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CHAPTER XIV – A GOOD START
The day of the tournament at Santa Barbara arrived and brought with it large crowds of visitors from various parts of the State. There was a great swarm of strangers in the beautiful little town that lies between the blue Santa Yenz Mountains and the dreaming sea.
The field for the sports and contests lay outside the town, and there the crowd gathered at an early hour.
It had been arranged that such contests as putting the shot, throwing the hammer, jumping, vaulting, wrestling, and so forth, should come before the races.
Browning had been induced to enter the hammer-throwing and shot-putting contests, while Barney was anxious to show what he could do at the high jump and the long jump. Diamond had decided to take part in the pole vaulting.
The boys’ bicycles had arrived by express the day before, having been forwarded from San Francisco, and Rattleton entered for the two-mile bicycle race, after vainly trying to induce Frank to go into it.
“I’ll have quite all I want to do in the hundred yards’ dash and the two-hundred-and-twenty yards’ hurdle,” smiled Frank. “I am not going to break myself all up at the very beginning of our new tour.”
“That’s right,” said Hodge, significantly; “and you will find Wallace Random a sharp rival in both of those contests. It won’t surprise me, Frank, if you are unable to defeat him.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Merry, lifting his eyebrows and regarding Bart coolly. “There was a time when you thought no person could defeat me.”
Bart flushed and moved uneasily.
“You’re a dandy, old fellow,” he said; “but Random has a record. He is the amateur champion of this State.”
“And still you are going to be in the hurdle race! That is remarkable. What do you expect to win?”
“Well, I can’t do worse than get last position,” returned Bart, somewhat sulkily. “I do not expect to beat Wallace Random.”
Frank turned away.
Inza Burrage was present to witness the contests, but Frank could not get a chance to speak to her. Effie Random held several conversations with her brother.
Ephraim Gallup, who happened to pass near them as they were talking, heard a few words from each.
“Beat him if you can,” said Effie, “beat him in both races.”
“I will,” confidently declared Random. “You may be sure of that.”
“You don’t know him, or you would not speak thus confidently. He always wins at everything he tries. I wish to see him defeated.”
“Don’t worry: your wish shall be granted.”
Then Ephraim heard no more.
“Wal, darn my punkins!” he muttered. “I’d like ter know who they be talkin’ abaout. You don’t s’pose it’s Frank!”
He was startled by the possibility, but quickly decided that such a thing could not be.
Early on the morning of the previous day, after the Yale Combine had been organized, Frank had hastened to order some suits for the club, which they were to wear while taking part in certain contests. These suits were short, light trousers, scarcely coming to the knees of the wearers, and close fitting dark-blue shirts, each having a large white Y on the breast.
By paying well for it, Merry was able to get several suits rushed through, so the boys who were to take part in the sports requiring great exertion each could have a suit.
The first contest was putting the shot.
There were six contestants, and Browning came fourth on the list.
The big fellow looked fine, and said he felt well, although he growled a bit, as usual, because he had to do something besides be a spectator.
The Santa Barbara athletic club also had a big lad who was an expert shot-putter and hammer thrower. His name was Benson.
Benson was the sixth man on the list, that position having come to him by lot.
A slender chap by the name of Cummings, from Salinas, started the ball rolling by making a distance of thirty-three feet and four inches.
This was not beaten till Browning came up.
“Do your best, old man,” urged Frank. “You can do a good job if you try. You know big Hickok has a record of forty-two and nine.”
Bruce grunted.
“I don’t suppose you expect me to beat Hickok, do you?” he growled.
“Not exactly,” smiled Frank; “but you can come near him.”
Browning limbered up, and then took his position. He was regarded with great curiosity, as it had become known that he was from Yale, and something good was expected of him.
His first put, however, was a disappointment to everybody, as he fell under Cummings by five inches.
“Oh, he’s too lazy for anything!” muttered Diamond. “He can do better than that.”
“He will do better,” declared Frank.
But, to the astonishment of all, Browning made scarcely thirty-one feet on his second trial.
There were cries of amusement and derision from the crowd, and a voice shouted:
“Is that one of the wonderful men from Yale? He does not seem to be such hot stuff. Wait till you see Benson toss the shot.”
Browning stiffened up, and his face became set. He glanced at Frank, expecting Merriwell would be angry, but was met with a smile and a nod of encouragement.
“I’ll do something this time if it’s in me!” Bruce mentally vowed.
He did.
On the third trial he sent the shot whizzing through the air to fall far beyond the mark made by Cummings.
When the tape was run it was found he had made thirty-eight feet and eleven inches.
Then Browning was given a round of applause, and Frank congratulated him when he stepped back into the crowd.
The man who followed Browning made thirty-two feet, and then Benson came up. Wallace Random said a few words to Santa Barbara’s champion shot putter, and Benson nodded, although there was a worried look on his face.
The crowd of spectators were silent and expectant.
What would Benson do? Could he beat the man from the East?
At Benson’s first trial he made thirty-seven feet and nine inches.
This brought some applause, and a man cried:
“Wait a minute! He will show you something better than that.”
But to the dismay of Benson’s admirers, he fell back to thirty-six on the second trial.
He prepared for the third and last effort, and it was seen by the expression of his face that he meant to beat the record if it was in him. With the shot in his hand, he poised himself for the throw, falling back on his right foot. The muscles of his right arm and shoulder stood out in hard bunches, while his left arm was extended, his hand being clinched.
A moment he remained thus, and then, with a mighty heave, he sent the shot flying through the air.
With a thud, it dropped to the sandy ground and lay still.
“He has won! He has won!”
The cry went up from Benson’s friends.
“Wait a moment till the measurement is made,” said Frank Merriwell, quietly, as the tape was laid.
There was a great hush of expectancy, and then the voice of the judge was heard to declare:
“Thirty-eight feet and nine inches. Bruce Browning, of Yale College, has won over all by a margin of two inches.”
A moment of silence, and then the familiar Yale yell of victory pealed like a war cry from the lips of the college lads.
The Yale Combine had started out with flying colors.
CHAPTER XV – A HOT DASH
Wallace Random came around and congratulated Browning.
“You did a good job,” he said, “and we’ll have to take revenge off some of your friends. Don’t think for a moment that we mean to let you Yale fellows carry off all the honors.”
Benson came up and asked to be introduced. He proved to be a very pleasant fellow, and took his defeat gracefully.
“I did my best,” he declared. “I couldn’t beat it if I were to try a week. You won fairly.”
This frank and generous spirit greatly impressed Merriwell and his friends.
Browning exerted himself again in the hammer-throwing contest, and won by a good margin.
“Keep it up, fellows,” laughed Frank. “It strikes me that the Combine is bound to make a path of glory on its way East.”
But they were not to win at everything, as they soon discovered.
Barney Mulloy was a great jumper, but there was a youth from Mariposa who could jump. His name was Lundy, and he beat the Irish boy with such ease that Barney was quite crestfallen.
“Begorra! it’s wings he has somewhere about him!” declared Barney.
Then came the pole vaulting, and Preston, of Santa Barbara won, although Jack Diamond was a close second.
“I told you!” laughed Wallace Random, speaking to Frank. “You chaps are doing great work, but we have some good men right here.”
“That’s right,” agreed Merriwell, cheerfully. “You are right in it, and that’s a fact.”
Then came the bicycle race.
Rattleton did his best, but again a Santa Barbara man won.
Then there was wrestling and other contests in which the Yale Combine was not concerned.
At last the hundred yards’ dash was called.
The competitors appeared from the dressing tent and were greeted with cheers. Wallace Random was given a hearty reception.
There were five starters. They were Merriwell, of Yale; Random, of Santa Barbara; Black, of San Francisco; Cheston, of Yuma, and Harper, of San Bernardino.
The word came, and the starter’s pistol cracked.
Away leaped the runners like greyhounds.
A cheer went up from the spectators.
Wallace Random was a great starter, and he leaped to the front at the first bound.
Merriwell and Black were paired, while Creston got off next, and Harper was last.
Frank knew how much there was in the start of a short dash, and he felt that Random had obtained an advantage; but that made no difference with him, for he was there to do his best.
For a third of the distance no one obtained much of a lead. Then Random began to pull away.
But he could not get away from Merriwell, who clung to him like a leech, not more than two yards separating them.
It was soon seen that the race lay between Random and Merriwell, with Random apparently having the best of it.
Two-thirds the distance was covered, and still Random held his advantage.
Then a genuine Yale yell came from Frank’s friends, who had gathered in a group near the finishing point.
That cheer seemed to act like an electric spur on Merriwell. Half the distance between him and Random was closed quickly, and then with a leap he was at the side of the Santa Barbara man.
A single moment they hung thus, and then, as the tape was approached, Frank shot to the front, and was a winner by about two feet.
“’Rah! ’rah! ’rah! Yale!”
Wallace Random was greatly chagrined, for he had felt certain of that race when it was almost finished. Then, in an astonishing manner, Frank Merriwell had reached his side, passed him, and won the dash.
Effie Random said nothing, but she thrust her parasol into the ground with a wrench that broke it.
Frank was cheered and congratulated.
As soon as he could recover from his surprise and disappointment, Random shook Frank’s hand.
“You did the trick,” he said; “but I’ll beat you at the hurdle race. I see you are strong on the finish, and I’ll be looking out for you.”
“All right,” smiled Frank. “If you win that race, we’ll break even, but I shall do my best.”
Frank noticed that Hodge was not with those who crowded about to congratulate him. He looked for Bart, whom he discovered talking with Effie, and he saw Effie was speaking in an excited manner, a flush on her face.
Frank smiled.
“It looks as if she really wished to see me defeated. I wonder what she is saying to Hodge.”
He could see Bart shaking his head, while Effie seemed to be urging him to do something. The more Bart shook his head the more determined the girl became.
Frank was able to watch them but a moment, as his friends demanded his attention.
“Hang me if I didn’t know ye’d do it all ther time!” said Ephraim Gallup, proudly. “You’re ther same old hustler yeou useter be when yeou was at Fardale.”
“Thot’s roight, me b’y!” said Barney Mulloy. “It’s a pache ye alwus wur, Frankie.”
“Yaw,” agreed Hans; “you vos a chim dandy, Vrankie!”
The hurdle race was the concluding event of the tournament.
There were other contests and amusements to occupy the time between the dash and the hurdle race.
At last the hurdle race was called.
Then Frank was surprised to find Bart Hodge had entered for the race and was ready to run.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t this a new idea of yours?”
“No,” answered Bart. “I entered for this race yesterday.”
“You did? That’s queer! I knew nothing of it.”
“I intended it for a surprise,” said Hodge, with a forced laugh.
Frank was not at all pleased. As he was the president of the Combine, he felt that Hodge had not done right in entering for the contest without his knowledge.
At first he thought of refusing to let Bart race, but he quickly banished such an inclination, knowing it might seem that he feared he would be beaten by one of his own club.
“But we’ll have a little understanding about this later on,” he mentally vowed.
Besides Bart, Frank and Wallace Random, there were three others who had entered for the hurdle race. They were Perkins, of the Southern Union Athletic Club, of Los Angeles; Keeler, of Ventaur, and a Mexican, Pablo Salero, from some unknown place.
The Mexican was a little fellow, while the others were supple and well-built lads.
“Ready, gentlemen!”
It was the voice of the starter.
The six contestants leaned forward, ready to dash away in a moment.
“One!”
Breathless silence.
“Two!”
In a moment they would be off.
“Three!”
Crack! sounded the pistol, and away they darted.
Again Random showed his qualities as a quick starter, but he did not get away from Merriwell, who was equally as quick.
Straight at the first hurdle the six lads dashed. Side by side Merriwell and Random sailed over it, with Hodge scarcely any in the rear.
The spectators cheered and waved hats, handkerchiefs and parasols.
As the third hurdle was cleared Hodge was neck-and-neck with Random and Merriwell. At that moment it seemed as if the three were evenly matched.
Perkins was close behind them, and the Mexican had already fallen to the rear.
Hodge was straining every nerve, and Merriwell was astonished to see him make such a spurt.
“Can he keep it up?” thought Frank. “If so, he is the man I’ll have to work hard to beat.”
Over the fourth hurdle they sailed, and then it was that Merriwell and Hodge, still keeping side by side, took the lead, Random being passed, although he was doing his level best.
But the strain was telling on Bart already. His face was drawn into an expression of agony, and he knew he could not keep up that speed to the finish.
As they cleared the fifth hurdle something happened. Hodge seemed to strike the ground awkwardly, and he plunged against Merriwell.
Down both went.
When they scrambled up, Random was in the lead, and he had secured a decided advantage – an advantage that it was not going to be easy to overcome.
Frank was angry and excited. Like a deer he dashed after Wallace.
Still Hodge kept at his side, doing his utmost.
Six, seven, eight hurdles they cleared, and they were close at Random’s heels. Frank felt confident he would be able to win for all of his unfortunate downfall.
“I can do it!” he told himself. “There is a wide space between the ninth and tenth hurdles, and there is where I’ll get ahead of Random.”
Never in all his life had he felt more confident of winning any kind of a contest.
When the ninth hurdle was reached Bart had fallen a trifle to the rear, but he leaped nearly at the same moment with Merriwell.
Then a cry came from Bart as his foot struck and he was thrown forward heavily upon his head.
He struck the ground with a sickening thud, and lay still.
In a moment Frank Merriwell stopped, all thought of winning the race being banished from his mind. He was quickly kneeling beside the fallen lad trying to discover how badly Bart was injured.
Hodge was unconscious, so Frank lifted him and bore him from the track, while Wallace Random raced on and won over Perkins by a wide margin.
Bart was carried into the shade of a large tree, where a physician began to work over him. The physician could not discover that any bones were broken, and he believed Hodge had been stunned by the fall.
This proved true, for Bart was restored to consciousness after a short time, and the first person he saw was Frank close at his side, watching him with the greatest anxiety.
Bart reached out and grasped Merry’s hand, saying feebly:
“It was an accident, old fellow – I swear it was! Don’t think I tried to make you lose the race! No one could induce me to do that, no matter how much they begged me to, Frank! You do not think I did it purposely, do you?”
“No,” said Frank, “I do not think so, Bart.”
“I am glad!” whispered Hodge, thankfully.
Soon the tournament was over, and Santa Barbara was well satisfied, having carried off her share of the honors.
That night there was another hop at the most fashionable hotel of the town.
Frank appeared rather late, and from a place where he could not be seen himself, he watched the dancers.
He was surprised to discover that Inza was not dancing, although she was present. As he watched he saw her refuse several who asked her to dance.
Lord Stanford was given the cold shoulder in a very decisive manner, but there were numberless other girls who were more than glad to dance with him.
He entered the room intending to grasp an opportunity to speak with her.
The moment he appeared Inza retreated toward the other end of the room. He followed hastily, and, catching up with her, said:
“Inza, please do not act in this manner. I have an apology to make.”
He passed his hand through her arm, and they went out on the veranda. The moon was over the mountains again, and its silver light glinted the waves of the sea.
Frank and Inza paused in the shadow of the vines. For some moments he did not speak, and then, his voice quivering, he talked long and earnestly. What he said is neither here nor there. He had an apology to make, and he made it in a manly way. He acknowledged his mistake and freely expressed his contrition.
Inza heard him in silence to the end, then she burst into tears. In a moment both of Frank’s arms were about her, and she was sobbing with her head against his breast.
The following morning Bart Hodge, who had appeared greatly troubled since the race, sought out Frank.
“I want to ask you a question,” he said, earnestly. “Do you think I tried to keep you from winning that race, Frank?”
“Not much, Bart,” replied Merry, cordially. “I know you better than that. But – ”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you were asked to.”
Hodge flushed.
“We won’t say any more,” continued Frank, grasping his companion’s hand. “Let it be buried in the past. I have been a fool, and I deserve all I got. Here comes the rest of the fellows. We’ll talk over our next move with the Combination.”
CHAPTER XVI – THE ARRIVAL AT EMBUDO
“Embudo! Embudo!”
A brakeman shouted the name at the open door of a passenger car northward bound on the Denver and Rio Grande. The train was stopping at a small station in Northern New Mexico, some fifty miles north of Santa Fe.
“Embudo! Embudo!”
Another brakeman shouted the name at the open door at the other end of the car.
“Embudo! Hurrah!”
Several healthy young voices uttered the cry, and there was a general bustling within that car.
“Here’s where we leave the railroad and civilization behind, Inza,” laughed Frank, who had been chatting with Inza Burrage, who occupied a seat with a stern, hard-faced woman.
“Hurrah!” cried the girl, enthusiastically. “We’re off to the land of the Aborigines! What a jolly adventure it’s bound to be!”
“Goodness!” said the hard-faced woman, reprovingly. “Any one would think you a boy to hear you cheer like that, Inza. Don’t do it again! It isn’t proper.”
“Oh, what’s the use to be so awfully proper all the time, Aunt Abby!” laughed the girl, with a little pout. “How can a person help being enthusiastic with the prospect of such adventures ahead! You’ll see things you never saw before, aunt.”
“And goodness knows we shall all be scalped! I suppose I’m foolish to accompany you on such a foolish expedition.”
“Oh, Frank says there is not the least danger of anything like scalping, and St. Geronimo Day is the great holiday with the Pueblo Indians. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
“I assure you, Miss Gale, there is no danger of being scalped or troubled at all by the Indians,” said Frank, who with his friends were bound for the Pueblo of Taos, where they were going to witness the Indian celebration which takes place there each year on St. Geronimo Day.
Inza had communicated with her maiden aunt, who lived in Sacramento, after arriving in Santa Barbara, and Miss Gale had been so wrought up by the girl’s letter, which told how her father had tried to force her into a marriage with a “horrid English reprobate,” that she had packed a trunk and hastened to Santa Barbara.
She found Inza had already “shaken” the Englishman, but Bernard Burrage was such a physical wreck that the good-hearted spinster determined to accompany Inza on the trip East and look out for her.
Mr. Burrage had stopped at Santa Fe, hoping the climate might agree with him.
Frank had heard much about the affair at the Pueblo of Taos on St. Geronimo Day, and he took a vote of the Yale Combine about attending.
The club was unanimously in favor of it, and thus we find them leaving the train at Embudo, the nearest railway station to the Pueblo.
Frank had worked hard to make a favorable impression on Miss Abigail Gale, and had succeeded very well, so he had induced her to take Inza to witness the Indian celebration.
No one but Frank could have succeeded in this, for the spinster detested and feared redskins, but Merry seemed to have some hypnotic influence over her.
Hodge assisted Inza from the train, while Frank aided Miss Abigail to alight, doing so with as much gallantry and grace as if she were a girl of sixteen.
Indeed, her hard face seldom relaxed at all save when she looked at Frank, and then, at times, an expression of positive gentleness would soften her features somewhat.
Frank had not won her good will by aid of a flattering tongue. He believed actions spoke louder than words, and he had taken pains to study her peculiarities that he might know what to do to please her. In this manner he had been remarkably successful with her, although it was Miss Abagail’s firm belief that the entire male sex “didn’t amount to nothing nohow.”
“Look at Frankie, b’ys!” chuckled Barney, giving Ephraim and Hans each a nudge. “It’s a shlick lad he is. If it wasn’t fer him, Inza’d nivver git anywhere at all, at all; but he makes th’ ould hen think she’s a p’ach, an’ she’ll be afther doin’ onnything he loikes fer her to do.”
“By gum! he’s slick,” grinned the boy from Vermont. “I ain’t never seen no female gal ur woman that he wasn’t able to chop ice with when he sot out.”
“Yaw,” nodded Hans, gravely; “he peen aple to chop ices mit der girls ven I lets ’em alone. Uf course he don’d stood no show mit me against.”
“Nivver a bit!” agreed Barney. “It’s yersilf thot’s a great masher. Ye’re a perfict Apollo.”
“You pet my poots!” said the Dutch boy proudly. “I don’d bother Vrankie mit pecause he vos a coot feller, und his feelings I don’d vant to hurt.”
“Go on!” snorted Ephraim, in disgust. “Ye make me sick! Whut sort of a fool noshun hev yeou got inter your fat head? Do you think yeou could cut Frank Merriwell aout with any girl?”
“Say, you peen careful how you talks to me!” said Hans, menacingly. “Uf you don’d, I may be sorry for it! I know vot I can do mit der girls.”
“Thot’s roight, Ephraim,” put in Barney, with a sly wink at the Yankee boy; “he knows phwat he can do. Av he says he can cut Frankie out it’s himsilf thot can do th’ same.”
“Yaw; sometimes I done id shust to shown you.”
Ephraim took his cue, having tumbled when Barney winked.
“Wal, darn my punkins!” he growled. “Yeou make me sick! Mebbe yeou really do think yeou could cut Frank aout?”
“Uf I vant to tried him.”
“Wall, I’ll bet a ’hole barril of yaller-eye beans that yeou can’t do northin’ of the kind, b’gosh! Yeou take me up, if you darst!”
“Betther be careful, Ephraim,” said Barney, in a manner of mock warning. “Ye won’t have inny b’anes to ate nixt winther. Ye see Frankie is payin’ all his attintion to Miss Abigail noo, an’ it’s ounly himself as could do innything wid th’ loikes av her – onliss it is Hans.”
“I’ll stan’ to my bet,” said Gallup. “Hans never could do a dinged thing with Miss Abigail.”
“Vos dot vot I thought, eh?” excitedly exclaimed the Dutch lad. “Veil, I proff him to you! I shown you britty queek alretty vot I done dot directions in. I vos a hustler ven I started out, und don’d you forget him!”
“All right,” grinned Ephraim. “If yeou can cut Frank aout with Miss Abigail darned if I don’t deliver them beans!”
Then the Vermonter and the Irish lad chuckled and nudged each other, anticipating no end of sport, for they knew Hans was in earnest and would make an attempt to win the attention of the spinster.
Embudo is down on the railroad time tables, and that is about as near as it comes to being on earth.
When the party reached the station platform they looked around for the town. To their astonishment all they could see was the little red station house and a lonely water tank. On both sides were towering cliffs of lava, that looked as if they had been scorched and melted by the fiercest of heats, and the boys found it difficult to believe that the sickly creek in sight was the Rio Grande River. The little stream made a great fuss as it dashed over a bed that was paved with blocks of black basalt, as if seeking to call attention to itself and its importance.
“Well!” exclaimed Harry, astonished; “jay I be miggered – I mean may I be jiggered!”
“Golly sakes to goodness!” gasped Toots. “Where am we, chilluns?”
Bruce Browning groaned.
“Sold again!” he muttered, in despair. “Why, this is the next stop to the infernal regions!”
“Where’s the town?” asked Diamond.
A man who wore a silk hat on the back of his head and carried his hands in the pockets of his striped trousers, which – marvel of marvels! – bore traces of a crease, came forward and said:
“The town, gents, is right across the river there. It is not quite as large as Santa Fe, but it serves as a stopping place all right, if you are on your way to Taos, which I reckon you are.”
He eyed them closely, as if sizing them up. His eyes were piercing, and his mustache was coal-black. There was that in his appearance that pronounced him a gambler.
The boys thanked him and looked for the town.
They discovered a long, low adobe building, and that constituted the entire town. It was the post office, hotel and general store, and was kept by a Mexican, who was on hand at the station to get the mail.
A number of passengers beside Frank and his friends left the train.
Frank went ahead toward the baggage car to look out for the luggage.
The station agent was a beardless youth, to whom the arrival of a train was a most welcome break of the lonely monotony of the place. He was hurrying about and showing his importance.
About the station were several loungers, Mexicans and Indians.
Barely had Frank gone forward when he was startled to hear a loud scream, which he recognized as the voice of Inza.
That scream told him something of a startling nature had happened, and like a flash he whirled about.
He was astonished to see Inza struggling in the the arms of a blanketed Indian, who seemed attempting to lift her and carry her off bodily.
With a pantherlike bound, Merry sprang to the rescue.
Quick as he was, another person was on hand ahead of him.
A tall, swarthy young man, dressed in plain clothes, which seemed to fit his magnificent form very well, leaped at the Indian and the girl, tore them apart, and knocked the redskin down with a single straight-from-the-shoulder blow.
It was all over in a second, and the rescuer was saying something to reassure the frightened girl.
All over?
Not quite!
As the Indian who had been knocked down started up in a dazed way, lifting himself with one hand, the man who wore the silk hat whipped out a long-barreled revolver, coolly observing:
“Here is where I assist Uncle Sam in settling the Indian question.”
In another moment he would have shot the Indian, but Frank was in time to grasp his wrist and turn the revolver skyward.
The weapon spoke, and the bullet flattened against the face of the lava cliff above.
The man turned his dark eyes on Frank, and the boy saw a blazing devil in their depths. His face turned crimson, but his voice was still quite cool, as he addressed Merriwell:
“My dear young man, do you know it is very dangerous to chip into a game like that?”
“I saved you from committing murder, sir,” said Frank, equally as cool.
The man’s teeth seemed to gleam through that black mustache.
“Murder!” he said, scornfully. “You kept me from shooting a dog, that’s all. If you will take your hand off my wrist, I’ll do the job now.”
“No, you must not!”
Never had Frank seen a more dangerous look on the face of a living man. He felt that wrist tremble beneath his fingers.
“You are a tenderfoot,” said the owner of the silk hat. “If you were anything else – Well, this would mean your funeral! I am ashamed to shoot you, but I may forget myself if you do not withdraw from the game.”
“If you will promise to put up that gun and let this drunken Indian go, I will withdraw.”
“Did you ever hear of Dan Carver?”
“Yes.”
“I am Carver.”
