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.