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!”