“He’s playing in the hardest kind of luck, Barzy, and no mistake,” Frank agreed.
“He’s got a fight on his hands if he ever clears his record.”
“That’s the fight he’s been making ever since he broke with Billy Shoup. Whenever he takes a step forward and begins to hope he’ll win out, something happens to make him slip back. Everybody’s so darned anxious to believe the worst of him.”
“That’s what a fellow gets for having a black past. People, as a rule, judge a man by what he was, and not so much by what he is or what he’s trying to be. That yarn Lenning sprang on us to account for his failure to get back to the mine, and for the way he got hold of the mail bags, was certainly a beaut. Not more than two in a million would have taken any stock in it, but Lenning sure picked the two. Even at that, Chip, now and then a doubt comes sneaking into my head.”
“What sort of a doubt?”
“Why, that Lenning is putting one over on us, somehow. I know I hadn’t ought to have any suspicions, but a fellow can’t always help what he thinks.”
“Don’t turn against Lenning, Barzy,” urged Merriwell. “Before long something will happen to prove that he’s given us the right of it. The mail bags come pretty nearly proving that he has told the truth, I think.”
“I’ll hang on to Lenning as long as you do, pard,” said the cowboy. “Now, find a nice soft rock, curl up, and catch your forty winks. I’ll keep a lookout for the road agents.”
It was several minutes before Frank dozed off. His bed was hard and far from comfortable, but he slept soundly, nevertheless. When he awoke there was a sound of voices in his ears, and the sun was looking over the rim of the eastern wall of the defile. He sat up. Dolliver was standing at the base of the bowlder heap, talking with Blunt and Lenning.
“Here’s news, Chip,” jubilated the cowboy, looking around. “Dolliver brings our breakfast, and also a report he just received over the phone from town. What do you think has happened?”