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.