Darrel swerved his glimmering eyes to Ballard.
“Pink,” said he, deeply stirred, “I’m banking on Hotchkiss and the few friends I have in Camp Hawtrey. Meddling with correspondents that doesn’t concern the meddler is pretty bum business, but we have Bleeker’s word for it that the letter he sent Jode concerns me—and Merriwell, too. Doesn’t that give us the right to get hold of it, if we can?”
“That’s a pretty fine point,” frowned Ballard, “but I should say that you and Chip have a right to that letter.”
“Sure,” exploded Hotchkiss, “they have a right to it! The next thing is for some of you friends of El’s to get it. I’ve done all I can.” Hotchkiss got up, stepped to the side of the bed, and took Darrel’s hand. “Some of us Gold Hillers, pard,” he went on, “have pinned our faith to you. We can’t say much, or do much, because the colonel purty nigh owns the club, and because Jode stands ace high with the colonel. But we’ve put you wise to this letter, and it’s up to your Ophir friends to help you out. Somethin’ will have to be done pretty quick, I reckon, for that game’s due to come off before long. Some day, El,” and Hotchkiss dropped Darrel’s hand and started for the door, “I hope you’ll get Lenning on the mat for the count. He’s a two-faced coyote, and that shot goes as it lays. Adios!”
A few moments later, the hoofs of the Gold Hill boy’s horse could be heard drumming a diminishing tattoo up the cañon.
“Are my Ophir pards going to help me, Pink?” queried Darrel.
“You can bet your life they are, Darrel!” answered Ballard. “Think you can get along while I ride to Tinaja Wells, and put this up to Chip?”
“Sure I can,” and a look of happiness overspread Darrel’s face. “At last,” he murmured, “I think I’m on the right track.”
“Here’s hoping,” said Ballard blithely. “I’m off on the keen jump, old man,” and he rushed from the house to get his horse under saddle.
A little later, he flashed past the door, waved his hat in a parting salute to Darrel, and pushed at speed in the direction of Tinaja Wells.