skirmish, and going through its less
experienced opponents with the ease and finish of veterans. But what he
saw that afternoon, from the moment the ball had been put in play, had
made him gasp and rub his eyes.

There was no doubt about it, that cherished team had bounced upon a
reef. It had started in on the despised scrub with a sort of pitying
contempt, evidently planning to exercise restraint and not make too
many touchdowns or kick too many goals. And what had it found? Nothing
less than a bunch of wild cats, playing to win in a perfect fury of
determination, and shaking out the most unexpected tricks from a bag
which no one dreamed they possessed.

Frank was more than pleased with the way the scrubs were distinguishing
themselves, and more than amazed at the sorry exhibition the regulars
were making. The scrubs, for the most part, had remained in town while
the club team had been off in Mohave Cañon, training for battle every
day and going through a course of sprouts calculated to make each and
every member a finished performer.

And now, the result!

In less than five minutes from the kick-off the regulars had lost their
contempt for the scrubs. They awoke to a realization that, in some
mysterious fashion, the scrubs had been transformed into a little army
of brawn and brain—foemen in every way worth of their mettle.

The regulars tried, in a spasm of pique after the Spartan nature of
their fight dawned on their minds, to rush the scrubs off the field.
But the scrubs wouldn’t be rushed. The regulars gritted their teeth and
tried harder. Still nothing doing. A great disappointment took hold of
Merry, and he turned to Ballard and put it in the fewest possible words.

Only Merriwell and Ballard were in the grand stand. Under the stand
there were dressing rooms for visiting players, and into one of these
rooms there had come by stealth a young man with sinister face and evil
and greedy eyes. At a distance of ten or fifteen feet from the two lads
in the stand, the interloper was peering out from between two board
seats, watching the ragged performance of the regular Ophir team and
listening to the gloomy remarks that passed between Merry and Ballard.
A self-satisfied grin crossed the face of the keen-eyed, keen-eared
youth.

That game—and Merriwell was glad in his heart that it was so—was
strictly private. The general public was barred.

Had grand stand and bleachers been thrown open to spectators,
emissaries from Gold Hill might have crept in to watch for vulnerable
points in the work of the Ophir team. For years Gold Hill had been
a winner in its games with Ophir, and was ever on the alert for
advantages that would help to prevent a slip from its enviable record.

This prowler under the benches, chuckling over the disappointment
of the Ophir coach and the ragged work of the Ophir team, was
not there for any good. But for his own daring and ingenuity and
unscrupulousness, he would not have been there at all.

“Thunder!” muttered Merriwell. “Why, Pink, the team isn’t playing half
so well as it did in that little practice game with Gold Hill, on the
mesa at Tinaja Wells!”

“It doesn’t look like the same team, Chip,” replied Ballard. “What’s
got into them? Mayburn’s a joke at center, Doolittle as right tackle is
all that his name implies, and Spink, at quarter, is all balled up. By
George! Say, I’ll bet a peck of prunes against a celluloid collar that
the scrubs score in the next half.”

“No, they won’t,” gritted Merriwell. He was on his feet, taking
personal odds and ends from his trouser’s pockets and stowing them in
his coat. At last he threw off the coat and dropped it where he had
been sitting. “Come on, Pink,” he added, leaping over the rail and into
the field, “you and I have got to get into this.”

The first half was over. Clancy, who was acting as referee, was walking
up and down the side lines, telling the sweating club eleven what he
thought of them. Merriwell stopped him and did a little talking on his
own account. Handy, the captain, seemed utterly demoralized and in a
daze. Even the scrubs seemed a bit awed by what they had accomplished.

Merriwell’s temper was struggling to get the best of him. He had tried,
to the best of his ability, to make a winning team of the club eleven.
But all his work seemed to have gone for nothing. With a tremendous
effort he kept his feelings in check. The look on his face, however,
was enough for the regulars. They knew how intense was Merriwell’s
disappointment, and they realized that they were the cause of it.

“You fellows have got to get together,” said Frank, his voice low and
deliberate. “You play as though it was every fellow for himself, and
seem to forget what I have been pounding into you about teamwork. Every
man is a cog in the machine, and all the cogs have got to work together
if you don’t want the machine to go wrong. There were times, Spink,”
and he turned not unkindly to the quarter, “when it seemed to me as
though you had paralysis of the intellect. It’s just possible that you
got rattled because Handy interfered with you. I saw that.” He faced
the captain. “I guess you got excited, Handy,” he continued, “when
you tried to tease the scrubs and found them giving you a handful.
You know better than to mix in with the work of the quarter back, so
please restrain yourself during the next half, Mayburn,” and he turned
to that husky player, “I’m surprised at you. For the rest of this game
Ballard will play your position and I’ll try and fill Spink’s place. It
would be fine to have the scrubs score against you, wouldn’t it? Get
on your toes and work together during the next half, all of you. And,”
he finished, with a grim smile at the scrubs, “I want you fellows to
do your best and put it over the regulars—if you can. So far, you’ve
played a great game. Keep it up.”

While this talk was going forward, a hand had crept out from between
the seats in the grand stand and had groped for Merriwell’s coat.
Finding the garment, the fingers of the hand closed on it and withdrew
it from sight. At about the time the players took they field for the
second half, the coat had been returned, and the greedy, evil eyes were
again studying the football field.

There was a decided improvement in the work of the club team after
Merriwell and Ballard had taken the places of Spink and Mayburn. But
there was no scoring on the part of the regulars, for the scrubs
continued to hold them and to fight like madmen for every yard in front
of their goal posts. Most of the battling was in scrub territory.

Merriwell had not retired Spink temporarily and taken his place because
the quarter back had become rattled. What Merry wanted was to get into
the game and study at close and active quarters the unsuspected defects
of the Ophir team. All the plays were carefully directed for this one
purpose.

When the scoreless game was finished, the regulars started grimly for
the gymnasium with the second eleven skylarking around them and joshing
them at every step of the way. Frank jumped into the grand stand for
his coat and Ballard’s, and then joined his chums on the way to the
bathrooms.

“What do you think of the performance, Chip?” queried Clancy ruefully.

“I think,” was the reply, “that we’ll have to put in several days of
mighty hard work. Not only that, but I’m going to make one or two
changes in the line-up. I——”

He suddenly came to a dead stop. He had been groping in the pockets of
his coat for the personal property he had left in them. A blank look
overspread his face.

“What’s to pay, old man?” queried Ballard.

“I’ve lost what money I had, somewhere,” was the answer. “Probably it
dropped out of my coat, back there in the grand stand.”

“How much?” asked Clancy.

“A matter of thirty dollars, Clan; twenty-five in bills and some
change.”

Clancy whistled, and Ballard looked ominous.

“I don’t see how it could have dropped out,” said Ballard. “You’re not
usually so careless as all that, Chip.”

“It _must_ have dropped out,” was the reply; “what else could have
happened?”

“Let’s go back and see,” said Clancy.

The three lads returned to the grand stand and made a thorough search.
The money was not in evidence.

“Maybe it fell through between the seats, Chip,” Ballard suggested.
“Let’s go into the dressing rooms under the place where you left your
coat.”

There were no locks on the dressing-room doors, and the lads made a
thorough investigation but without finding any trace of the missing
money. A look of suspicion crossed Clancy’s freckled face.

“A matter of thirty dollars,” said he, “can’t get up and walk off all
by itself. While the game was on, Chip, somebody sneaked into the grand
stand and went through your pockets.”

“Why didn’t the fellow go through mine as well as Chip’s?” queried
Ballard. “I didn’t have any money in my pockets, but——”

“That’s the reason,” said Clancy.

“Keep it quiet,” frowned Merriwell. “I don’t want the Ophir fellows
to think for a moment that we suspect any one. We’ll know some time, I
guess, whether the money was lost or stolen, and just now we’ll think
it’s lost, and keep mum. Come on to the gym.”




                           CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                         MORE DISCOURAGEMENT.


It seemed as though everything was going wrong for Merriwell. As if
the poor showing of the regular eleven, after weeks of practice, was
not sufficiently discouraging, this loss of the thirty dollars had to
happen by way of heaping up the measure.

While Frank was getting his shower and his rub-down, his thoughts were
about equally divided between the ragged work of the players and the
mysterious disappearance of the money.

So far as the football team was concerned, two weeks yet remained
before the game with Gold Hill, and the young coach grimly resolved
that at least ten days of the fourteen should see such driving practice
as the squad had never known. He would change the line-up, pound the
whole machine into form, and give Ophir a winning team in spite of fate!

Merry knew, from practical experience, just how much could be
accomplished in two weeks—provided a fellow went at it hard enough. He
would give the eleven a drilling which would make the time spent at
Tinaja Wells look like a loafing bee.

Having made up his mind to this, the discouraging afternoon’s work on
the grid lost much of its sting. What sting there was left, merely
roweled the coach’s determination to give Ophir a winning eleven.

Merry was the son of the best all-round athlete and coach the country
had ever known. That fact was universally admitted. The lad, his white
skin glowing under the manipulations of the Mexican rubber, felt the
old indomitable spirit tingling through his veins. He would show them,
by Jove! He would prove that he was a chip off the old block! Down in
that out-of-the-way corner of Arizona he would lick that pioneer team
into shape—or he’d know the reason why.

Somehow or other, young Merriwell experienced a glow of satisfaction.
There was a fascination in overcoming difficulties—in winning success
in spite of them. Where’s the credit if a fellow romps to victory
without any opposing hardships? It takes the hard knocks, the glowering
possibilities of failure, to put us “on our toes” and make us buck the
line of fate with a do-or-die determination to “get there.”

Merry had reached that point. Hovering disaster caused him to reach out
and lay firm hold of the invincible spirit that every lad, if he is
worth his salt, has always at the back of his nature. And this spirit
is alive with electric force. Every fellow who falls back upon it feels
a thrill in every nerve. This it was that brought Merry his glow of
satisfaction.

Having conquered the disturbing features of the practice game, the
lad’s thoughts turned to the loss of the money. There was not an
avaricious hair in his head, and it was not the mere fact that he was
minus thirty dollars that bothered him; it was the ugly suspicion that
there might be a thief among some of those Ophir fellows. He hated to
think it, and it was because of the fact that, even in thought, he did
not want to do the Ophir club an injustice, that he had warned Clancy
and Ballard to keep mum on the subject of the lost money.

Oddly enough, there was a pocket piece mixed up with the missing
silver, and the most of Merry’s regret centered about that. It was
a silver half dollar, neatly plugged, which had been “worked off” on
Merry by some one in Sandstone, Cal. When he found that the fifty-cent
piece was minted in the year of his birth, he immediately accepted
it as a souvenir. With the lapse of time a sentimental interest had
developed in the coin and Merriwell hated to lose it.

By the time the regulars and the scrubs got out of the gym, the
hilarity of the second-string men had faded. They had played a good
game and, with unexpected luck, had held the regulars. The joy aroused
by this excellent showing had manifested itself directly after the
game, but the scrubs had been doing a little reflecting while taking
their showers and getting into their clothes.

Every member of the O.  A.  C. was fiercely eager to win the coming
game with Gold Hill. If the club team, after weeks of coaching, could
not take a game from a picked-up eleven, what chances would it have
with Gold Hill? This thought pushed aside the joys of the afternoon,
and filled scrubs, as well as regulars, with painful doubts.

Merry emerged smiling from the bathrooms. As he came out into the
groups of players, lingering in front of the gym, many a glum face was
turned wonderingly in his direction. What meant that sunny, confident
smile on the face of the coach? Was it possible that he had seen
anything hopeful in the afternoon’s miserable work?

Hannibal Bradlaugh, son of the president of the club, stepped up to
Merry.

“I reckon, Chip,” said he, “that you think that this club team is a
joke. Is that what amuses you?”

“It’s not a joke, Brad,” laughed Merry, “although it has tried to be
one this afternoon. During the next two weeks I’m going to show you
fellows what real work is, see? And, when we face Gold Hill you’re
going to win. Regulars and scrubs will be here at two-thirty, Monday
afternoon. To-morrow, Handy,” he added, to the captain of the club
team, “you and I will have a little talking match at the Ophir House.”

Hope, like the measles, is “catching.” All the players, even to Spink,
Mayburn and Doolittle, began to feel better.

As Merry walked through the clubhouse, on his way to the trail that led
back to town, he was halted by Mr. Bradlaugh, the club’s president. Mr.
Bradlaugh’s face was long and gloomy. There was a curious gleam in his
eyes as they fixed themselves upon Merry’s smiling face.

“Gad,” murmured the president, “you don’t seem worried, Merriwell.”

“Where were you when the balloon went up, Mr. Bradlaugh?” Frank
inquired.

“On the clubhouse balcony, watching the ascension. What’s got into the
boys?”

“Just an off day with them, I think. That will happen to the best
teams, you know.”

“I was badly disappointed. After three weeks at Tinaja Wells, the
eleven seems to put up a poorer article of football than they did when
they left here to go into camp. I’m afraid they’ve been having too good
a time, up the cañon.”

“They worked hard and faithfully at the Wells, Mr. Bradlaugh,” declared
Frank. “The change from the mesa to their home field may have had a
bad effect on them. Come Monday afternoon and watch them, and I think
you’ll see something worth while. We have two weeks before the big
game, and, by then, the squad will be tinkered into winning form.”

“Not two weeks, Merriwell.”

Frank started and flung a quick look at Mr. Bradlaugh.

“Has there been a change in the date?” he asked.

“There has. Colonel Hawtrey and I had a talk about Thanksgiving Day,
and made up our minds that it’s time we followed the practice that
prevails in the East. We’ll not play any more on that particular day,
and we decided that our respective clubs will come together on Saturday
afternoon of next week.”

Frank’s smile faded. The time for whipping the team into shape had been
cut down one-half. Seven days were left—six days, with Sunday out—and
not all of those six days could be given to hard work. The practice
should slow up for two days before the game.

“Holy smoke!” he muttered. “When did all this happen?”

“This morning,” Mr. Bradlaugh answered. “I haven’t had a chance to tell
you before. Had I seen the work of our men previous to my conference
with Colonel Hawtrey, you may be sure that I should have put off the
big game as long as possible. Now it’s too late. A week from to-day we
face Gold Hill. What can you do in that short time?”

“This is a crack right between the eyes,” murmured Frank, “and it
knocks all my calculations galley west.”

“It’s certainly discouraging,” agreed Mr. Bradlaugh, “but there’s no
help for it. I hear that the Gold Hillers are playing the game as
they never played it before. They have a new coach who seems to have
inaugurated some new plays and a whole lot of improvements.”

“A new coach?” echoed Frank. “What’s his name?”

“Guffey. I’ve heard that he’s a phenomenon, not only as a coach, but as
a player.”

Merriwell’s face clouded. Here was more discouraging news, and he
couldn’t help wondering where the lightning was going to strike next.

Mr. Bradlaugh was quick to note the change in Frank’s face and manner.
He knew the young coach’s hopes had received a severe setback, and he
tried to temper the blow.

“I don’t know who this Guffey is,” said he, “and I don’t care. You’re a
heap better than he is, and I’ll bank on it.”

A ghost of a smile flickered about the boy’s lips.

“I’ve been coaching the Ophir team for a long time, Mr. Bradlaugh,” he
remarked, “and you saw the afternoon’s performance. It wasn’t a credit
to me any more than it was to the eleven.”

“That’s the wrong way to look at it,” was the warm response. “If you
haven’t the material to work with, what can you do?”

“I’ve got the material,” insisted Frank. “Your son is a crack half
back; Handy, at full, and Spink, at quarter, are class A, and I haven’t
any fault to find with the rest of the men. There’ll be some shifting,
though, and I may take a couple of players from the scrubs for the
regulars.”

“Suppose this Guffey gets into the Gold Hill line-up? He’s an amateur,
the colonel tells me, and, by our rules, is qualified to play. Will you
jump into the fight if Guffey does?”

“I’m going to do all I can to make Ophir win,” Frank answered
determinedly.

“You still have hopes, then?”

The young coach had again got himself well in hand. The obstacles were
thickening, and, because of them, final victory over Gold Hill would be
a prize worth while.

“Ophir is going to win!” he declared, and there was a look on his face
and a gleam in his dark eyes that went far to dispel the president’s
gloomy forebodings.

“You’re a brick!” said Mr. Bradlaugh, clapping Frank on the shoulder.
“That’s the spirit, my lad, that leads many a forlorn hope to victory.
We’re going to win—I consider that settled. If you’re on your way back
to town, jump into my car and I’ll take you. I was only waiting for a
word with you before I started.”

The clubhouse and athletic field were a short mile out of Ophir. On the
way back Merry communed with himself and took heart out of his very
discouragements.

The poor showing of the club team, the short time in which to make a
winner out of it, the good work of Gold Hill under Guffey—all these
things Merry considered well; and, in the final summing up, they merely
spurred him to fresh endeavors. He was out for Gold Hill’s scalp, and
he was going to get it.

That night, in a most peculiar way, some more disturbing details were
brought home to him. It was about one in the morning when he heard a
pebble rattle against the window of his room. He got up, lifted the
window cautiously, and looked out into the dark.

“It’s Bleeker,” came a low voice, “Bleeker, of Gold Hill. Don’t give
me away, Merriwell, but come down. I’ve something I want to tell you.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIX.

                           GOOD INTENTIONS.


Clancy occupied the room with Merriwell. The latter, in order to make
as little noise as possible, slipped on his shoes but made no attempt
to get out of his pajamas and into his clothes. Softly opening the hall
door, he stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, descended the stairs,
and got clear of the hotel without arousing any one.

“This way, Merriwell,” said Bleeker, in a low tone, appearing suddenly
out of the shadows and moving off toward the rear of the building.

Frank followed him, and they presently halted at a board fence.

“I reckon we can talk here,” observed Bleeker, “without any one getting
next to what we say.”

“This is quite a surprise party, Bleeker,” said Frank. “I don’t often
have a friend steal in on me like a thief in the night, just to make a
sociable call.”

“You know what people might think, if I came over to this town in broad
day, hunted you up, and had a talk with you? I’m from Gold Hill, and I
used to be on the Gold Hill eleven until Jode Lenning gave me the sack.
If I happened to be seen here, people would say I am sore, and that I’m
trying to get even with Lenning by handing you a little information
that will help when Ophir goes up against our crowd next Saturday.
That’s what they’d say, Merriwell, and you know it,” Bleeker grunted.
“I’m no traitor, and, while I may feel as though Jode has played it
pretty low down on me, you can bet I’m not settling scores with him by
doing our eleven any dirt. Understand that, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Frank answered.

“By sneaking over here, like this, and palavering with you, I’m trying
to be white, that’s all. I’d like to do something to help Ellis Darrel.”

Frank’s interest went up several notches, at that.

“I know you’re a friend of Darrel’s,” said he, “and I know that you
and Hotchkiss got Lenning down on you while the Gold Hill crowd was in
camp a few miles from Tinaja Wells, at Camp Hawtrey. Are the Gold Hill
fellows still in the gulch?”

“No, Lenning brought them back to town the next day after your crowd
hiked for Ophir. Lenning kicked Hotch and me out of camp because we
stood up for Darrel. Jode hasn’t any use for a fellow who tries to be a
friend of his half brother’s.”

“Well, Bleek,” said Frank, “Darrel has acted like a brick all through
this trouble of his; and, you take it from me, that blot on the shield
is going to be rubbed out. One of these days Darrel will be able to
take his uncle by the hand, and the consequences of that forgery are
going to be dropped onto somebody else.”

“Now you are shouting, Merriwell!” exclaimed Bleeker eagerly. “I never
thought Darrel had anything to do with that, and there are a few more,
over in the Hill, who have been of the same opinion right along.”

“Who do you think did the job and arranged to involve Darrel?”

“First off, who’d be the gainer if Darrel lost his uncle’s good will?
When you want to figure out a thing, the proper way is to find the chap
with a motive. Now, you know Colonel Hawtrey is rich, and that the
only relatives he has in the world are his two nephews, Jode Lenning
and Ellis Darrel. Wouldn’t Lenning come in for all the old colonel’s
property if Darrel was disgraced and run out? Sure he would. The fellow
with the motive was Lenning. And that motive, by thunder, has been
cropping out ever since Darrel came back.”

This subject was intensely interesting to Merriwell. He had thrown
himself heart and soul into the task of redeeming the good name of his
new chum, Ellis Darrel, and he believed that now events were forming
which would bring about that result.

“Bleeker,” said Frank earnestly. “I’ve heard that about the time this
forgery was committed you and Jode Lenning were pretty thick. If that’s
so, then you ought to know something about the forgery.”

Bleeker was silent for a space. Leaning against the fence, he bent his
head and pulled aimlessly at a sliver on one of the posts.

“You’ve hit it about right, Merriwell,” said he, at last. “Being
friendly with Lenning was no credit to me, but he had money and I
didn’t, and he had influence with the colonel and stood pretty high
in the athletic club—and the colonel had founded the club. I knuckled
under to Lenning—I reckon you’d call it toadying. If there were any
favors to be passed around, Lenning saw to it that I got my share. I
had a finger in every athletic pie the club cut open, and several plums
came my way. This wouldn’t have happened, you see, if I hadn’t been
training with Jode. I was wide of the right trail, Merriwell, but I got
to know Jode as few know him. Ever since our outfit camped in the gulch
I’ve done a lot of thinking about El Darrel and Jode Lenning, and I
made up my mind that Jode and his influence wasn’t worth a single jab
my conscience has been giving me for months. As soon as I woke up, and
Jode found it out, he got mad and made me leave the camp.”

Bleeker had been talking in a shamed sort of way, with his head bowed.
He now looked up, and the moonlight shone full in his face, bringing
out the contrition that lurked there in strong lights and shadows.

“I’ve sneaked out of Gold Hill,” he went on, “and into Ophir, as you
said a spell ago, ‘like a thief in the night,’ but I’ve done it because
I’m trying to act white after acting the other way for longer than I
care to think about. I want,” and the words rushed forth in a torrent
of eagerness, “to help El Darrel wipe that blot from his shield. I
can’t do much myself, Merriwell, but I reckon I can help you.”

A thrill ran through Merriwell. When a fellow has been traveling the
wrong path, and by and by turns of his own accord into the right one,
there is a pleasure in meeting him halfway and going on together. Frank
grabbed the hand from the post and shook it cordially.

“Bleek,” said he, “you’re all right. You and Hotch began helping Darrel
some time ago, and if we can work in double harness and show Hawtrey
that he had nothing to do with that forgery, it will be one of the
finest things that ever happened.”

That Bleeker was pleased by Merriwell’s attitude was plain. His form
straightened, his shoulders went back, and he returned the other’s
handclasp with a strong and determined grip.

“It will,” he said, “and I think you can bring it around. You will be
making a star play, Merriwell, and I shall have the satisfaction of
feeling that I helped. Now, about Jode. I am telling you what everybody
knows when I say that his reckless, hot-headed actions come to him as a
birthright. His father was a desperate character, in some ways, and was
killed in a brawl up in Alaska. Colonel Hawtrey never had anything to
do with Lenning’s father, and it was only when the elder Lenning died,
and Mrs. Lenning married Darrel, that the colonel and his sister became
reconciled. If you’re next to this, maybe you won’t blame Jode quite
so much for the way he’s been acting. What a fellow inherits must have
something to do with his conduct.”

“A little, Bleek,” said Frank, “but not a whole lot. My father has told
me that a fellow must build his own character, and not try to blame his
folks when he goes wrong. But, look here. After the way Lenning showed
himself up to the colonel, at the time Darrel saved him from the blast,
I suppose there’s a coolness between the two? Certainly Lenning isn’t
still on the Gold Hill eleven?”

“The colonel’s a queer stick,” was the answer. “There’s been no
flare-up between the two, and Jode is still king bee at the Gold Hill
Athletic Club. What do you make out of that?”

Merriwell was astounded. How was it possible for the stern old colonel,
after having Jode’s “yellow streak” show itself so clearly under his
very eyes, still to keep on friendly terms with the fellow? Merriwell
was not only amazed, but a bit indignant.




                              CHAPTER XL.

                      THE MYSTERIOUS BILLY SHOUP.


“That gets my goat, and no mistake!” said Merriwell disgustedly. “For
doing nothing at all, Colonel Hawtrey drives Darrel out of his house,
but when Lenning shows himself a cur, the colonel hasn’t a thing to
say. It makes me sick!”

“It’s certainly a brain twister, the way Hawtrey acts,” muttered
Bleeker. “All Gold Hill is sitting up nights, trying to figure it out.
Somehow, you know, it doesn’t seem like the old colonel at all. He’s
sharp and savage when anything ruffles him, and people just about
expected he’d flay Lenning and nail his hide to the front door. All he
did, though, was to pat Lenning on the shoulder and congratulate him on
the way he got clear of the coyote dog.”

Merriwell acted as though he was stunned. His feelings, at that moment,
were too deep for words.

“Lenning,” Bleeker went on, “had already asked the colonel to send for
this chap Guffey to coach the eleven. Lenning, as captain of the Gold
Hill eleven, was scared by the way the Ophir boys held his squad in
that practice game you had at Tinaja Wells. He wanted a bang-up coach,
and asked the colonel for Guffey. Nobody had ever heard of Guffey—that
is, nobody except Lenning—and the colonel sort of held off about
getting him. It wasn’t until after Jode showed his yellow streak that
the colonel had Guffey come on. They say he’s a whirlwind.”

“How old is he?” Merry inquired, his interest taking a new tack.

“Twenty, maybe—not over that.”

“Where did he come from?”

“No sabe.”

“What does he look like?”

“Hair black as ink, eyes a washed-out blue——”

“Queer combination!”

“And you’d swear, to give him a keen sizing, that he was an athlete and
had gone wrong with some kind of dope. His skin’s a dead white, and
there are puffs under his eyes. He soft foots it around like a wild
cat, and acts so nervous you think he’s getting ready to spring. But he
can deliver the goods. They say he has done wonders with the Gold Hill
eleven.”

“If he’s a professional athlete——”

“He’s not. Everybody has the colonel’s word for that. But Guffey, you
take it from me, is as crooked as a dog’s hind foot.”

“If he’s a dope fiend,” said Frank, “he’s pretty apt to be crooked.
Fellows of that sort may be brilliant, at times, but it’s only a flash
while they’re in the power of the drug. Take the drug away from them
and they’re human jellyfish. None of them last long.”

“That may be, but your crowd will have to go some if you make a
clean-up next Saturday.”

Merry received this remark in thoughtful silence. He was wondering
about this Guffey person, and where and how he had made himself such a
phenomenal coach.

“Well, Bleek,” said he presently, “let’s drop Guffey and get back to
Curly Darrel. I want to do what I can to help him, and you haven’t
dipped very deep into anything as yet.”

“I’m coming to that right now.” Bleeker straightened and peered
cautiously around into the wavering shadows. “We’re all by ourselves
here, aren’t we?” he asked.

“The only people who are anywhere near us are in the hotel, and they’re
all asleep,” said Frank reassuringly.

“What I tell you is in strict confidence.”

“Sure. You can trust me, can’t you? Fire away.”

“Has Darrel ever told you how he happened to get mixed up in that
forgery affair?”

“He has said mighty little about it. I don’t think he knows very
much himself. He told me that he made a wrong move—a move he always
regretted. Lenning was drinking and gambling on the q.  t., and
managing to keep it away from the colonel, so Darrel side-stepped and
went into it himself. One night he gambled and grew sort of hazy;
couldn’t remember what happened; and when he had his wits, next day,
the forged check for five hundred showed up, and the fellow who had it
said Darrel had given it to him to square a gambling debt. But Darrel
couldn’t remember a thing about it.”

“I was one of a party of four when that happened,” said Bleeker
huskily, and fairly driving the words out.

“You were?” Frank returned excitedly.

“It hurts like the devil to say it, but I believe it’s a duty. Yes, I
was there. Besides myself, there were Darrel, a fellow who lives in
Gold Hill, and the mysterious Billy Shoup.”

“Lenning wasn’t around?”

“No. We had had one or two drinks—first and only time I ever touched
the stuff, and I’ve registered a solemn vow that it will be the
last—and I noticed that El was acting queerly. There was a far-away
look in his eyes, and when you spoke to him it seemed like he had to
come back from a thousand miles away before he could answer you. Shoup
poured the stuff we drank, and I’ve thought since that he dropped
something into El’s glass. I can’t be sure of that, but I know he had
his hand over the glass before he set it down. The other chap and I got
out of money, and when we left Darrel and Shoup were still at it. I
tried to get El to go home, and nearly had a fight with Shoup because
I did. El just sat in his chair and stared at me, never making a move
to leave. Next day Shoup offered the forged check to the colonel. The
colonel took five hundred from his safe, gave it to Shoup, and then
very neatly kicked him down the front steps.”

“This has all the earmarks of a plot, and no mistake,” muttered Merry.

“It has,” agreed Bleeker. “I’ve been a year turning it over in my mind
and coming to that conclusion.”

“Didn’t you go to Hawtrey and tell him about what happened?”

“No. Don’t blame me for that, Merriwell. I thought, at the time, that
perhaps Darrel might have put the colonel’s name to the check. And
then, consider my own situation. I didn’t want it known that I had been
guzzling poison with a fellow like Shoup.”

“Shoup! You called him a moment ago ‘the mysterious Billy Shoup.’ Why
did you do that?”

“Because he was a stranger in Gold Hill. No one knew where he came
from, nor where he went. I saw him just twice—the night we gambled and
the next afternoon. He and Lenning were in the cañon, palavering. They
didn’t see me, and I didn’t care to see Shoup, so I hustled away. I
told Lenning about it afterward, and he said he’d kill me if I ever
mentioned having seen him with Shoup. He explained that he thought
Shoup had done some crooked work, and he had been trying to pump him
and do something for Darrel.”

“Fine!” exclaimed Merry scornfully. “A fat lot Lenning was doing for
his half brother.”

“That night,” proceeded Bleeker, “Billy Shoup faded out of Gold Hill,
and no one in town has heard anything about him since. That’s why I
called him the mysterious Billy Shoup.”

“Regular gambler, wasn’t he?”

“He didn’t look it. Rather youngish, he was—nineteen or twenty—and he
had a mop of hair about the color of tow. That’s all, Merriwell,” and
Bleeker drew a long breath. “I’ve got it off my chest, at last. Jumping
sandhills, what a fix a little gambling and drinking will get a fellow
into! I had my lesson, and I’ll bet El had his. If Darrel hadn’t been a
bit wild, he’d never have got mixed up in that forgery trouble.”

“And the night you were with Shoup, Jode Lenning was—where?”

“At home with the colonel, reading to him in his study. He was doing
the dutiful, you see, and going to bed early.”

“Doing the dutiful for a purpose,” commented Merriwell scathingly.

“That’s what I think. He got Shoup to come on and throw the hooks into
El—that’s the way I size it up.”

“How can it be proved?”

“Search me. That’s where your star play comes in, Merriwell. It’s up to
you to find Billy Shoup and make him talk. I’ve given you all the facts
I have, and you’re welcome to go ahead and use them.”

“It’s a pretty big proposition, Bleek,” said Merriwell disappointedly.
“This confounded Shoup is so mysterious that we haven’t the first thing
in the way of a clew. Perhaps the whole affair could be got out of
Lenning?”

“You don’t know Lenning! He’s a fox.”

Merriwell leaned over the fence and looked up at the moon and stars,
riding in all the calm serenity of an Arizona night. Bleeker had
offered him something to work on in helping Darrel, but it was
something which broke in his hands like a rope of sand. Where was Billy
Shoup? A year had passed since his mysterious visit to Gold Hill,
and a great many things may happen in a year to a fellow of Shoup’s
probable stamp. Was the fellow still alive? If so, would he be East
or West? He had a wide country for his roaming, and hunting for a
needle in a haystack was easy work compared with the task of locating
him. If found, would it be possible to make him talk? Hardly. If he
admitted forging the check himself, he merely cleared his own path
to the penitentiary. If he confessed that Lenning had furnished the
check, then it was a matter of his unsupported word against that of the
favorite nephew. There was no doubt as to which of the pair the colonel
would believe.

“I’ve put it up to you, Merriwell,” said Bleeker, at last, “and now I
reckon I’ll point for Gold Hill. I have a horse, out in the brush, and
the animal is probably getting tired waiting for me.”

“You’ve shed a little light, Bleeker,” said Frank, dropping his
troubled eyes from the sky and resting them on the face of the lad from
Gold Hill, “but I’ll be darned if I know what I can do. Isn’t there any
way we can pick up a clew as to the whereabouts of Shoup?”

“Not that I know of. Lenning could probably give a clew, but he
wouldn’t. He knows what it would mean to him.”

“Any objection to my repeating what you have said to Darrel? He’ll be
in Ophir some time during the week—Dolliver’s ranch can’t hold him very
long.”

“He knows most of what I’ve told you,” answered Bleeker, “but you can
tell him as much as you please. If I hear of anything that will help,
I’ll get the information to you, somehow. I’ve a hunch that Darrel’s
going to come out of this all right. But I reckon you don’t believe in
hunches, eh? Well, anyhow, I’ve done what I could. So long, Merriwell,
and good luck.”

The Gold Hill lad who had tried to be “white” shook Merry’s hand and
moved swiftly and noiselessly off into the gloom. Merry stood and
watched him until he had disappeared, then slowly and carefully made
his way back into the hotel.

“I’d give a hundred dollars,” he said to himself, “if I knew where to
find this mysterious Billy Shoup.”




                             CHAPTER XLI.

                           THE MAN THE BOX.


“Where’s the water?”

Merriwell stirred and opened his eyes. He was usually an early riser,
but an hour or two had been chopped out of his sleeping schedule during
the night by Bleeker. For this reason he wasn’t so prompt in beating
Clancy out of bed that morning, as was generally the case.

Clancy had just husked himself out of his pajamas and was standing
wrathfully over a washtub—an empty washtub.

“Who’s trying to hold the morning dip out on me?” demanded Clancy,
throwing a look of suspicion at Merry.

“How do I know?” asked Merry. “Don’t be so darned ambitious on a Sunday
morning. Bottle up and let a fellow sleep.”

With that he knocked the red-headed chap off his balance with a pillow.
There was a great racket as Clancy sat down hard in the empty tub.

“No one can do that to me and live,” hissed Clancy, wriggling out of
the tub and rushing at his chum.

It was the duty of Woo Sing, Chinese roustabout in the hotel, to fill
the tub with cold water. The first lad out of bed took his plunge, and
the second one up had to empty and fill the tub for himself. Now Woo
Sing, who was allowed an honorarium for his work, had failed in his
duty.

While Merry and Clancy were laughing and pounding each other with
pillows, a screech from the back yard claimed their attention. The
screech was followed by a wild assortment of words in three separate
and distinct voices.

“China boy fillee tub, by Klismas!”

“Py shinks, I fill dot tub myselluf, und dot’s all aboudt it.”

“Me, I fill de tub.”

Merry and Clancy stepped away from each other, listened, and then moved
toward a window. A look into the back yard at once disclosed the reason
why the bath water had not been provided.

The Chinaman evidently had started for the second floor of the hotel
with a filled pail, but before he could get into the building he had
been waylaid by Fritz Gesundheit and the Mexican, Silva. The Dutchman
and the Mexican had each laid hold of the pail, and all three were
glaring at each other over the top of it.

Fritz, otherwise Carrots, was out of a job now that the Ophir fellows
had come in from Tinaja Wells, and the same was equally true of Silva.
Carrying water for the bath had looked like easy money to the Dutchman
and the Mexican, and each of them had made up his mind to kick Chinese
labor off the job and monopolize the work and the honorarium. Woo Sing,
however, was registering objections.

“Lettee go pail!” cried the Chinaman. “No lettee go, my bleakee head!
By jim klickets, Melican sons guns no makee fool business allee same
China boy!”

“_Caramba!_” breathed Silva darkly. “De water ees mine for carry. I
make insist. Hands off de pail, _muy pronto_!”

“By Shiminy,” wheezed fat Fritz, “I vas gedding my mad oop like I can’t
tell! I take der pail myselluf.”

Then began a savage tussle with the pail of water as the bone of
contention. It proved a mighty unsatisfactory bone to fight over, for
as it heaved and jumped under the straining hands and arms, a quart
went into the Dutchman’s face and a cupful found its way down the
Mexican’s back. This caused little damage, apart from putting a keener
edge on the tempers of Fritz and Silva. Ceasing the struggle for the
pail, they began giving their attention to each other.

There was a close and animated tangle of heads, arms, and legs—the
pail somewhere in the midst. As the massed combatants surged back
and forth, they left a trail of water; and their cries, which were
wild and continuous, were all awash and filled with strangles and bad
words—words on which they choked.

Merriwell and Clancy, at the second-story window, were enjoying the
spectacle hugely. It seemed to be reaching a serious phase, however,
and they were just thinking of putting a stop to it when the Chinaman’s
heels went into the air and the Dutchman and the Mexican fell away from
him.

Woo Sing, by some weird mischance, had taken a header. The pail
happened to be placed so as to receive him. For half a minute he was
emerged to the shoulders in the pail, his sandaled heels kicking the
air. It was a mirthful exhibition, and Fritz and Silva enjoyed it.

“Haw, haw, haw!” the Dutchman wheezed. “Vat a funny Chinaman I don’d
know! See, vonce, how he kicks his heels mit der air, und keeps his
headt der pail in! Iss der vater py der pail? Yah, so hellup me! Vill
der Chinaman be trowned? Dere iss not so mooch goot luck!”

“_Madre mia!_” tittered the Mexican, holding up against the pump while
he gasped and chuckled and roared. “Dat ees no Chinaman, dat ees one
frog! De frog he take one dive in de pail, and he make t’ink de pail
ees a pond—har, har, har!”

Woo Sing, about as mad a Chinaman as one could find, succeeded at last
in getting his feet on the ground. Half strangled, he lifted himself
erect. Now that he was right side up, of course the pail was upside
down. A flood of water was released and rolled over the Chinaman
like a tidal wave. His kimono and baggy breeches were soaked. With a
sputtering whoop, he tore the pail from his head and hurled it at Fritz.

The pail caught the Dutchman in the pit of the stomach, doubling him
up with something besides laughter. Having attended to Fritz, the
water-soaked Celestial rushed at Silva.

The Mexican, in jumping away from the pump, hit the handle with his
knee. It flew up and struck him a terrific blow under the chin. While
Silva was thus more or less demoralized, the Chinaman fell on him and
bore him down.

Fritz, who had by a valiant effort succeeded in getting his breath
back, was “seeing red.” Reckless of consequences, he picked up a club
and started to even up matters with Woo Sing. The mêlée was becoming
too serious to be tolerated any further. Up to that point Merry and
Clancy had enjoyed the performance in the back yard immensely.

Clancy leaned out of the window to shout a yell of warning. Merry,
however, pulled him back, a mirthful glimmer in his dark eyes.

“I’ll stop it, Clan,” he whispered. “Watch.”

Merriwell was past master in the art of “throwing his voice.”
Ventriloquism had afforded him a good deal of fun, and had occasionally
been of decided benefit to him and his affairs.

Near the kitchen woodpile was a large box. It was empty and Pophagan,
proprietor of the hotel, had thrown it into the backyard to be broken
to pieces and used for kindling. The box was still intact, however.

“Stop that!” boomed a deep voice, apparently coming from inside the
box. “No more of that rough-house or I’ll put you all in jail. D’you
hear?”

The voice was heard, plainly enough. The effect was startling.

“_Ach, du lieber!_” sputtered Fritz, all his anger fading from him in a
flash. “Who iss dot? Iss it some boliceman?”

“Plaps him p’leeceman,” whimpered Woo Sing, dashing the water out of
his eyes with the back of his hand. “My no likee go to jail! Whoosh!”

“Dat ees muy malo!” chattered Silva, holding his chin and showing the
whites of his eyes. “How you s’pose man get in de box, huh?”

“Dot iss a plame’ funny blace for a man, py shinks!” commented the
wondering Fritz.

“Get me out of here quick,” came the voice from the box, “or I’ll nab
the lot of you!”

“_Caramba!_” gulped the Mexican. “Me, I no like to fool wit’ de box.”

“Mebbyso Melican man gettee stuck in box,” suggested Woo Sing. “Him
wantee out. My no likee one piecee pidgin, too. We helpee him, huh?”

The object for which Merriwell had been striving had been accomplished.
Peace reigned among the three in the back yard. It was a sloppy sort
of peace, for all of them were more or less drenched, but still it was
peace for all that.

A community of interest had drawn the three together. Just now, to
their disordered fancies, the possibility of a term in jail loomed very
large.

“I t’ink ve pedder hellup der feller oudt oof der pox,” said Fritz,
after a period of harrowing reflection. “Silfa, you go fairst and I
vill precede mit der chink.”

“You yourself go first to de box!” implored Woo Sing.

“Please, fat Melican man!” implored Woo Sing.

“Help, help!” came the voice, in a roar. “I’m listening to what you
fellows say out there. When I get out, you can bet I’ll take care of
the ones who don’t come to my rescue.”

As soon as this statement had had time to sink in, all three of those
who were standing at a distance from the box rushed as one man to get
near it and to release the supposed person inside.

Clancy was red in the face with suppressed mirth. Merry, leaning
against the window casing, was enjoying the situation to the utmost.

“Now for some fun,” murmured Clancy, “when they turn the box over and
find there’s no one inside.”

“This is pretty rich, and no mistake,” chuckled Merry. “They’re all
going to lay hold of the box and lift it. They——”

The words died on his lips. Just then something happened which caused a
chilly feeling to race along his spine, and Clancy’s rapture vanished
on the instant.

Before a hand could be laid on the box, it began to lift—apparently
of its own accord. Fritz, Silva, and Woo Sing stepped back. They, of
course, were in no wise startled for they were expecting to find some
one under the big packing case. But Merry and Clancy could only gasp
and stare downward with wide eyes.

The box, by a force exerted from within, was tilted backward. A young
fellow showed himself, unkempt and his clothes in disorder from several
hours in such cramped quarters.

He was not a tramp, that was evident. His clothing was of excellent
quality and fitted him well. Surprise followed surprise for Merry, for
he presently noticed that the youth’s hair was as black as a raven’s
wing, his eyes a faded blue, and his skin a waxlike and unhealthy white!

Merriwell, astounded beyond words, leaned against the side of the
window and continued to peer blankly outward and downward at the odd
group in the rear of the hotel.

The man who had been under the box had his coat over his arm and his
sleeves rolled to the elbow. With a snarling, angry cry he leaped
past the Mexican, the Dutchman and the Chinaman, and sprinted at a
tremendous clip to get out of the way.

“Catch that fellow!” cried Merriwell, finally waking up. “Come on,
Clan!”

The red-headed chap came out of his daze in time to plunge for a
dressing gown and a pair of slippers, and then to dart into the hall
and away after his chum.




                             CHAPTER XLII.

                        GUFFEY’S QUEER ACTIONS.


Merriwell was in his pajamas, and as it was getting a time of day when
people began to stir around, the scope of his efforts in overhauling
the fellow who had been under the box was naturally limited. He had
hoped that Fritz, Silva and Woo Sing might take up the pursuit, but in
this he was disappointed.

“Where is the fellow?” Merry demanded, showing himself at a rear door
and confronting the Dutchman, the Chinaman, and the Mexican.

“He vent avay like some shtreaks,” Fritz answered.

“Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

“He iss a boliceman, dot’s der reason.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Merry, “he’s no more a policeman than you are.”

“Ven he iss under der pox he say——”

“I know what he said, Carrots. Look here! What do you, and Silva, and
Woo Sing mean by making such a disturbance on Sunday morning?”

“Dot vas a mishap, Merrivell, und nodding more.”

“Well, don’t let it happen again. Sing, bring up the water. What’s that
you just picked up, Silva?”

The Mexican, standing near the uptilted box, had bent down and picked
up some object off the ground.

“No sabe, señor,” said he, coming toward Merry and handing over his
“find.”

Frank examined it carefully and discovered that it was a small,
needle-pointed syringe, a “hypoderm,” such as is used by drug fiends to
puncture the arm and inject their slow-working poison into the veins.

“The fellow under the box must have dropped that,” remarked Clancy.

“It’s a cinch that he did,” answered Merry.

“Now I know what that pasty face of his means. He’s a slave of the
needle, Chip.”

“Yes,” nodded Frank. “Let’s go back upstairs, Clan,” he added, starting
through the hotel and toward the stairs.

In the hallway on the second floor they met Ballard. He was fully
dressed and was hurrying down to find out what was going on.

“I saw that squabble in the back yard,” he remarked, “and I thought
Chip was back of that voice under the box. When the black-haired chap
showed himself, it almost took me off my feet.”

“Same here,” chuckled Clancy. “Chip did throw his voice so that it
seemed to come from the box.”

“Then he knew there was some one there?”

“Not so you could notice it, Pink,” Merry returned, with a puzzled
laugh. “I hadn’t an idea there was a fellow under the box when I threw
my voice in that direction and tried to stop the row. You could have
knocked me down with a feather when that box began to lift.”

“Funny stunt,” put in Clancy, “and don’t you forget it. What do you
suppose the fellow was doing there?”

“You’re liable to find a dope fiend almost any place. They’re half
crazy all the time. But I happen to know who this particular fellow is.”

“You do?” cried Clancy and Ballard, together. “Who is he?”

“Come in and shut the door,” Frank answered.

After the tub had been twice filled by Woo Sing and Merry and Clancy
had had their plunge, while they were dressing Merry told his chums
about the new coach that had been doing such wonders with the Gold
Hill football team. In his talk he did not mention Bleeker in any way,
but referred principally to his conversation with Mr. Bradlaugh the
preceding afternoon.

“This Guffey,” Frank proceeded, “seems to be a stranger to nearly
every one but Jode Lenning. Jode, it seems, got scared at the brand of
football we put up during the game at Tinaja Wells, and he begged the
colonel to send for Guffey. After that incident in the gulch, when the
blast came so near going off and killing Hawtrey, Guffey was sent for.
They say he has done marvels with that Gold Hill squad.”

“Let me get this business straight in my mind, Chip,” said Ballard.
“You’ve opened up a few leads that I can’t understand. Is Jode Lenning
still hand-and-glove with the colonel?”

“Seems to be.”

Clancy and Ballard turned startled, uncomprehending looks at Merry.

“Thunder!” exclaimed the red-headed chap. “I can’t understand that, at
all.”

“Nor I, Clan,” said Frank. “The colonel’s a queer one, and that’s the
least you can say. Jode wanted Guffey. Guffey proves to be a dope
fiend, but a brilliant coach. He’s a young fellow, too, and a horrible
example for any other young fellow who feels like tagging him over
such a course. From what I know of Colonel Hawtrey I can’t begin to
understand why he will have anything to do with such a man as Guffey.
Hawtrey is a stickler for clean living and sportsmanlike conduct, and
this Guffey isn’t the sort to appeal to him a little bit.”

“The clouds continue to gather on Ophir’s football horizon,” observed
Ballard, with an effort. “If that game is lost next Saturday——” He
finished with a look that expressed his meaning better than words.

“We’re not going to lose it,” declared Merry.

“That’s the spirit, old man!” approved Clancy. “Still,” he added
doubtfully, “you’ve got a man’s job on your hands if you succeed in
pounding the club team into winning form. Since we came in from Tinaja
Wells the eleven appears to have gone all to pieces.”

“They’re not reliable, those fellows,” growled Ballard. “Remember how
they made a farce of their practice work along at the first when they
were out to show Chip what they could do?”

It wasn’t likely the three lads would ever forget that. The team had
made a poor showing at the start; and now, after weeks of careful
coaching, the showing was but little better.

After all, Merriwell was asking himself, did the fault really lie in
the material? He could not bring himself to think this. The Saturday’s
game had merely been called on an “off” day for the regulars. He
had faith to believe that the game Monday afternoon would turn out
differently.

“We’re getting away from the point I’m trying to get at,” said
Merriwell suddenly. “What I’d like to know is, why is Guffey in Ophir?
What business has he here when his work is all in Gold Hill?”

“Think he was spying upon this hotel?” queried Ballard.

Merriwell started. Instinctively his thoughts recurred to Bleeker and
the conference he and Bleeker had had the night before.

Was Guffey under the box at the time? Had he trailed Bleeker to the
hotel and then hidden himself away so as to listen to what passed
between Bleeker and Merry?

A moment’s reflections all but convinced Frank that this could not have
been the case. If Guffey had sneaked to the hotel on Bleeker’s trail,
then when Bleeker left Guffey would also have gone away. There was
no possible explanation of the Gold Hill coach’s presence under the
box except the one that had to do with his hypoderm and his morphine.
Feeling the need of the drug, Guffey had crawled off into the most
convenient quarters he could find; from that moment until the antics of
Fritz, Silva, and Woo Sing had aroused him he had been in the grip of
the drug demons.

This, at least, seemed to Merriwell the most plausible explanation. As
evidence that his theory was correct, he had that little “hypoderm”
which had been found near the box by Silva.

“No, Pink,” said Merry, “I don’t think Guffey was spying upon this
hotel. What good would a move of that sort do him? If he wanted to
find out anything regarding our club eleven he’d be hiding somewhere
near the grid.” A grim smile crossed Merry’s face. “Guffey would have
enjoyed the performance if he had been out there yesterday afternoon.”

“He’d have carried a lot of good cheer back to Gold Hill,” grinned
Ballard. “Oh, well, hang them and their dopey coach. I guess Ophir will
wiggle out of the set-to in pretty fair shape.”

“What did you want to capture Guffey for, Chip?” queried Clancy. “What
was the idea?”

“I suggested that on the spur of the moment,” Frank answered. “It
was like a blow in the face when I recognized the fellow, from the
description I had had of him. What I wanted was to learn what he was
here for. Now I’ve pretty well decided that he wasn’t in his right
mind when he crawled into the box. He was crazy for some of that drug.
Strikes me, fellows, that’s about all there is to his being there.”

Just at that moment the breakfast gong sounded.

“There goes the chuck signal,” chirped Ballard. “Come on, you two.”

They piled downstairs, hung their hats on the rack by the dining-room
door, and went in to their accustomed seats at the table. Here a fresh
surprise awaited them.

The fellow who had been on the subject of their recent debate upstairs
was in the dining room calmly eating his breakfast. He did not sit
at the same table where Frank and his chums had their places, but at
another farther toward the center of the room.

All three of the boys stopped, hands on the backs of their chairs.
Clancy nudged Merriwell with his elbow.

Guffey’s appearance had undergone a very decided change for the better.
His clothes had been smoothed out and brushed, his black hair neatly
combed, and he looked quite as respectable as any coach ought to look.
He was completely master of himself, too, and he met the gaze of
the three chums leveled at him with perfect self-control. He smiled
pleasantly, got up from his chair, and stepped toward Merriwell.

“Frank Merriwell, isn’t it?” he asked, in a voice low and well
modulated. “I thought so,” he went on, as Frank nodded. “My name is
Guffey, and I’m the new coach over at Gold Hill. We are coaching rival
teams, Merriwell, but we’re true sportsmen, eh? We can be on friendly
terms for all that?”

“Of course,” Frank answered, a little dazedly. “Glad to meet you,
Guffey. My friends, Owen Clancy and Billy Ballard.”

Guffey transferred his right to Clancy and Ballard, smiled again,
murmured his acknowledgments, and then returned to his waiting chair.
It was all very nicely done, and it was plain that Guffey, the coach,
knew how to be a gentleman.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” muttered Clancy. “Say, Chip, is that really the
dope fiend we saw coming out from under the box?”

“No doubt of it,” Frank answered.

“He acts and looks like a different fellow—still, that pasty face, that
black hair, and those washed-out blue eyes are the same. Why is he
here? Is it a case of nerve on his part?”

“You’ll have to ask me something easier than that,” Merry answered,
dismissing Guffey from his mind and giving his whole attention to his
meal.




                            CHAPTER XLIII.

                            REVIVING HOPES.


Guffey left the dining room before Frank and his chums had finished
their breakfast. When they finally came out they found Handy, captain
of the Ophir eleven, waiting for them. Handy showed traces of
excitement.

“What was Guffey, the Gold Hill coach, doing over here, Chip?” he
demanded.

“Nothing more than eating his breakfast, Handy, so far as I know. Are
you acquainted with him?”

“I’ve heard him described, and I thought I had him spotted as he passed
through the office. To settle any doubts, I looked at the register.
There was his name, plain enough: ‘Simeon Guffey, Gold Hill.’ I don’t
like the idea of his sneaking around Ophir like this.”

“Don’t be in a taking about it, old man,” said Frank soothingly. “Where
did he go?”

“There was a horse out in front, and he got into the saddle and pointed
for the cañon trail. On his way back to Gold Hill, I reckon.”

“Come on up to my room,” said Merry. “Clan, you and Pink had better
come, too.”

When they had the captain behind the closed door, Frank told him
about the squabble in the back yard, and how, in a most surprising
way, Guffey had been discovered under the empty packing case. Frank
propounded his theory as to why Guffey was in that peculiar place, and
produced the “hypoderm” in evidence.

Handy was experiencing an attack of nerves and was ready to see the
hidden hand of the Gold Hill club in anything and everything that
looked a little off color.

“There’s something back of his being here,” he declared, “and it’s a
heap more than you imagine, Merriwell. Guffey didn’t blow into town for
any good. He may use the dope, but you can gamble that he’s not using
it to an extent that queers him in his work as coach.”

It was several minutes before Frank and his chums could calm Handy
sufficiently for a talk about football. At last, however, they began a
study of the club eleven with the view of shifting the players around
and getting better results.

“I wouldn’t drop any of the boys from the regular team, Chip,” said the
captain earnestly.

“It would be a bad move at this late day,” Frank answered, “to put in
some new men from the scrub team. If we had two weeks left I don’t
know but I’d try it, but with only four days for good, hard practice,
dropping anybody from the eleven would be a mistake. Win or lose,
Handy, we’ll use the material we have. We can do a little shifting,
though.”

“I made a monkey of myself yesterday,” declared Handy, with a firm
determination to shoulder all the consequences of his own mistakes,
“and that’s what played the dickens with the quarter. But I was
nervous, and the way the scrubs lit into us had me rattled. I’ve
a notion all the boys felt the same way. We went into that game
overconfident and careless; then, when we began getting the worst of
it, we slopped over in the other direction and took our backsets too
much to heart. We’ll do better to-morrow.”

“You’ve got to, that’s all,” said Merriwell grimly. “What will happen
if Gold Hill gets the best of it in next Saturday’s game?”

“It would make the third time, hand-running, that we’ve gone down to
defeat at the hands of that other crowd. If that happens, everybody in
Ophir will be disgusted, and this athletic club of ours will go to the
dogs.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“It’s worse!” declared Handy. “If you had lived in this town for a year
or two, you’d know more about the feeling that prevails regarding these
football games.”

“Then, if that’s the way you hook up, we’ve got to win.”

“We have, if it takes a leg.”

After two hours of thoughtful discussion, during which each individual
player on the regular team was thoroughly studied, two or three shifts
made in the line-up, and a little talk indulged in that renewed the
captain’s ardor and determination, the meeting broke up.

For most of the regulars and second-string men, however, it was a blue
Monday when they assembled in the gym for the afternoon’s work. Their
faces were long and gloomy as they squatted around on the floor in
their football togs and listened to a little sharp grilling from the
captain.

Merriwell followed Handy. The faults and mistakes of the preceding
Saturday afternoon he flashed before the player’s eyes in detail. There
was terror in the souls of the regular eleven; but fears were relieved
somewhat when not one of the team was publicly disgraced by being
dropped to the scrub. At last, tingling in every nerve, the men were
sent to the field for another contest with the second eleven.

And, this time, the regulars did their work admirably. The practice
was secret, and no evil, greedy eyes were staring out from between the
benches of the grand stand. The club eleven lit into the scrubs with a
savage fury that swept all before them. Never once, in all the fierce
battling of the game, was the regular’s goal in danger. This was a
romp to victory, but with none of the gala features of a romp about
it. Intensity of purpose marked every play. And the final score was so
many to nothing that the dusty, sweating, worn-out scrubs were awed and
chastened.

Tuesday afternoon the work was even harder. The scrub team was
strengthened by the addition of Ballard and Clancy, and while it was
being hurriedly organized, farther down the oval of the field, the
regulars were being run through the signals. Up and down the field they
rushed in rehearsal of all the complicated attacks. The numbers, flung
out by Merry, cracked like a blacksnake whip; and, with every crack,
the players leaped to their work. Again and again the coach charged the
team, now against one goal and now against the other.

After a brief rest the strengthened scrub teams appears. Against them
the regulars are pitted for a whirlwind fight of half an hour, cut in
two by an interval of two minutes.

The hardiest of the players flop over on the warm sand, utterly
exhausted, when the whistle stops the playing. Merriwell is boring down
into their endurance as no coach has ever done before. But they do not
complain. They know he is doing it for the glory of Ophir.

That Tuesday-afternoon match was rendered brilliant by the playing of
Owen Clancy at quarter. He and Ballard, encouraging the second eleven,
gave the regulars a grapple that they will long remember.

Wednesday is a repetition of Tuesday, only worse in its grinding,
gruelling labor, if that were possible. Like tigers, with sinews of
steel and a suddenness of lightning, the regulars spring at the throats
of the scrubs. Every man on the second eleven is putting up the fight
of his life. He knows that the harder he can make it for the regulars,
the more it will be for the glory of Ophir. Brilliantly supported by
Clancy and Ballard and, along toward the end, by Merry at half, they
bring out the very last ounce of power and ability which the club team
has in store.

The regulars have possession of the ball. They smash into the scrubs
like a living catapult, hunting from end to end of the scrub line
for the one weak point. After thirty minutes of heartbreaking play,
a whistle sounds a truce. The teams are rushed to the gym, quickly
sponged, fresh recruits jump into the ranks of the scrubs, and once
more the regulars are put to the relentless test.

“If we can live through this,” gasps one of the regulars as, the
playing over for the day, he totters in the direction of the showers,
“if we can live through this we’ll eat up any eleven on earth.”

“Are you satisfied, Chip?” queried the weary, exultant Handy as he
came, clothed for the street, out of the dressing rooms after the
Wednesday game.

“Yes,” Merry answered, “we’ve got a bunch of winners. All aboard for
Dolliver’s to-morrow afternoon.”

“The word has been passed around, Chip, and we’ll all be ready.”

Thursday afternoon Bradlaugh’s big car, and two other machines pressed
into service, carried the Ophir eleven, three or four substitutes, and
Chip Merriwell and his chums out along the old trail to Tinaja Wells.

A disappointment awaited Frank at Dolliver’s. He had counted upon
meeting Darrel at the ranch, but Darrel, he found, had gone into Gold
Hill that very morning.

Why was Darrel in Gold Hill? Certainly his uncle had not sent for him.
The colonel was still clinging to Jode Lenning, and, so long as he did
that, he could have no possible use for Darrel.

Merry, however, had too much on his mind to worry over the mysterious
actions of Darrel. Curly was improving right along, and that was the
main thing. He would undoubtedly be at the Ophir-Gold Hill game, and
Merry could see him there.

Thursday there was nothing at all to do, with the exception of a little
signal practice along toward sun-down. Nor was there any line-up or
hard work on Friday—nothing but a five-mile cross-country trot in the
forenoon, and in the afternoon nothing at all. It was the day before
the game—a day to which the population of Ophir and Gold Hill had been
looking forward for months.

The game was to be played on the Ophir field. The games of the two
previous years had been won by Gold Hill on her own field, and it was
deemed no more than fair that Ophir should have the third game on her
grounds.

The fellows were to remain at Dolliver’s until one o’clock Saturday
afternoon. At that hour the machines were to arrive for them and whisk
them away to the field for the fight with their rivals.

There was not much hilarity among the lads. They were impressed—and a
little oppressed—with the prospect of the work required of them on the
next afternoon. They collected in groups, and, in low voices, talked of
everything they could think of except football. And yet, the biggest
and most constant thing in every fellow’s mind was the coming game.

Merry and Handy, along about eight in the evening, were a little apart
from the players. They were considering Simeon Guffey for about the
dozenth time.

“You’re fretting too much about the Gold Hill coach, old man,” said
Frank.

“I’ve got a hunch that there’s something about the fellow we don’t
understand,” answered the captain.

“If you’re going to worry about all the things you can’t understand,”
Merry laughed, “you’re going to have your hands full.”

Just at that moment Clancy came around a corner of the house.

“Guess who’s here, Chip!” said he.

“I’m in no mood to wrestle with conundrums, Clan,” was the answer.

“All right, then. It’s Colonel Hawtrey. He just rode up. His horse is
at the hitching pole and he wants to see you at once—and privately.”

“Hawtrey—to see me!” Frank muttered, as he hurried around the house and
toward the trail in front.




                             CHAPTER XLIV.

                          THE COLONEL’S TIP.


The colonel, erect and soldierly, was pacing slowly back and forth at
the trailside. It was a fair inference, from the way he bore himself,
that there was something on his mind.

Since Frank had heard of the way the old colonel had been treating Jode
Lenning, following Jode’s wretched conduct in the gulch, his estimate
of the colonel had gone down several degrees. A man might be eccentric,
Frank reasoned, without displaying such glaring partiality or such
weak-kneed injustice.

“Good evening, colonel,” said Frank, coming to a halt near the trail.

The other, busy with his reflections, had not noticed the lad’s
approach. “That you, Merriwell?” he asked, turning.

“Yes, sir. I was told that you want to talk with me.”

“So I do; I have come out here for that especial purpose. Suppose we
walk a little way along the trail?”

Frank fell in at the colonel’s side and walked with him a stone’s throw
up the road. When they halted, the colonel sat down on a bowlder and
lighted a cigar. The flare of the match, falling over his rugged face,
revealed a sternness and a settled purpose that rather startled the
youngster at his side. Colonel Hawtrey, in spite of the way he was
treating Jode, was no weakling.

“To-morrow, Merriwell,” went on Hawtrey, “is the day of the big game.
Several hundred from Gold Hill will move on Ophir to root for the home
team. I hope everybody keeps his temper and that there will be no
disgraceful clashes. To-morrow afternoon, I sincerely trust, we are
going to bury our animosities in friendly rivalry. The old feud between
the two athletic organizations, let us hope, is going to be wiped out
forever.”

“You will find, colonel,” said Frank, “that Ophir will do her full
part.”

“Glad to hear that. I will personally stand sponsor for Gold Hill.
The news comes to us that your team is in a bad way, and that last
week Saturday the first game after your return to town from camp was a
big disappointment to you. Handy, your captain, got rattled and began
interfering with the quarter back, and Mayburn, your center, put up a
miserable article of play. Is that right?”

The hot blood rushed into Merry’s face and he shot an indignant glance
at the colonel. What was the use of the Gold Hill nabob coming out to
Dolliver’s to talk such stuff to the Ophir coach?

“How did you get any information about that game, colonel?” he
demanded. “No one was allowed on the grounds except our men. I can’t
believe that our fellows would talk about what happened last Saturday
afternoon.”

“Ordinary loyalty would keep them from doing that, eh?”

“Sure it would. Who told you all that, sir?”

“That’s immaterial, just now. I am not here to twit you about your
team’s shortcomings, Merriwell. I have simply recited what came to me
as facts, and I want you to say whether or not the facts are true. A
good deal hangs upon that point—more than you even dream of.”

There was a depth of earnestness in the colonel’s voice which filled
Frank with wonder. What in blazes was he trying to get at, anyhow?

“Why, yes,” said Frank, “Harry did interfere a little with the quarter,
and Mayburn was off in his work.”

“Doolittle wasn’t very good, either, was he?”

“Not very.”

The colonel drew a long breath and puffed silently at his cigar for a
few moments.

“Then what I heard was true,” he muttered finally. “This makes it
certain, my lad, that Gold Hill had a spy at your secret game. How
could anything be known about the game if that had not been the case?
Such work is reprehensible. I am as indignant over the matter as you
could possibly be. There is nothing sportsmanlike about it. I can
congratulate myself on the fact, however, that the spy was not a Gold
Hill man but a stranger—or almost a stranger. I am positive that it was
Guffey, the coach.”

“You think, then, that Guffey was sneaking around when we played that
game, last week?” the boy demanded.

“I’m sure of it. Guffey left Gold Hill in the forenoon of Saturday, and
he did not return until Sunday forenoon. He was in Ophir—he must have
been.”

“I knew he was in Ophir Saturday night,” said Frank, and told of what
happened in the rear of the hotel on Sunday morning.

The colonel muttered angrily to himself.

“That’s the sort of gentleman we have for a coach,” he growled, “a
fellow who uses a ‘hypoderm’ and who sleeps in a box in a back yard.
He’s a hobo, and a pretty poor stick of a hobo at that. This thing is
working out just as I thought it would. Good may come of it, however.”

“Where does this man Guffey hail from, colonel?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know the first thing about him. Jode knows him, and he’s the
one who sent for him. Guffey’s a good coach, and our eleven is in
better shape than it has ever been before. I’m sorry that Guffey’s a
scoundrel, but it is going to be the happiest day of my life if he pans
out the way I hope and believe.”

Once more the colonel had Frank wondering. How was he expecting
Guffey to “pan out?” In one breath the colonel was sorry Guffey was a
scoundrel, and in the next he was going to be happy if the scoundrel
panned out to be as bad as he hoped and believed. Frank was all twisted
to account for the colonel’s motives and feelings.

“Now that you know Guffey’s a scoundrel,” Frank remarked, “are you
going to let him come to Ophir with the Gold Hill fellows?”

“I am,” was the reply, “and while he’s in your bailiwick, Merriwell, I
want you to do one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Watch the fellow. You’re a friend of my nephew, Ellis, aren’t you?”

“Right from the top of the hat,” said Frank, with spirit.

“Well, keep a keen eye on Guffey. By doing that, you may help Darrel
more than you can realize now. You’re very much concerned, I suppose,
because I have treated Jode, since that affair in the gulch, with the
same consideration that I did before. You don’t understand why I have
left him on the football team, or why I have anything further to do
with him. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes,” admitted Frank.

“And neither can you understand why I tolerate such a scoundrel as
Guffey.”

“No, colonel, I can’t.”

“I am manipulating things, Merriwell. I may be wrong, but I don’t think
so. If you will coöperate with me, I’m pretty sure this whole affair is
going to come around in fine shape.”

“Just what do you expect me to do?” Frank queried. “How will keeping an
eye on Guffey enable me to coöperate with you?”

“Why, as to that, everything depends on your shrewdness. Take up
a position close to Guffey from the time he arrives on the field;
then watch him like a hawk. If anything develops that excites your
suspicion, follow it up with vigor.”

“What do you think will develop?”

“I haven’t the least notion what form developments will take, but I am
sure something will come. I have done my part by tolerating Jode and
helping to get Guffey here. Now the rest of it is up to you—and you are
a good friend of Darrel’s.”

Frank was nonplused. It had been made clear to him, however, that the
colonel had let Jode off easy, after that affair in the gulch, for a
purpose; and, for the same purpose, he had allowed Jode to have his way
about Guffey. Here the wily old colonel was playing a deep game. And
at the back of his head was the desire that Darrel might profit by it.
While this much was clear; to Merry, all the rest was steeped in the
deepest kind of mystery.

“Are you going to take my tip, Merriwell, and act upon it?” asked the
colonel.

“Bank on that, sir!” was the prompt response.

“Good!” said the colonel, in a tone of deep satisfaction. “If I’ve got
hold of the right end of this, I can trust you to work out the rest of
the problem.”

“Will Guffey get actively into the game?” inquired Frank.

“No,” was the decided answer. “It’s bad enough to have such a fellow
coach our boys without coming actually into contact with them on the
field. As soon as this game is over, I can promise you that Gold Hill
will see the last of him. Darrel, I hear, is not at Dolliver’s?” the
colonel went on, shifting the subject.

“No,” said Frank.

“Is he in Ophir?”

“Dolliver tells me that he went to Gold Hill Thursday morning.”

“Jove! I haven’t seen him in Gold Hill, and I haven’t heard of his
being there. You are sure Dolliver——”

“Darrel won’t go looking for you, colonel,” said Frank, with a touch of
pride, “until he’s able to give you his hand. I believe he went to the
Hill to try and clear up that forgery matter.”

“Ah!” There was a certain grimness in the colonel’s voice which did not
escape Frank. “I don’t believe he can do that, Merriwell. He hadn’t
ought to be roaming around, anyhow, until that broken arm of his is
entirely well. He’ll be at Ophir for the game?”

“He said he would, at the time we broke camp and pulled out for home.”

The colonel got up and stepped closer to Frank. His voice sank low and
throbbed with feeling as he laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder and went
on:

“If you see him, Merriwell, tell him not to draw any wrong conclusions
from the way I am conducting myself. Tell him that, when he knows all,
he will see that I am acting for the best interests of all concerned.
You’ll do that?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ve been an old fool in a good many ways, and when an old fool sees
the light he ought to be wise in getting to the bottom of things and in
passing justice around. I’m trying to show a little wisdom, Merriwell.
Until you know all, you can at least give me credit for that.”

“I do, colonel,” Frank answered.

The colonel reached for his hand, shook it warmly, and then, without
speaking further, turned and retraced his way to his horse. Frank,
standing to one side, watched while he swung into the saddle.

“Good-by, my lad, and good luck,” called the colonel.

“Good-by, sir,” Frank answered.

The next moment Colonel Hawtrey had galloped off along the trail and
was lost in the wavering shadows. He left behind him, perhaps as
puzzled a boy as there was in all Arizona.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” Merriwell muttered, as he turned back toward
the house. “The colonel’s all right, but I wish to thunder that I knew
what he’s trying to get at. Going it blind never made much of a hit
with me.”




                             CHAPTER XLV.

                          THE PLUGGED “HALF.”


The noon meal at Dolliver’s was a light one, for Frank did not believe
in football on a full stomach. The three big cars came along, promptly
on time, and the lads crowded into them with their suit cases. They
were a nervous lot of boys in spite of their efforts to be cool and
confident.

Frank got into a front seat of the Bradlaugh car. Mr. Bradlaugh was
driving.

“This outfit is looking mighty fit, I must say,” the president of the
O.  A.  C. remarked, as he put the automobile in motion on the back
track.

“The Ophir fellows are ready to make the fight of their lives,” Frank
answered.

“Bully. About all of Gold Hill was piling into our club grounds when I
left. They’re always a talkative lot and not too careful how they rag
the Ophir players. We must all remember to take the joshing in good
part.”

“You can depend on us to prove a credit to Ophir, Mr. Bradlaugh,” said
Frank quietly.

“It does me good to hear that. Win or lose, Merriwell, let’s show the
colonel and his crowd that we are true sportsmen. The colonel is always
harping on that proposition, you know, so let’s give him an example of
what it really means.”

“We will.”

The game was called for two-thirty, and it was two o’clock when the
three automobiles trailed into the inclosure at the athletic field,
trailed in single file across one end of the grounds and halted at the
doors of the gym.

Grand stand and bleachers were swarming with people. The crowd
overflowed the clubhouse balcony, filled a number of automobiles that
nosed the fence beyond the side lines, and took up every available foot
of ground that commanded a view of the gridiron.

Pennants were waving, handkerchiefs were being fluttered, and cheers
were going up on every side. The arrival of Ophir’s champions was the
signal for a bedlam of cheers that traveled across the field and back
again in a tidal wave.

“They look good, but not good enough!” howled a Gold Hiller as the
cheering lulled.

“You can’t produce anythin’ to beat ’em!” whooped a scrappy Ophir man.

“Hold yer bronks till the other crowd trots out!”

“We’ll hold our bronks, and our eleven’ll hold yore team to a
fare-ye-well!”

“Wait an’ see!”

“Yes, wait!”

This was a sample of the cross-fire indulged in by the rival rooters.
Cowboys and miners were among the partisans, on both sides, and they
were of a class not given to undue restraint.

“Hawkins is on the ground with a force of helpers,” said Mr. Bradlaugh,
as Merry climbed out of the car, “and if the good feeling happens to
get strained I reckon the deputy can smooth it out.”

“If there’s any row,” said Frank, “it will be among the rough-necks.
There’s no bitterness in our crowd. We’re going to win, and we know it.
That’s all, Mr. Bradlaugh.”

“That’s enough,” laughed Mr. Bradlaugh, with an admiring glance at
Merry as he trailed the Ophir fellows into the gymnasium.

Frank was not intending to get into the game himself, but as good
substitutes were lacking, he had planned to hold Clancy and Ballard,
along with a few of the best second eleven men, in reserve.

While the fellows were in the dressing rooms, getting out of their
ordinary clothes and into their football togs, Chip sat in the big,
bare exercise room, his head bowed in thought. Some one approached him
from behind and touched his shoulder.

“Not gloomy are you, old chap?” asked a familiar voice.

Frank whirled and sprang up.

“Hello, Curly!” he exclaimed, his face flushing with pleasure. “Where
the deuce have you been keeping yourself for the last few days?”

“Left Dolliver’s to go to Gold Hill on business, pard,” smiled Darrel.

The youngster’s face was pale and a little thinner than usual. His
bandaged arm swung from his neck in a sling.

“I was badly disappointed when I did not see you at the ranch,” Frank
went on, taking the other’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Finer than silk. A little wabbly on my pins, but that’s only
temporary. I’m here to see the game, but I’ve been hanging around the
gym to tell you that I don’t like the way this man Guffey sizes up.
I’ve got some mighty strong doubts about him. When I heard a new coach
had arrived in Gold Hill, and that Jode had signaled him to come I was
filled with suspicions. That’s why I went over to the Hill. But the
suspicions didn’t work out worth a darn. Yesterday I headed for Ophir.”

“What were the suspicions, Curly?”

“Never mind, now. I seem to be full of pipe dreams. Say, what do you
think about Jode and the colonel? You know, of course, that Jode’s
still king bee of the Gold Hill bunch. He’s got a stranglehold on the
colonel, all right!”

A shadow crossed Darrel’s face. Through it showed disappointment and a
little sadness.

“When I heard how your uncle had treated Jode, after that eye opener in
the gulch,” Frank returned, “I had begun to think that the old colonel
was in his dotage. But now I’ve changed my mind.”

“What caused the change?”

“A talk I had with the colonel last night. He came out to Dolliver’s
purposely to have a word with me.”

Darrel showed symptoms of curiosity and excitement.

“What did he say, Chip?” he asked.

“I couldn’t tell you all he said, for I haven’t time, but he gave me
a message for you. He wanted me to say, if I saw you before the game,
that you’re not to draw any wrong conclusion from the way he has been
behaving; he said that, when you know all, you’ll see how he’s acting
for the best interests of all concerned.”

“That’s mighty hard to swallow,” said Darrel, with a trace of
bitterness. “I saved his life when Jode failed, and yet he keeps right
on with Jode just as he was doing before. I’m not finding any fault
with him—he’s his own boss, and I’ve nothing to say. But I’m not the
only one that’s doing a heap of guessing because of the way he’s
acting.”

“Don’t form any snap judgments, Curly,” urged Frank. “Wait for a
while, anyhow.”

“Oh, I’ll wait,” was the hopeless response. “What can I do but wait?
But I’m pretty near discouraged. That forgery plot was too deep, too
well laid. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.”

“Buck up, old man! We will get to the bottom of it—mark what I’m
telling you.”

At this point the Ophir eleven and the substitutes trooped from the
dressing rooms. Although Darrel belonged with Gold Hill, yet he was
not an active Gold Hiller, and a lot of his warmest friendships were
wrapped up in the Ophir team. The boy was a prime favorite, and the
players flocked around him and pressed his hand cordially. Darrel, with
a laughing remark to the effect that he wished the Ophir fellows all
sorts of luck, excused himself and hurriedly left the gym.

The time had come for a final word with the eleven. Handy eased himself
first of what was on his mind. He recalled the fact that Ophir had been
beaten twice by the Gold Hillers. Would Ophir stand for that kind of
thing three times hand running? He thought not. With a few words of
counsel here and there, he stepped back and gave place to Merriwell.

“You know what the effect will be, fellows,” said Frank, “if you fall
down on this game?”

A chorus of affirmatives greeted the question.

“I guess I don’t have to say anything more,” Frank added. “Get
together, that’s all. You can win, and you’re going to.”

Just as he finished, a tumult of shouts and cheers came from the
spectators. One look from the gym door showed that the Gold Hill team
had trotted out on the field from their dressing rooms. They made a
fine spectacle, and, all in all, looked to be the formidable crowd that
they were.

Not only was Gold Hill cheering the team, but Ophir also had risen to
its feet and joined in with the rival rooters. This augured well for
the feeling that prevailed among the spectators.

After a few moments, the Gold Hill squad scattered over the gridiron
for a little signal work.

“Now, then, fellows,” said Handy.

As the Ophir lads appeared, there was another round of cheering; but
the volume of sound and the enthusiasm were no greater than in the
case of their opponents. At sight of the Ophir squad, the Gold Hill
players bunched together and gave them their club yell in a most
friendly spirit. Jode Lenning himself, who was always more or less of a
disturbing factor, led in the demonstration.

Handy, not to be outdone by the rivals, bunched up his men and returned
the Gold Hill greeting.

“Gee,” laughed Clancy, at Merry’s elbow, “you’d never have thought,
a spell ago, that these two clubs were ready to fly at each other’s
throats! The proper spirit prevails in wads and slathers.”

“This is merely by way of shaking hands before the bout,” smiled Merry.
“The test will come when we get down to business.”

While the Ophirites were being put through a few of their paces, Merry
started in to fulfill his promise to Colonel Hawtrey. He began looking
for Guffey.

The other coach found him first, and came forward smilingly and with
outstretched hand.

“Hello, Merriwell,” said he pleasantly. “This is a bully day for a
game, and a bully crowd of spectators.”

“You’re right,” Merry answered.

He kept close to Guffey, in an artless sort of way, and was with him
when Lenning and Handy approached to toss for positions.

“Got a dollar, Guff?” inquired Lenning.

“Here’s a half, Len,” answered the coach, dipping into his pocket.

The coin was sent spinning into the air, and, when it fell, it was
almost at Merriwell’s feet.

Lenning won, and naturally he chose the goal that had the wind in its
favor. The players scattered out on the field, and Merry was left
staring at Guffey—startled so that he scarcely realized what was going
on around him.

The coin which Guffey had furnished for the toss was the plugged half
dollar, Merry’s pocket piece, and the one that had vanished with the
rest of the money from Merry’s coat. Frank had had a good look at the
coin, and could not be mistaken.




                             CHAPTER XLVI.

                               THE GAME.


Merriwell’s interest in that game was naturally intense; and yet, it
was not so intense as it was in that affair of Darrel’s. The colonel
had hinted that Darrel was to be benefited by Merriwell’s watching
Guffey. Keeping an eye on the other coach had started something, right
at the very beginning of the game.

Like lightning Merry’s mind marshaled a few facts and evolved a
startling theory. Hawtrey had said that Guffey had seen the game on the
preceding Saturday. Merriwell’s thirty dollars had vanished during that
game. Now Guffey had produced some of the loose change that had formed
part of the “thirty.” It was money that could not readily be passed, so
here was a possible reason for Guffey’s keeping it by him.

The pockets of the coat were emptied while the garment lay on the
grand-stand benches. Instantly Merriwell thought of the dressing rooms
under the stand, and of their possibilities as a point of observation.
He thought, too, how easy it would be for a thief to reach out and draw
the coat through between the seats, go into the garment at his leisure,
and then replace it where it had been left by its owner.

Everything pointed to the fact that Simeon Guffey had taken the money.
Frank had to believe the evidence. He stepped closer to the Gold Hill
coach, who was watching the game with an absorbed air.

Ophir had got the Gold Hill kick-off and had run the ball back past the
middle of the field, losing it after two downs by an on-side kick that
failed to pan out as expected.

“Now, then, Gold Hill, smash into ’em! Get the steam engine to work!
Flatten ’em out!” roared the visiting rooters.

“Hold ’em, Ophir!” came encouragingly from the local ranks.

Gold Hill smashed into a stone wall when Ophir took the defensive; but
a breach was made, and Mingo, the Gold Hill half back, made some good
gains by clever work. But Gold Hill, strongly favored by the wind,
elected to punt in the hope of getting within scoring distance.

The ball gyrated through a long, high, aërial arc, to be captured on
the Ophir fifteen-yard line and hustled back to the twenty-five yards
before the runner was downed.

“Whoop-ya!” howled cowboys in the Ophir crowd; “eat ‘em up, you Ophir
gophers! Swaller ’em, boots an’ chaps! You can do it!”

“I got a ten-case note what says they kain’t do it!” yelped a sporty
miner from the Gold Hill benches.

“Make it a hundred an’ I’ll go ye!”

But evidently the other man couldn’t dig up the hundred.

Guffey, crouching on the side lines, was absently picking pebbles out
of the sand and flipping them about. He seemed surprised by Ophir’s
showing. Merry crouched down at his side.

“You’ve done wonders with that bunch since last week, Merriwell,”
remarked Guffey.

He must have spoken before he thought. The next instant his jaw
muscles flexed angrily, and his pallid face showed something like
consternation.

“What do you know about our work last week, Guffey?” Frank asked.

He was so close to the other coach that it was not difficult for him
to make himself heard in spite of the tumult caused by the spectators.
One side or the other was howling and cheering, so that the uproar was
almost continuous.

“Only—what I’ve heard,” answered Guffey, with some nervousness and
constraint.

“You heard our eleven was poor?”

Guffey affected not to catch the question. He pretended to be wrapped
up in the playing.

Ophir, from the twenty-five yards, had failed to gain, and punted. Gold
Hill got the ball on her forty-yard line, and, after two trials that
fell short, kicked again. The ball sailed over the goal line, and Ophir
touched it back.

There came a bit of a lull. Frank pushed closer to Guffey.

“I say, Guffey,” said he, “will you let me look at that half dollar
that was used for the toss?”

The Gold Hill coach turned his deathlike face toward Frank, and peered
at him with suspicion in his faded blue eyes.

“You think it’s a fake coin, eh?” he demanded; “one of the
heads-I-win-tails-you-lose sort, eh?”

There was a snarl, venomous as it was uncalled for, back of the words.

“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Frank answered sharply. “I just
want to look at it, that’s all.”

“There you are.”

Guffey thrust his hand into his pocket, jerked out a coin, and flung it
down in front of Frank. The latter picked it up.

It was not a plugged coin, nor was it minted in the year of Merry’s
birth. Guffey had substituted another piece for the one in question.

“This isn’t the half they used for the toss, Guffey,” said Frank.

“I’m a liar, am I?” demanded Guffey hotly. “What are you trying to do,
Merriwell? Kick up a row?”

“No,” was the response, “I don’t want any row here to-day. Just let me
see the half dollar that was used for the toss.”

“You’ve seen it.”

With that Guffey arose from his crouching position, and, with a scowl,
moved off to another place. Frank knew that the fellow was guilty.
He had seen Frank eying the plugged coin when it dropped in front of
him, and he had reasoned that he might have recognized it. Frank’s
request to see the silver piece was further proof to Guffey that he
had developed a suspicious interest in it. Hence, Guffey’s motive for
substituting another half dollar for the right one.

Ophir, after the touchback, had elected to put the pigskin in
scrimmage, on the twenty-five yard line, but was soon back at its old
punting tricks. Gold Hill’s right half, Poindexter by name, misjudged
the ball. As it slipped from the ends of his fingers, he was pushed
aside by an Ophir lad, who got it under him on Gold Hill’s forty-yard
line.

Ophir went wild. The stands fairly roared, hats were tossed in the air,
and yells and cheers made the whole place a pandemonium.

“What’s up between Guffey and you, Chip?” queried Clancy, in
Merriwell’s ear.

“Why?” returned Merry. “What makes you think there’s anything up,
Clan?”

“Blazes! Why, I can’t help but see when it’s going on right under my
eyes.”

“Watch the game, Clan,” said Merry. “If I have to leave the field, you
stand by to send in the substitutes.”

“Look here,” muttered the excited Clancy, “you don’t intend to clear
out before the game’s over, do you?”

“I don’t know what will happen, Clan, but if I leave it will be to
follow Guffey. Don’t ask any questions. I’m playing a bigger game than
this little match at football.”

The red-headed fellow was all up in the air. His freckled face
reflected his conflicting emotions.

Frank, turning to keep track of Guffey, saw Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff, beckoning to him. He got up and walked over to the deputy’s
side.

“I’m keepin’ an eye on that Guffey person, Merriwell,” said Hawkins.
“You don’t need to bother.”

“What are you watching him for, Hawkins?” Frank asked.

“Because I don’t like his looks. He’s a pill.”

“He’s the Gold Hill coach, and you’re not to interfere with him, you
know.”

“Mebby not, but what’re you baitin’ him for?”

They were both unconsciously peering toward Guffey. At that moment, the
Gold Hill coach turned suddenly and gave the two of them a full, level
stare. When he turned away, he acted like a person who is considerably
wrought up and trying to conceal it.

“Wow!” chuckled Hawkins. “Say, son, he don’t like seein’ you and me
in talk, like this. He’s makin’ a bluff that he don’t care—but it’s a
bluff. Why does he care? You better tell me.”

“Not now,” said Frank, and walked away.

Meanwhile the quarter had ended with the ball on Gold Hill’s
fifty-yard line. On the first play, Bradlaugh, left half for Ophir,
carried the oval for a ten-yard gain. Little by little, steady as fate,
the ball crept to within ten yards of the Gold Hill goal line.

Frank’s interest, for a while, almost turned from Guffey to the ball.
It looked as though Ophir was surely due to make a touchdown.

The spectators had gone crazy with excitement. Gold Hill’s players were
fighting like so many tigers; and then, out of the ruck of fighting and
the tangle of sweating players, the ball soared up and over the field.
Ophir groaned and Gold Hill began to jubilate.

That was the only time either goal had been in serious danger, and the
half ended with the ball at about the place where it had been when
first put into play.

Merriwell led his men to the dressing rooms.

“Fine work!” said he. “You’re going to get a touchdown in the next
half, and Gold Hill isn’t going to score at all. I’ve got a hunch—one
of the red-hot kind that always pans out. Mayburn, you’re a crackajack!
Spink, just keep up the good work! Brad, you’re a star! What’s the
matter, Deever?”

Lafe Deever, right end, was limping.

“Twisted my ankle,” said he, “but I reckon it won’t amount to much.”

“Take off your shoe and let’s see.”

Merry shook his head when he examined the exposed foot. The skin was
broken and the ankle looked red and angry.

“Let Banks report to the referee, Handy,” said Frank. “Sorry, Deever,”
he added, to the crestfallen end, “but we can’t take chances, you know.
You’ve won glory enough in the first half, anyhow.”

Merry pulled Handy aside.

“If anything happens that I have to leave the field before the game is
over, Handy,” said Frank, “Clancy will be on deck.”

“But you’re not going to leave——”

“Not if I can help it. There’s something important going on—something
not down on the bills—and I can’t neglect it even for this football
game.”

With that, Merry hurried from the gym. The first man he encountered on
the field was Hawkins.

“Has Guffey come out of the Gold Hill dressing rooms yet?” he asked.

“Well, I reckon,” grinned the deputy. “He came out with Jode Lenning,
an’ the two walked over to’rd the west end of the grand stand. There
they are now, in a close confab.”

Frank sauntered carelessly in the direction of Guffey and Lenning.




                            CHAPTER XLVII.

                          NOT ON THE PROGRAM.


Over their shoulders, Lenning and Guffey caught sight of Merriwell
making his way toward them. They exchanged hurried words, and Guffey
turned from Lenning and started to leave the field around the lower end
of the grand stand.

Frank quickened his pace a little. Lenning walked hurriedly toward
Frank. He was plainly nervous and worried, and his shifty eyes held a
harassed look.

“Where’s Guffey going?” Merry inquired, when Lenning was close enough
to hear.

“He’s sick and is going around back of the stand to lie down,” was the
answer. “He’s subject to spells with his head, and he’s got a bad one
coming on now. He’ll be back before the last half’s over.”

Merriwell went on. Lenning watched him with growing suspicion.

“Are you going after him, Merriwell?” he asked.

“I want to talk with him,” Frank replied indefinitely.

“He’s in no shape to talk. He——”

But Merriwell, by then, was out of earshot. The call for the second
half was ringing down the field. Lenning hesitated, as though inclined
to follow Merriwell; then, tossing his hands with a desperate gesture,
he whirled and ran to take his place with the rest of the Gold Hill
team.

When Frank had worked his way past the lower end of the grand stand, he
half started toward the dressing rooms. But he checked the move, for
Guffey, as he could see, was traveling north across the sandy stretch
of ground on that side of the club premises.

Lenning had misstated the case. The Gold Hill coach may have been
having “a spell with his head,” but he was not bound for the dressing
rooms to lie down. On the contrary, he was striding briskly off into
the open, apparently bent on getting as far away from the football
field as possible.

Merriwell chuckled grimly. He had thought that a maneuver of this kind
would be attempted.

What he had said about the half dollar had certainly worked upon
Guffey’s suspicions; and then, the suspicions must have been
intensified when Guffey saw Frank talking with Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff.

Undoubtedly the Gold Hill coach thought that a plan was forming to put
him under arrest for stealing the thirty dollars. In order to avoid
such a result, Guffey’s best plan, of course, was to get himself out of
the way. This, very likely, was what he was attempting to do.

Guffey, casting a hurried look behind him, saw Merriwell. He began to
run.

“Hold up, Guffey!” Merry shouted. “Don’t be in a rush.”

But Guffey was attending to a matter of pressing importance. If
overtaken, a jail would yawn to receive him; on the other hand, if he
succeeded in making his escape from Merriwell, he would perhaps receive
the benefit of a doubt in the matter of that thirty dollars. Instead of
halting, he increased his pace to the limit.

There must have been some exciting work going forward on the football
field. The roar of the spectators mounted high, and never for a moment
were grand stand and bleachers entirely quiet. The noise lessened as
Merriwell and Guffey drew farther and farther away.

Merry, it was soon demonstrated, was a faster runner than Guffey, for
at every stride he was gaining upon him. It was presently evident, too,
that Merry was also a better jumper.

Ahead of Guffey lay an eight-foot irrigation ditch, filled to the brim
with flowing water. The Gold Hill coach attempted to take it at a leap,
but he took off too soon; then, on top of that, his foot slipped as he
sprang into the air. It happened, therefore, that instead of landing
safely on the opposite bank, he dropped squarely into the water.

For a moment he was under the surface, and all that was to be seen was
his cap, floating away with the sluggish tide. Frank jumped the ditch
and stood waiting on the opposite bank.

Guffey bobbed up, thoroughly drenched, and sputtering. Seeing
Merriwell waiting for him, he turned to reach the other bank. To his
astonishment—and somewhat to Merriwell’s, as well—Hawkins, the deputy
sheriff, appeared abruptly and headed him off in that direction.

“What are you chumps trying to do?” sputtered Guffey.

“Tryin’ to git hands on you, Guffey,” answered Hawkins, with a grin.
“If you think you’ve been in long enough, why not come out? Jumpin’
sand hills! What’s the matter with your hair?”

This was a question which Frank had been asking himself. The water had
played sad pranks with Guffey’s jet-black hair. In spots the black had
all run out of it, and had streaked his pale face, leaving a tow color
in place of the dark hue that had previously distinguished the looks.

With a yell of consternation, Guffey put up his hands to his face and
then withdrew them and looked at his smudged fingers.

“It ain’t right for a young feller to go dyin’ his hair that-a-way,”
said Hawkins. “Come on out. I shouldn’t think it would be comfortable,
stayin’ in there too long.”

“I’ll come out,” said Guffey savagely, “but you can’t arrest me for
taking Merriwell’s money.”

“That’s it, eh?” chuckled the deputy sheriff. “I thought you’d done
something to Merriwell that wasn’t exactly honest.”

“He stole thirty dollars from me,” said Frank. “He’s got a pocket piece
of mine in his clothes, right this minute, and that was part of the
stolen money. He furnished it for the toss, at the beginning of the
football game, and I had a good look at it.”

“A fellow in Gold Hill worked that off on me,” said Guffey.

“He did, eh?” answered Frank grimly. “Then why didn’t you show the
half dollar to me when I asked you? Why did you hand me another half,
instead?”

“I did that by mistake,” was the lame excuse.

Guffey had splashed out of the ditch, and, dripping and forlorn, was
standing close to Hawkins.

“We’ll let that part go, for the present,” said Frank. “Your real name
is Billy Shoup, and not Sim Guffey. If you will tell all you know about
that forgery, and the way you manipulated matters so as to make Ellis
Darrel appear guilty, we’ll drop the robbery matter. What do you say?”

Guffey stood like a man in a trance. When he finally recovered speech
he persisted in declaring that he was Guffey, and had never heard of
the man called Shoup.

“What you need, Guffey,” grinned Frank, “is a change of heart. Maybe
that will come to you with a change of clothes.”

He turned to Hawkins.

“Take charge of him, Hawkins,” he went on. “Take him to the Ophir
House, and stay with him until I come. He knows all about that forgery
business, and can clear Ellis Darrel. He’ll do it, too, or he’ll be put
in jail for stealing that money from me.”

“I’ll hang onto him,” said Hawkins, “don’t fret about that. Come on,
Guffey—or Shoup—whichever it is.”

Guffey walked meekly away with the deputy sheriff, trailing little
streams of water behind him as he went. Frank hastened back to the
football field, arriving just as Brad made the only touchdown of the
game, and in the last five minutes of play.

Bedlam was let loose. All the Ophir partisans rushed into the field,
caught their winning team up on their shoulders, and raced the entire
eleven around the cinder track. Never before had Ophir experienced a
day like that.

There were many shouts for Merriwell, but Merry was in the clubhouse.
Hawtrey had caught him by the arm and hustled him to a place where they
could have a few words in private.

Very briefly Frank told the colonel what had transpired in the vicinity
of the irrigation ditch. The colonel’s face brightened wonderfully.

“I could have sworn it!” he exclaimed delightedly. “We’ll pick up
Ellis and Jode and get to the hotel as soon as we can. I’m going to
settle this affair now, once and for all. Wait here, Merriwell, till I
find the others; then we’ll see how quick we can get to town.”




                            CHAPTER XLVIII.

                      ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.


It was half an hour before the colonel had rounded up the party he
wished to take into Ophir with him, and during that time Frank was
being congratulated warmly in the clubhouse on the success of the Ophir
team. Mr. Bradlaugh, staid old gentleman that he was, fairly took the
lad in his arms and gave him a hug.

“You did it, Merriwell,” he kept saying; “if it hadn’t been for you we
couldn’t have won.”

When the colonel finally arrived with Jode and Ellis, Mr. Bradlaugh
offered to give them a lift to the Ophir House in his car. Clancy and
Ballard appeared just in time to form part of the load.

Merry’s chums had been wondering what it was that could have taken
their chum off the field during the last half of that exciting game.
Merriwell wouldn’t breathe a word on the ride into town, but told them
to wait a little and the whole thing would be explained.

In less than fifteen minutes after leaving the clubhouse, Colonel
Hawtrey, his two nephews, Merriwell, Clancy, and Ballard were ushered
by Pophagan into a room where Hawkins was keeping watch over Shoup,
alias Guffey.

Shoup had wrung out and dried off his clothes, and he had likewise
washed his face and removed the rest of the color from his hair. The
moment Jode Lenning saw him, he sank limply into a chair, white to the
lips.

“I know you, you contemptible cur,” cried the colonel, shaking a finger
in Shoup’s face. “You’re the fellow who, more than a year ago, brought
a forged check to me and said my nephew, Darrel, gave it to you. I
thought that Guffey and you might be one and the same person, and
that’s why I was willing to bear with Jode for a while longer, and see
what I could make out of his desire to get a new coach for Gold Hill.
Tell me about that forgery, and do it quick. The truth, mind!”

“What will you do to me if I—I tell the truth?” quavered Shoup.

“Nothing, but if you lie I’ll see to it that you’re landed behind the
bars.”

“And you’ll let that thirty dollars pass?” asked Shoup, looking toward
Merriwell.

“I’ve already told you I would—if you tell the truth,” Merry answered.

“Well, here goes, then. I was a fool for ever coming back here, but
Darrel had shown up and Lenning was scared, and wanted to do something
to get rid of him. So I came on, when Lenning wired. I happen to be a
fair football coach, and that was Lenning’s excuse for getting me here.
But the main object of this trip, just as of the one before, was to do
up Darrel.”

“Why did Jode want his half brother ‘done up’?” cut in the colonel.

“Why, Jode wanted all your property for himself,” answered Shoup, an
ugly smile on his pasty face, “and that was his principal reason for
wanting to get Darrel out of the way.”

“Go on,” said the colonel, between his teeth; “tell us about the
forgery.”

“Jode planned it,” explained Shoup, “and furnished the forged check. I
was to get Darrel into a game, dope his drink, and then accuse him of
having given me the forged check. That’s the way it worked. Darrel was
hazy and couldn’t remember what he’d done. Jode, of course, was at home
with you, colonel, so you hadn’t a notion he was mixed up in it.”

“You’re a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the colonel, “but Jode Lenning
is a whole lot worse. What have you to say, young man?” and he turned
on his cowering and discredited nephew with gleaming eyes.

Jode tried to talk, but words failed him. He began to whimper.

“Is it true, what this fellow Shoup has told me?” thundered the colonel.

“Y-yes,” Jode answered.

“I already knew you were a coward,” said the colonel, “and I was
tempted to think you were a knave as well, but I couldn’t be sure. It
was necessary first to catch Shoup, and wring a confession from him.
I thought, when you were so eager to have this Guffey come to Gold
Hill, that he might be Shoup. Something in your manner aroused my
suspicions. That is why I let the fellow come. To-day I asked Merriwell
to coöperate with me and see what we could learn from the Gold Hill
coach. Merriwell’s work surpassed my hopes and expectations. He made a
star play, and, as a result, has cleared the name of his chum of every
stain. As for you, Lenning, clear out. I’m done with you for good! I——”

Darrel caught his uncle’s sleeve, drew his head down, and whispered
to him earnestly. The colonel shook his head, but Ellis continued to
insist, and finally his uncle yielded.

“Ellis asks me to temper my indignation a little,” said he, “and to be
a little more lenient. His motive does him credit, after the way he has
suffered at your hands, Jode. You can go to my house and collect your
traps; and, when you leave, I will give you a thousand dollars to make
a fresh start in the world. Now, clear out! You go with him, Shoup!” he
added.

Jode got up and staggered from the room. Shoup followed him, turning
at the door to laugh derisively, and bid those in the room a mocking
good-by.

“Sufferin’ horn toads!” muttered Hawkins, “that’s no way to treat a law
breaker.”

“Better that, Hawkins,” answered the colonel, “than to put Shoup
through for his crimes and not get the evidence to clear Darrel. My
lad, will you now honor me with your hand?”

Darrel pressed the colonel’s palm joyfully, and then whirled to shake
hands with Merriwell.

“You’re the one who did it, old man!” he exclaimed, in a trembling
voice. “If it hadn’t been for you, Chip, I’d still be the ‘boy from
Nowhere.’”


                               THE END.

 “Frank Merriwell, Jr. in Arizona” will be the title of the next volume
 of the MERRIWELL SERIES, No. 217. Frank’s adventures in the West make
 up an absorbing tale.




                       BOOKS THAT NEVER GROW OLD

                             Alger Series

                   Clean Adventure Stories for Boys

                   The Most Complete List Published


The following list does not contain all the books that Horatio Alger
wrote, but it contains most of them, and certainly the best.

Horatio Alger is to boys what Charles Dickens is to grown-ups. His
work is just as popular to-day as it was years ago. The books have a
quality, the value of which is beyond computation.

There are legions of boys of foreign parents who are being helped
along the road to true Americanism by reading these books which
are so peculiarly American in tone that the reader cannot fail to
absorb some of the spirit of fair play and clean living which is so
characteristically American.

In this list will be included certain books by Edward Stratemeyer,
Oliver Optic, and other authors who wrote the Alger type of stories,
which are equal in interest and wholesomeness with those written by the
famous author after whom this great line of books for boys is named.

 _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_


By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

   1—Driven from Home
   2—A Cousin’s Conspiracy
   3—Ned Newton
   4—Andy Gordon
   5—Tony, the Tramp
   6—The Five Hundred Dollar Check
   7—Helping Himself
   8—Making His Way
   9—Try and Trust
  10—Only an Irish Boy
  11—Jed, the Poorhouse Boy
  12—Chester Rand
  13—Grit, the Young Boatman of Pine Point
  14—Joe’s Luck
  15—From Farm Boy to Senator
  16—The Young Outlaw
  17—Jack’s Ward
  18—Dean Dunham
  19—In a New World
  20—Both Sides of the Continent
  21—The Store Boy
  22—Brave and Bold
  23—A New York Boy

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in January, 1929

  24—Bob Burton
  25—The Young Adventurer


To be published in February, 1929.

  26—Julius, the Street Boy
  27—Adrift in New York


To be published in March, 1929.

  28—Tom Brace
  29—Struggling Upward


To be published in April, 1929.

  30—The Adventures of a New York Telegraph Boy
  31—Tom Tracy


To be published in May, 1929

  32—The Young Acrobat
  33—Bound to Rise
  34—Hector’s Inheritance


To be published in June, 1929

  35—Do and Dare
  36—The Tin Box




NOW IN PRINT


By EDWARD STRATEMEYER

   98—The Last Cruise of _The Spitfire_
   99—Reuben Stone’s Discovery
  100—True to Himself
  101—Richard Dare’s Venture
  102—Oliver Bright’s Search
  103—To Alaska for Gold
  104—The Young Auctioneer
  105—Bound to Be an Electrician
  106—Shorthand Tom
  108—Joe, the Surveyor
  109—Larry, the Wanderer
  110—The Young Ranchman
  111—The Young Lumberman
  112—The Young Explorers
  113—Boys of the Wilderness
  114—Boys of the Great Northwest
  115—Boys of the Gold Field
  116—For His Country
  117—Comrades in Peril
  118—The Young Pearl Hunters
  119—The Young Bandmaster
  121—On Fortune’s Trail
  122—Lost in the Land of Ice
  123—Bob, the Photographer


By OLIVER OPTIC

  124—Among the Missing
  125—His Own Helper
  126—Honest Kit Dunstable
  127—Every Inch a Boy
  128—The Young Pilot
  129—Always in Luck
  130—Rich and Humble
  131—In School and Out
  133—Work and Win
  135—Haste and Waste
  136—Royal Tarr’s Pluck
  137—The Prisoners of the Cave
  138—Louis Chiswick’s Mission
  139—The Professor’s Son
  140—The Young Hermit
  141—The Cruise of _The Dandy_
  142—Building Himself Up
  143—Lyon Hart’s Heroism
  144—Three Young Silver Kings
  145—Making a Man of Himself
  146—Striving for His Own
  147—Through by Daylight
  148—Lightning Express
  149—On Time
  150—Switch Off
  151—Brake Up
  152—Bear and Forbear
  153—The “Starry Flag”
  154—Breaking Away
  155—Seek and Find
  156—Freaks of Fortune
  157—Make or Break
  158—Down the River
  159—The Boat Club
  160—All Aboard
  161—Now or Never
  162—Try Again
  163—Poor and Proud
  164—Little by Little
  165—The Sailor Boy
  166—The Yankee Middy
  167—Brave Old Salt

         *       *       *       *       *

  175—Fighting for Fortune                By Roy Franklin
  176—The Young Steel Worker        By Frank H. MacDougal
  177—The Go-ahead Boys                  By Gale Richards
  178—For the Right                       By Roy Franklin
  179—The Motor Cycle Boys              By Donald Grayson
  180—The Wall Street Boy             By Allan Montgomery
  181—Stemming the Tide                   By Roy Franklin
  182—On High Gear                      By Donald Grayson
  183—A Wall Street Fortune           By Allan Montgomery
  184—Winning by Courage                  By Roy Franklin
  185—From Auto to Airship              By Donald Grayson
  186—Camp and Canoe                    By Remson Douglas
  187—Winning Against Odds                By Roy Franklin
  188—The Luck of Vance Sevier        By Frederick Gibson
  189—The Island Castaway                 By Roy Franklin
  190—The Boy Marvel                By Frank H. MacDougal
  191—A Boy With a Purpose                By Roy Franklin
  192—The River Fugitives               By Remson Douglas




A CARNIVAL OF ACTION

ADVENTURE LIBRARY

Splendid, Interesting, Big Stories


This line is devoted exclusively to a splendid type of adventure story,
in the big outdoors. There is really a breath of fresh air in each of
them, and the reader who pays fifteen cents for a copy of this line
feels that he has received his money’s worth and a little more.

The authors of these books are experienced in the art of writing, and
know just what the up-to-date American reader wants.

 _ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_


By WILLIAM WALLACE COOK

    1—The Desert Argonaut
    2—A Quarter to Four
    3—Thorndyke of the Bonita
    4—A Round Trip to the Year 2000
    5—The Gold Gleaners
    6—The Spur of Necessity
    7—The Mysterious Mission
    8—The Goal of a Million
    9—Marooned in 1492
   10—Running the Signal
   11—His Friend the Enemy
   12—In the Web
   13—A Deep Sea Game
   14—The Paymaster’s Special
   15—Adrift in the Unknown
   16—Jim Dexter, Cattleman
   17—Juggling with Liberty
   18—Back from Bedlam
   19—A River Tangle
   20—Billionaire Pro Tem
   21—In the Wake of the Scimitar
   22—His Audacious Highness
   23—At Daggers Drawn
   24—The Eighth Wonder
   25—The Cat’s-Paw
   26—The Cotton Bag
   27—Little Miss Vassar
   28—Cast Away at the Pole
   29—The Testing of Noyes
   30—The Fateful Seventh
   31—Montana
   32—The Deserter
   33—The Sheriff of Broken Bow
   34—Wanted: A Highwayman
   35—Frisbie of San Antone
   36—His Last Dollar
   37—Fools for Luck
   38—Dare of Darling & Co.
   39—Trailing “The Josephine”

         *       *       *       *       *

   40—The Snapshot Chap                             By Bertram Lebhar
   41—Brothers of the Thin Wire                      By Franklin Pitt
   42—Jungle Intrigue                              By Edmond Lawrence
   43—His Snapshot Lordship                         By Bertram Lebhar
   44—Folly Lode                                 By James F. Dorrance
   45—The Forest Rogue                           By Julian G. Wharton
   46—Snapshot Artillery                            By Bertram Lebhar
   47—Stanley Holt, Thoroughbred                      By Ralph Boston
   48—The Riddle and the Ring                       By Gordon McLaren
   49—The Black Eye Snapshot                        By Bertram Lebhar
   50—Bainbridge of Bangor                       By Julian G. Wharton
   51—Amid Crashing Hills                          By Edmond Lawrence
   52—The Big Bet Snapshot                          By Bertram Lebhar
   53—Boots and Saddles                            By J. Aubrey Tyson
   54—Hazzard of West Point                        By Edmond Lawrence
   55—Service Courageous                        By Don Cameron Shafer
   56—On Post                                       By Bertram Lebhar
   57—Jack Cope, Trooper                             By Roy Fessenden
   58—Service Audacious                         By Don Cameron Shafer
   59—When Fortune Dares                              By Emerson Baker
   60—In the Land of Treasure                         By Barry Wolcott
   61—A Soul Laid Bare                        By J. Kenilworth Egerton
   62—Wireless Sid                                  By Dana R. Preston
   63—Garrison’s Finish                           By W.  B.  M. Ferguson
   64—Bob Storm of the Navy            By Ensign Lee Tempest, U.  S.  N.
   65—Golden Bighorn                           By William Wallace Cook
   66—The Square Deal Garage                       By Burt L. Standish
   67—Ridgway of Montana                          By Wm. MacLeod Raine
   68—The Motor Wizard’s Daring                    By Burt L. Standish
   80—A Submarine Cruise                             By Donald Grayson
   81—The Vanishing Junk                             By Remson Douglas
   82—In Strange Waters                              By Donald Grayson
   83—Afloat with Capt. Dynamite                       By Wilson Carew
   84—Bob Steele’s Motor Boat                        By Donald Grayson
   85—The Filibusters                              By Frederick Gibson
   86—Bob Steele’s Reverse                           By Donald Grayson
   87—On Wooded Trails                             By Frederick Gibson
   88—Bob Steele’s New Aeroplane                     By Donald Grayson
   89—Buck Badger’s Ranch                          By Russell Williams
   90—Bob Steele’s Last Flight                       By Donald Grayson
   91—In Full Cry                                     By Richard Marsh
   92—The Fatal Legacy                                  By Louis Tracy
   93—His Heritage                                By W.  B.  M. Ferguson
   94—The Treasure of the Golden Crater    By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
   95—The Ape and the Diamond                         By Richard Marsh
   96—The Camp in the Snow                   By William Murray Graydon
   97—Nobody’s Fool                                By Frederick Gibson
   98—A Case of Identity                              By Richard Marsh
   99—Randy, the Pilot                     By Lieut. Lionel Lounsberry
  100—The Reluctant Queen                     By J. Kenilworth Egerton
  101—The Goddess—A Demon                            By Richard Marsh
  102—The Survivor                            By E. Phillips Oppenheim
  103—The Fate of the Plotter                           By Louis Tracy
  104—Philip Bennion’s Death                          By Richard Marsh

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in January, 1929.

  105—Mysterious Mr. Sabin                      By E. Phillips Oppenheim
  106—The Strange Disappearance of Lady Delia             By Louis Tracy


To be published in February, 1929.

  107—Master of Men                             By E. Phillips Oppenheim
  108—The Whistle of Fate                               By Richard Marsh


To be published in March, 1929.

  109—The Wooing of Esther Gray                        By E. Louis Tracy
  110—The Great Awakening                       By E. Phillips Oppenheim


To be published in April, 1929.

  111—A Strange Wooing                                  By Richard Marsh
  112—His Father’s Crime                        By E. Phillips Oppenheim


To be published in May, 1929.

  113—At the Court of the Maharaja                        By Louis Tracy
  114—In the Service of Love                            By Richard Marsh


To be published in June, 1929.

  115—As a Man Lives                            By E. Phillips Oppenheim
  116—The Glitter of Jewels                     By J. Kenilworth Egerton




_NOTE THE NEW TITLES LISTED_

Western Story Library

For Everyone Who Likes Adventure


Ted Strong and his band of broncho-busters have most exciting
adventures in this line of attractive big books, and furnish the reader
with an almost unlimited number of thrills.

If you like a really good Western cowboy story, then this line is made
expressly for you.


_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_

   1—Ted Strong, Cowboy                       By Edward C. Taylor
   2—Ted Strong Among the Cattlemen           By Edward C. Taylor
   3—Ted Strong’s Black Mountain Ranch        By Edward C. Taylor
   4—Ted Strong With Rifle and Lasso          By Edward C. Taylor
   5—Ted Strong Lost in the Desert            By Edward C. Taylor
   6—Ted Strong Fighting the Rustlers         By Edward C. Taylor
   7—Ted Strong and the Rival Miners          By Edward C. Taylor
   8—Ted Strong and the Last of the Herd      By Edward C. Taylor
   9—Ted Strong on a Mountain Trail           By Edward C. Taylor
  10—Ted Strong Across the Prairie            By Edward C. Taylor
  11—Ted Strong Out for Big Game              By Edward C. Taylor
  12—Ted Strong Challenged                    By Edward C. Taylor
  13—Ted Strong’s Close Call                  By Edward C. Taylor
  14—Ted Strong’s Passport                    By Edward C. Taylor
  15—Ted Strong’s Nebraska Ranch              By Edward C. Taylor
  16—Ted Strong’s Cattle Drive                By Edward C. Taylor
  17—Ted Strong’s Stampede                    By Edward C. Taylor
  18—Ted Strong’s Prairie Trail               By Edward C. Taylor
  19—Ted Strong’s Surprise                    By Edward C. Taylor
  20—Ted Strong’s Wolf Hunters                By Edward C. Taylor
  21—Ted Strong’s Crooked Trail               By Edward C. Taylor
  22—Ted Strong in Colorado                   By Edward C. Taylor
  23—Ted Strong’s Justice                     By Edward C. Taylor

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.


To be published in January, 1929.

  24—Ted Strong’s Treasure                    By Edward C. Taylor
  25—Ted Strong’s Search                      By Edward C. Taylor


To be published in February, 1929.

  26—Ted Strong’s Diamond Mine                By Edward C. Taylor
  27—Ted Strong’s Manful Task                 By Edward C. Taylor


To be published in March, 1929.

  28—Ted Strong, Manager                      By Edward C. Taylor
  29—Ted Strong’s Man Hunt                    By Edward C. Taylor


To be published in April, 1929.

  30—Ted Strong’s Gold Mine                   By Edward C. Taylor
  31—Ted Strong’s Broncho Boys                By Edward C. Taylor
  32—Ted Strong’s Wild Horse                  By Edward C. Taylor


To be published in May, 1929.

  33—Ted Strong’s Tenderfoot                  By Edward C. Taylor
  34—Ted Strong’s Stowaway                    By Edward C. Taylor


To be published in June, 1929.

  35—Ted Strong’s Prize Herd                  By Edward C. Taylor
  36—Ted Strong’s Trouble                     By Edward C. Taylor




VALUE


Although literature is generally regarded as more or less of a luxury,
there is such a thing as getting your money’s worth, and a little more,
in the way of literature.

For seventy years the firm of STREET & SMITH has specialized in the
publication of fiction. During all this time everything bearing our
imprint represented good value for the money.

When, about thirty years ago, we began the publication of a series of
paper bound books, which has since become world famous by the name
of “The S & S Novel,” we did our best to publish the right sort of
fiction. The sales of these books proved that we have succeeded in
interesting and pleasing the American reading public.

There are over 1,800 different titles in our catalogue, and every title
above reproach from every standpoint. The STREET & SMITH NOVEL has been
rightly called the fiction of the masses.

Do not be deceived by books which look like the STREET & SMITH NOVELS
but which are made like them only in looks. Insist upon having paper
covered books bearing the imprint of STREET & SMITH, and so be sure of
securing full value for your money.


  STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
  79 Seventh Avenue :: New York City




READ


When you want real recreation in your leisure hours, read! Read the
STREET & SMITH NOVELS!

They are the cheapest and most interesting reading matter published
in America to-day. No jazz—no sex—just big, clean, interesting books.
There are hundreds of different titles, among which you will find a lot
of exactly the sort of reading you want.

So, when you get tired of rolling around in your Lady Lizzie or
listening to the blah-blah of your radio, hie yourself to the nearest
news dealer, grab off a copy of a good detective, adventure or love
story, and then READ!

Read the STREET & SMITH NOVELS. Catalogue sent upon request.


  Street & Smith Corporation
  79 Seventh Avenue       New York City

 Printed in the U.  S.  A.