Darrel’s fine face flushed with pleasure.
“Coming from you, old chap,” said he, “that’s a fine compliment. You’re giving me a helping hand, and I’m hungry to show you that I deserve it.”
“Don’t fret about that. My dad is a master hand at reading character, and he has passed the knack on to me. One look at you was enough. But,” he added suddenly, tossing the pistol to Brad, “Carrots will be yelling his Dutch head off if we don’t hustle to the chuck tent. Have you any sort of an idea,” he asked, as they started together toward the camp, “why the colonel and the deputy sheriff should ride out here?”
“No,” and Darrel shook his head in a puzzled way, “but you’re liable to find out. Here’s the deputy sheriff, and he seems to have his eyes on you.”
Hawkins had strolled up over the edge of the mesa and was walking toward the three boys. When he was close to them, he nodded in a friendly way.
“I’d like to powwow with you, Merriwell,” said he, “for a couple of minutes, more or less. Suppose you let your friends go on, while we trail them in, and palaver on the way?”
Merriwell, with a feeling that something of importance was coming, dropped behind Brad and Darrel and fell into step with the deputy sheriff.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE WILES OF A SCHEMER.
Jode Lenning was alone in the tent, which had been erected for his use, when Mingo, a Mexican distance runner, who belonged to the G. H. A. C., thrust his head through the flap and announced that Colonel Hawtrey had arrived in camp.