“The Gold Hill camp has a visitor, Darrel,” said Frank. “Did you see him arrive?”
“No,” was the answer, “I was busy getting into my togs. Who is it?”
“Coloney Hawtrey.”
A touch of white ran through Darrel’s face. He halted abruptly and half turned as though to retrace his way to the camp; then, apparently changing his mind, he faced about and went on into the mesa.
“The colonel thinks I’ve crossed the divide,” said he, “and he wouldn’t have any use for me if he was convinced that I’m alive and kicking. Time enough to pay my respects to him after I dig up proof that I didn’t forge his name to that check. Did he come alone, Merriwell?”
“Hawkins, a deputy sheriff, came with him.”
“Strike me lucky! Say, I’ll bet a bunch of dinero that my precious little half brother has put up some sort of a dodge on me.” He halted once more, and, with deep earnestness in voice and manner, turned to Merriwell and added: “I want you to promise that you won’t go back on me, no matter what happens.”
“I believe you’re straight,” said Merriwell promptly, “and you can bank on me to stand by you.”
“And lend a hand, if I need it?”
“Sure.”