"Oh, mah goodness, I's done killed!" Toots gurgled. "I's done shot clean
through de haid. O-oh, Lordy! Oh, mah soul!"
"Poly hoker!" gasped Rattleton, who saw the arrow sticking in the
colored boy's cap, which was lying on the ground. "I'm afraid he is hurt
this time."
Frank leaped to Toots' side and lifted him to his feet.
Hans Dunnerwust had dropped the bow and stood staring at his work, his
round cheeks the color of ashes.
"You're not hurt!" exclaimed Merriwell, after a hasty examination,
giving the colored boy a shake to bring him to his senses. "The arrow
cut through your cap and scratched the skin on the top of your head, but
you are not hurt. Stand up, now, and stop your howling!"
Toots sank to a camp chair, and made a sickly attempt at a grin.
"Wo-oh!" he gasped. "It meks me have de fevah an' chillins jes' lack
Mistah Browning to fink about an arrum stickin' frough mah haid. I bet
yo' fo' dollars I don't git hit no mo'! I'll git behind dem shooters de
nex' time."
"But Dunnerwust is just as liable to shoot backwards as forwards,"
declared Rattleton, who was ready for a laugh, now that he knew Toots
was unhurt. "He's like the cross-eyed man. You can't be sure that he's
going to shoot in the direction he looks."
"Handle that bow with a little more care, Hans," Merriwell cautioned.
"We don't want to have anybody killed here this afternoon."
Hans reluctantly took up the bow and prepared for another effort, but
the mishap seemed to have taken the energy out of him, and the arrow did
not fly as far as the target.
Ephraim Gallup came forward in his turn with a queer grin on his thin,
homely face.
"Gol darned if I don't feel ez if I could shoot this thing clean through
that old tree!" he muttered, as he fitted an arrow to the bow. "Do you
shoot at the thing, er over it?"
"Over it," said Merriwell. "In shooting so great a distance you must
allow for the trajectory, or curve. If you don't, your arrow will drop
below."
Merriwell smiled as he said this, for he had already given Gallup
careful instructions and had seen the boy from Vermont make some good
shots.
Though Gallup stood in an awkward position, he drew the arrow with care.
It was seen to strike near the center of the target, and then the marker
called:
"In the red--seven."
"Good for you!" cried Diamond. "That's two better than I did."
"Somebody's got to hustle ef they beat us this day, an' don't yeou
fergit it," said Gallup, that queer grin still on his face.
Ward Hammond faced the target with a confident air. He was a good shot
with the bow, and was well aware of the fact.
"In the gold--nine!" cried the marker, as Hammond's arrow struck, and
then the Blue Mountain boys sent up a cheer.
Merriwell followed, and let slip the arrow with a steady hand.
"In the gold--nine!" cried the marker, again, almost before Hammond's
friends had ceased their cheering, and then it was the turn of
Merriwell's followers.
Toots would not shoot, excusing himself by saying he knew he would kill
somebody if he did, and when Dunnerwust came again to the scratch there
was a cautious widening of the semicircle gathered about the archers.
Hans came near shooting himself, this time, for the arrow slipped, while
he was trying to fit it to the string, and flew skyward, past his nose.
"Look oudt!" Hans squawked. "Uf dot comes down your head on, I vill ged
hurt!"
It fell near Gallup, who stepped nimbly to one side as it descended.
"Look here, b'jee!" he growled. "If you've got a grutch agin' me, say
so, but don't go shootin' arrers at me zif you was an' Injun an' me a
Pilgrum Father."
"Oxcuse me!" supplicated the Dutch boy. "Dot string slipped der arrow py
ven I dry to fix him. Shust eferypoty stant avay off, now, so I vill nod
ged hurted."
The semicircle widened this time to a very respectable distance. Hans
spat on his hands, grasped the plush handle in the middle of the bow,
fitted the arrow and drew it down with exceeding care. When he had
sighted with his open right eye till every one was growing impatient, he
let the bowstring slip.
"In the white--one!" shouted the marker.
In all his practice Hans had never before struck an arrow in the target,
and he was so pleased now that he fairly hugged himself with delight.
"Vot vos id you tolt me?" he cried, in great elation. "We peen goin' to
vin dis game so easy as falling a log off!"
"Yes, it's won!" said Hammond, with a perceptible sneer. "There is no
doubt, Dutchy, that you're a shooter from Shootville. If you hit the
white again, it will count two."
"You pet yourselluf der v'ite vill hid me so many as sixdeen dimes
alretty!" cried Hans, stung by the sneer.
Hammond struck the gold again, but Merriwell got only the red. Twice
this was repeated; after which Merriwell put his arrow in the gold three
times in succession, while Hammond dropped to the red, and once to the
blue, which last counted only five.
It quickly developed that there were good archers on both sides, and the
contest waxed hot. Diamond, Rattleton and Gallup shot well, as did also
Colson and Tetlow. Six times the yellow-haired, big-jointed boy from
Vermont put his arrow in the gold, though he faced the target so
awkwardly that it did not seem possible he could handle a bow at all.
As for Browning, he had been left at the camp, muffled up in a blanket
and in the grip of another chill.
"I didn't learn to knock the sparrers out o' dad's old barn with a bow
an' arrer fer nuthin'!" Gallup grinned, when some one praised his
marksmanship.
In addition to Ward Hammond, Craig Carter, of the Blue Mountain boys,
shot excellently, as did also Dan Matlock and some half dozen others.
The contest grew hotter and hotter. The club scores--the average scores
of the combined membership of each club--ran very evenly, and as the
shoot drew toward its close, the count of the club scores showed five in
favor of the boys of Lake Lily, with Ward Hammond's score three more
than Merriwell's, and the best that had been made.
"Don't l'ave him bate yez, Merry, me b'y!" Barney Mulloy whispered.
"You may be sure I'll do my best, Barney," responded Merriwell,
compressing his lips as he stepped again to the line and took up the
bow.
"Seven--in the red!" cried the marker.
Then, as Ward Hammond followed:
"Nine--in the gold!"
There were only three more rounds, twenty-one of the twenty-four rounds
of the contest having been shot.
"Here are the leading scores, as revised after that last shoot,"
announced the youth who kept the score card, reading from the card,
while the excited and anxious lads gathered closely about him. "Ward
Hammond, 145; Frank Merriwell, 140."
The Blue Mountain boys swung their caps and sent up a cheer of delight.
Again Frank faced the target and let his arrow fly.
"Nine--in the gold!" came the voice of the marker.
"Good boy!" cried Harry Rattleton. "That gives you one hundred and
forty-nine. Do it another time."
Frank Merriwell did it another time; and when the marker called "nine,"
Ward Hammond became noticeably rattled, for he had made only seven in
the previous shot.
Hammond's hands were seen to shake as he drew on the bowstring, and when
the marker called, "only five--in the blue," his dark face grew almost
colorless.
"One more round," said the score marker. "Frank Merriwell now has 158;
Ward Hammond, 157."
The excitement was at fever pitch as Merriwell again went forward to
shoot.
He knew that everything depended on this last shot. If he could again
hit the gold, it would then be impossible for Hammond to beat him, for
he already led Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more than strike
the gold. Therefore he went about his preparations with the utmost
coolness and care.
Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand, he placed the notch
of the feathered arrow on the middle of the string with his right,
resting the shaft across the bow on the left side just above and
touching his left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right
hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect them, he grasped
the string and the arrow-neck.
It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell at this supreme
moment, as he stood ready to shoot. He seemed to be unconscious that
there was another person in the world. His body was gracefully erect,
his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left arm rigidly
extended, and his right hand drawing steadily on the string of the bow.
There was a shining light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush.
The profound silence that had fallen on every one was broken by the
twang of the bowstring, by the arrow's whizzing flight and by the
audible sighs that went up as it sped on its way.
"Nine--in the gold!" called the marker, with a thrill in his usually
monotonous voice.
But there was no cheering, though Rattleton felt like cracking the blue
dome of the sky and his throat as well. The excitement was too intense.
"I'll duplicate that or break the bow!" Hammond was heard to mutter.
Merriwell walked down toward the target, anxious to observe the arrow as
it struck, a proceeding that was perfectly allowable so long as he kept
out of the archer's way.
Diamond, who was watching Hammond, saw the latter's face darken while
the pupils of the boy's eyes seemed to contract to the size of pin
points.
"That fellow is a regular devil," thought Diamond. "I must warn Frank to
look out or he'll be waylaid and shot by him some of these fine
evenings."
Hammond drew the arrow to the head with a steady hand, but, just as he
released it, his foot slipped back on the grass and the arrow was
sharply deviated from the line it should have taken to reach the target.
Instead of flying toward the gold, it flew toward Merriwell.
"Look out!" screamed Diamond, jumping to his feet.
Merriwell had reached the narrow path that ran across the grounds and
was directly in front of a tree that stood in the path and cut off the
view toward the village.
He heard the "whir-r-r" of the arrow, heard Diamond's cry, and dropped
to the ground on his face.
At the same instant, the straight, lithe form of a girl of seventeen or
eighteen appeared from behind the tree.
She was directly in the line of the arrow's flight. She, too, heard the
warning, but she did not understand it. She did not dream of peril.
Then the arrow struck her, and, uttering a cry, she staggered backward
and went down in a heap.