“Hundred yards; and we’ll run ’em off to-morrow afternoon. Now, if you’re all satisfied, I’ll go back and boss the operation of getting our camp in shape.”
The acceptance of that challenge put an altogether different complexion upon the situation, so far as it concerned differences regarding the camping ground. A spirit of sportsmanship had been aroused, and the animosity that had long existed between the rival clubs had, for the time, been pushed into the background. Merriwell was greatly pleased over the outcome.
“This hundred-yard dash is a good thing, all around,” said he to Darrel. “Until to-morrow afternoon, anyhow, we’re going to have peace at Tinaja Wells. Already Lenning’s threat to run us off the flat if we weren’t packing up in half an hour has been forgotten. I’m hoping that something will happen, soon after the race, to show whether Struthers or Packard owns this camping site. Have you kept in training during the past year, Darrel?”
“As well as I could,” was the answer. “I’d like to practice starts a little, this afternoon. Will you help me?”
“Sure,” answered Merriwell heartily. “We’ll go up on the mesa right away, and begin. Bring the pistol, Brad. Get into your speed togs, Darrel. I’ll be waiting here for you.”
Brad went after the starter’s pistol and Darrel, securing his roll of clothes from the place where he had left it, disappeared inside of Merriwell’s tent.
While waiting, Merriwell saw two horsemen coming down the cañon and heading toward Tinaja Wells. One was a tall, soldierly appearing man with a white mustache, and the other was a roughly dressed, businesslike-appearing fellow, with a hatchet face.
A shout went up from Bleeker, of Gold Hill, who was the first of his party to catch sight of the approaching riders.
“Whoop!” he shouted, “here comes the colonel! Call Jode, somebody.”