A SHARP CLASH.
Barzy Blunt was a splendid specimen of physical development. His
shoulders were broad, his chest deep, and there was not an ounce of
superfluous flesh on his whole body. Under his clear, white skin the
muscles tensed and flowed, as he crouched, and approached and retreated
warily, looking for an opening. His movements were swift and graceful,
carried out with a precision and certainty that not only claimed, but
received, Merriwell's silent admiration.
But if Blunt was a fine specimen of a "homemade" athlete, Merriwell's
more scientific training revealed him a shade better on every one of
Blunt's points, admirable though they were. If Blunt's appearance
suggested excellence, young Frank's spelled perfection. Even the
cowboys, Blunt's partisans, could not refrain from exclamations that
honored the "polished gem from the East." Nevertheless, the Bar Z
fellows kept all their encouragement for their own champion.
"He's got nothin' on ye in weight. Barzy!" called Aaron Lloyd. "Flop
him! Jump in an' turn him over!"
"For the honor of the ole Bar Z, Barzy!" whooped Ben Jordan.
"It's yore bout, pard!" cried Bandy Harrison.
Suddenly the two wrestlers rushed at each other. By a quick movement,
Blunt secured a hold which Merry did not fancy, and he slipped out of
his grasp. On the marble whiteness of Merriwell's bare back four livid
streaks showed, and a flick of red oozed from one of them.
"First blood fer Barzy!" howled Harrison. "Ye left the mark of yer
claws on him, pard! Don't let him git away from ye."
Again the two came together, and Blunt once more succeeded in getting
under Merriwell and snapped, him over for a quick "flop." Merry,
however, broke the hold as he went down, twisted to hands and knees, and
bobbed up two feet away and again facing his antagonist.
The cowboys were wildly exultant. They believed that Barzy Blunt was
showing his superiority in these initial moves.
But they were mistaken. Merry was merely trying out his adversary and
calmly studying his weak and his strong points at the game.
Blunt, through lack of proper training, was making the grave mistake of
using all his strength on what might be termed nonessentials. In
wrestling, no more strength should be used than the moment calls for, a
reserve being held for the supreme moment.
When the wrestlers came together for the third time, the time-honored
hold of "one over and one under" was secured, and Merry was satisfied.
From this, after a minute of squirming and twisting, Merry slipped to an
arm-and-neck hold, his left hand about the back of Blunt's neck, right
hand locked in his left elbow. Blunt began to kick.
"Stop that!" Clancy ordered sternly.
"Never mind, Clan," said Merry, "I've got him now."
With a swiftness and ease beautiful to see, Merriwell thrust his left
foot between Blunt's kicking extremities, pushed the left arm farther,
and completely around his neck, clung like a leech to his left elbow,
twisted on his toes, bent his knees, and heaved upward. Blunt was lifted
clear of the ground on Merry's back. It was the old reliable hip lock.
The next instant, Blunt had fallen. Merry was on top and Blunt's
shoulders squarely on the ground.
"First fall for Chip Merriwell," sang out Clancy. "He's a chip of the
old block in more ways than one."
Blunt got up, smiling. It was his old, mirthless smile, and, like a
barometer, announced his rising temper.
The second round was a little more exciting. Possibly Merriwell, wishing
to encourage Blunt, gave him the initial advantage. A minute, or a
minute and a half of fierce, silent struggling followed, Blunt blowing
like a grampus and Merriwell taking it easily.
With an arm clasped around Merriwell's neck, Blunt labored tremendously
to turn him over. Merry, however, was like a rock, and all the cowboy's
efforts failed. He expended a vast amount of strength, which was exactly
what Merry wanted.
Then, with startling suddenness, Merriwell from a rocklike, passive
defense became the aggressor. He seemed to yield to Blunt's pushing and
hauling, but that supposed yielding was a sorry disappointment to the
cowboy. Somehow, Merry regained his feet; then, in a flash, Merry's
right arm had Blunt's head in chancery, with Blunt at his back. With a
marshaling of his reserve strength, Merry turned the Wonder a somersault
and laid him stunned and flat on his back.
"Well, I'll be blamed!" exclaimed Jordan, rubbing a dazed hand across
his forehead. "That's the best I ever seen, an' no mistake."
"How the jumpin' sand hills did he do it?" murmured the bewildered
Harrison.
"He's sure some on the wrestle!" exclaimed Aaron Lloyd.
"Second fall," announced Clancy crisply. "Two straight for Chip
Merriwell, and he wins."
Frank, breathing a little hard, hurried to kneel at Blunt's side.
"Didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked anxiously.
Blunt sat up and stared at him, smiling wrathfully, and his jet-black
eyes two points of flame.
"No, you didn't hurt me," he answered. "I'm all rawhide and whalebone,
and it isn't in you to hurt me. Confound you, I'll get you at something
or other yet. Want to spar with bare knuckles?"
"Not to-day," Frank answered. "A bargain is a bargain, Blunt. I won this
set-to in a couple of straight falls. Now, tell me what you know about
Professor Borrodaile."
Jordan brought Blunt's shirt, and began pulling it over his head.
Harrison rushed to the horses and returned with a canteen. Blunt took a
long pull at the canteen, and got up.
"If you're afraid to spar--" he began, but Clancy interrupted him.
"You've lost out, Blunt, and Merriwell has bought and paid for the
information about Professor Borrodaile. Give it to him."
"That's right, old pard," put in Lloyd. "Come across, or let some o' the
rest of us."
"I'll do the talking." Blunt answered. "Yesterday afternoon," said he,
"we stopped for a while at McGurvin's. While we were watering the
bronks, I looked up and saw a man's face at an upstairs window. It was
the face of this professor of yours."
"Great Scott!" gulped Clancy, staring.
"At McGurvin's?" demanded Merry, no less excited.
"Yes, at McGurvin's. I
asked Mac what the professor was doing in his house, and he answered
that what I didn't know wouldn't bother me. It was none of my put-in,
and so I let it go at that, There's something else to it, too. Tell what
you found out in Gold Hill, Aaron, two days ago."
Merry and Clancy turned their eyes on Lloyd.
"I was there fer the ranch mail," began Lloyd, "an' Nick Porter was
crookin' his elbow a-plenty. And talking a heap, too. In front of the
Red Light he had a feller in flashy clothes with a sandy mustache, and
the two was goin' it some in the gab line. I was leanin' against the
front of the Red Light, at the time, a-readin' a letter, an' I couldn't
help hear a little of what them two said. 'Sam'll put down a hole an'
blow out a bag o' samples,' says Porter, 'an' bring 'em round about to
Mac's. Turkeyfoot'll take the perfesser on from Mac's to the old camp
the mornin' after Sam gits through. Arter loadin' up with the
perfesser's plunder, he'll bring him back to Mac's, an' Mac'll hold him.
Then you, Heppner, can go out to Mac's Tuesday arternoon an' make yer
play.' That's all," finished Lloyd.
"Aaron didn't remember all that until after I'd seen the professor at
the window," interpolated Blunt. "Then, as we were riding on, he let it
out."
"Blazes!" exclaimed Clancy. "There's a scheme on to rob Borrodaile of
that claim of his!"
"Looks thataway," said Lloyd passively.
"Who is this Sam that was to get the bag of samples and take it to
McGurvin's by a roundabout way?" queried Merriwell.
"No sabe."
"He's the fellow that had the leaky bag and dropped this trail of ore!
Who's Turkeyfoot?"
"Feller that lives out o' Gold Hill a ways. Does freightin'."
"The way I size it up," said Frank, "the professor hired this Turkeyfoot
to came to Happenchance with him and get the goods he had left there.
They halted at McGurvin's place long enough to give Sam time to do his
blasting and make off with the samples. Then the professor and
Turkeyfoot went to the claim, got the professor's goods, and went back
to McGurvin's; and there, fellows, the professor is being held until
this man in flashy clothes comes out and does something to beat
Borrodaile out of the claim."
"That's you," said Blunt. "To-day's Tuesday; and it's this afternoon
that the business is to be pulled off. The thing to do is to hike for
McGurvin's and nip the affair in the bud. Mac is on the side of the
opposition, and so is Sam, and Turkeyfoot, and the flashily dressed
juniper. That makes four, Merriwell, and there are only you and Clancy
to see this game through. We'll help. That was part of the bargain, and
we Bar Z fellows stand up to our agreements."
"We were at McGurvin's, last night," remarked Frank, puzzled. "There
wasn't any one there but the rancher himself."
"Shucks," said Blunt, "you're easy. There might have been a houseful,
and you none the wiser. McGurvin's so crooked he can't walk around his
house without running into himself. Everybody knows that."
Merry's dark eyes began to flash,
"This is an outrage!" he exclaimed. "McGurvin, and all the rest who are
working with him, ought to be arrested!"
Blunt laughed.
"What do you want to arrest him for?" he asked. "Beat him at his own
game and let it go at that. Climb aboard your chug bikes, and we'll
mount and hurry along with you. We can get to the ranch in time to make
McGurvin and his bunch look two ways for comfort."
Merriwell realized the need of hurry. The sun was climbing toward the
zenith, and afternoon, and the working out of the plot against
Borrodaile, would soon be at hand. Without further delay he got into his
clothes; then he and Clancy started their machines and headed for
McGurvin's. The cowboys galloped along just behind them.