THE FACE IN THE WATCH.
At lunch Carson was strangely silent and abstracted. The raillery of his
friends failed to awaken him into anything like liveliness. He smiled a
bit at their jokes and chaffing, but any one could see those smiles were
forced.
"I should say it was high time you got away from the wild and woolly
West!" cried Jack Diamond. "I've heard that loneliness on the ocean or
the plains makes a man gloomy, and, by Jove! I believe it's true."
"Cowboys and cattlemen are not gloomy," returned Carson. "As a rule,
they're a jovial, good-natured set, who thoroughly enjoy a joke or a bit
of humor. It's not loneliness on the plains that affects me, if there's
anything the matter with me."
"Anything the matter with you?" rumbled Browning. "Why, in the old days
you were always light-hearted. This is the first time I've ever seen a
depressed mug on you."
"Let me alone, and I presume I'll come out of it," said the young
Westerner. "I'm sorry if I'm casting a shadow on an otherwise happy
gathering. I didn't mean to."
"Oh, you're all right, Carson. I should say your liver might be out of
kilter. You need something to stir it up."
"If there's anything that will stir up a man's liver more than a
hundred-mile jaunt on horseback, I'd like to know what it is. I've been
taking plenty such jaunts this spring. Although I haven't been at the
ranch for a month, I was there when the snow came off, and rode the
range with the rest of the boys to find out how our cows had come
through the winter."
"Don't suppose you've been troubled any more by cattle thieves since the
demise of that fake Laramie Dave?" questioned Merriwell.
"No, we put an end to the business in our parts. We had you to thank for
it. You were the one who discovered how our brand of the B. S. was being
turned into the Flying Dollars brand. You stopped cattle stealing in the
Big Sandy region."
"Things were hot around there for a while, weren't they, Berlin?"
laughed Frank.
"I haven't heard about this," said Diamond. "What's the story?"
Carson looked disturbed.
"I don't like to tell it," he confessed. "Still, I don't suppose Frank
would give himself proper credit if he should tell you. Did you ever
hear of Laramie Dave, the rustler?"
"My dear fellow, I've been living on the other side of the pond so long
that I haven't heard of anything taking place out in your part of this
country. Who was this Laramie Dave?"
"The worst rustler known in recent years. He carried on most of his
operations on the big ranches to the north of us. He operated
extensively in Wyoming and in Montana. At last the cattlemen became
exasperated and made things hot for him up there. Next we knew Laramie
Dave was said to be getting in his work in Colorado. We lost cattle
right along on the Big Sandy, and the Bar S people had the same trouble.
The Flying Dollars people also made a similar complaint. The Flying
Dollars Ranch was owned by Colonel King.
"There was an old feud between my foreman and the foreman of the Flying
Dollars. I was with Merry in Denver when I received word that the
rustlers were hitting us hard, and I struck out for the Big Sandy, Frank
accompanying me. We found our fences were being cut everywhere, which
permitted our cattle to stray or to be driven off. We rode over our
ranch, took a look at the Bar S cattle, and visited the Flying Dollars.
"The night following our visit to the Flying Dollars Merry sat up
scrawling on a piece of paper in an aimless way, while I went to bed. He
woke me from a sound sleep by uttering an exclamation of triumph. I
think I growled at him, but he made me get up, and there on the paper he
had drawn the different brands of the three ranches, the Bar S, the Big
Sandy, and the Flying Dollars. He had combined all three brands into
one. He showed how either the Bar S or the B. S. could be turned into
the Flying Dollars by having the latter brand burned over them. But
every one in those parts respected Colonel King. No one had ever dreamed
that he was concerned in the rustling. Nevertheless, Merry's detective
work put us on the right track, and in the end we learned beyond
question that King was stealing and rebranding our cattle. His
assertions that he was losing cows were lies.
"The climax came when a posse of officers and detectives cornered
Laramie Dave, and some lead was pumped into him. Colonel King was a
gray-haired, respectable-looking man, while Laramie Dave wore long black
hair and a drooping mustache. But Laramie Dave's mustache was false, and
his long black hair was a wig which covered the white hair of Colonel
King. King was the real cattle thief. He was not, however, the real
Laramie Dave, who was still up in Wyoming somewhere. He had simply made
himself up to look like Laramie Dave, in order that the genuine rustler
might get credit for the cattle stealing.
"That's the whole story."
"Sounds like a romance or a bit of fiction," observed Diamond. "Don't
suppose such business could be carried on in the West at the present
time."
"We put an end to it as far as Colorado is concerned," nodded Carson.
"Merry deserves the credit for rounding up the last of our big cow
thieves."
"Let me see," murmured Merriwell, "Colonel King had a daughter, didn't
he? What became of her, Berlin?"
Carson shook his head.
"No one knows," he replied. "She disappeared after her father's death."
After lunch they again sat on the veranda and chatted a while. Finally
Frank, Bruce, and Jack went over to Farnham Hall, to attend to their
duties there.
"Show Berlin over the grounds, Hodge," said Merry, as he was leaving.
"I'll take him through the buildings myself later on."
Hodge and Carson strolled about that afternoon, first visiting the
picnic grove and from thence turning toward the lake and the boathouse.
At the boathouse they rested a while, for the spot was cool and
inviting.
"I'd like a camera," said Carson. "Jingoes, Bart, a fellow could get
some great views here! The scenery is soothing. That's the word for it,
soothing. It gives me a feeling of rest."
"Then take your time and rest as much as you like," said Bart. "Since
coming here I've had my first opportunity in months to rest. I never
fancied there was a lazy streak in me, but I'm getting lazier and
lazier every day. I'm afraid it would spoil me to hang around here long.
I wouldn't have any relish for Arizona alkali or Mexican dust and
sunshine."
They sat in one of the boats that drifted beside the boathouse float,
Carson dabbling his fingers in the water.
"It is a lazy spot," he murmured. "I should think Merriwell's boys would
get the tired feeling."
"Oh, some of them do," smiled Hodge; "but Frank won't let them loll
around long enough for it to become chronic. He keeps them up and
doing."
After they had been there nearly an hour, Bart felt for his watch and
found he had left it at the boathouse.
"What time is it, Carson?" he asked.
The young Westerner drew forth a hunting-case watch and opened it.
"Nearly three," he said. Then he sat staring at the watch.
But Bart observed it was not the face of the watch at which his
companion was gazing with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes. Leaning
forward a bit, Hodge discovered that on the reverse side of the open
front case there was a pictured face--that of a girl.
Finally, with a faint sigh, Carson closed the watch and slipped it into
his pocket.
"You and Frank are very fortunate, very happy, Bart," he said. And
again began dabbling in the water with his fingers.
"I know your secret now," thought Bart. "There's a girl behind it. By
Jove! Berlin, old man, you're hard hit."