Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

The author has used the phrase ‘chip of the old block’ several times and the more usual ‘chip off’ once. This has not been changed.

BOOKS FOR YOUNG MEN

MERRIWELL SERIES

ALL BY BURT L. STANDISH

Stories of Frank and Dick Merriwell

Fascinating Stories of Athletics

A half million enthusiastic followers of the Merriwell brothers will attest the unfailing interest and wholesomeness of these adventures of two lads of high ideals, who play fair with themselves, as well as with the rest of the world.

These stories are rich in fun and thrills in all branches of sports and athletics. They are extremely high in moral tone, and cannot fail to be of immense benefit to every boy who reads them.

They have the splendid quality of firing a boy’s ambition to become a good athlete, in order that he may develop into a strong, vigorous, right-thinking man.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To be published in January, 1929.

209—Dick Merriwell, Universal Coach
210—Dick Merriwell’s Varsity Nine

To be published in February, 1929.

211—Dick Merriwell’s Heroic Players
212—Dick Merriwell at the Olympics

To be published in March, 1929.

213—Frank Merriwell, Jr., Tested
214—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Conquests
215—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Rivals

To be published in April, 1929.

216—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand
217—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona

To be published in May, 1929.

218—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Mission
219—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Iceboat Adventure

To be published in June, 1929.

220—Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Timely Aid
221—Frank Merriwell, Jr., in the Desert

Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand

OR

FAIR PLAY AND NO FAVORS

By
BURT L. STANDISH
Author of the famous Merriwell Stories.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1912
By STREET & SMITH

Frank Merriwell, Jr.’s, Helping Hand

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
Printed in the U.  S.  A.

FRANK MERRIWELL, JR.’S, HELPING HAND.

[CHAPTER I.]
THE HOUSEBREAKER.

In one of the residence streets of Gold Hill, Arizona, stood—and no doubt still stands at this moment—a rather pretentious, two-story dwelling. Six low-growing, broad-leaved palms were marshaled in two rows before the front door, and to right and left of the palms were umbrella and pepper trees. Extending from one corner of the house, almost to the pickets that fenced in the premises, was a rank growth of oleanders.

This was the home of Colonel Alvah G. Hawtrey, an ex-army officer. In the service of his country Hawtrey had chased and fought the murderous Apaches all over that part of the Southwest; and now, at the age of sixty, the colonel, with an honorable discharge from the service, was giving his attention to various mining enterprises and was reputed to be a very wealthy man.

He was broad-minded and public-spirited, and the prosperity of Gold Hill owed more to the old colonel than to any other citizen. He had built the Bristow Hotel and several brick business blocks; he had founded a social club, a cattlemen’s association, and a miners’ relief society. It was known that he paid, out of his own pocket, the salary of one of the local ministers; he owned a bank, and, last but not least, he had organized and brought into successful operation the Gold Hill Athletic Club. For nothing was the colonel more honored than for his love of manly sports, and for his zeal in seeing that the youth of Gold Hill received proper physical training.

On a night in late October a spectral figure crept along the fence in front of Colonel Hawtrey’s house. The house was dark, and apparently deserted. After surveying the house carefully for a few moments, the figure leaped the fence noiselessly and gracefully and faded into the deep shadow of the oleanders.

Very carefully the prowler made his way through the bushes to the corner of the house. Here again he paused and listened. Seemingly satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided to the nearest window, opened the thin blade of a pocketknife, climbed to the sill, forced the blade between the upper and lower sash, and deftly opened the lock. Another moment and he had raised the lower half of the window and dropped through into the dark room beyond.

Evidently this prowler was not on unfamiliar ground. Without striking a light, he groped his way to a door and into a hall; through the hall he passed, and to a stairway, then up the stairs to the hall above, and down the corridor to a room at the rear of the house. He had a key to the door of the room, and he opened it. Once across the threshold, he scratched a match, stepped to an electric-light button, and touched it with his finger. Instantly the room was flooded with a glow of light from incandescent bulbs.

It was a small room, with banners and pennants on the walls. Several of the flags bore the letters, “G.  H.  H.  S.”—official emblems of Gold Hill “High.” Others bore the initials “G.  H.  A.  C.” and had once figured in athletic-club events. Foils were also crossed on the wall, boxing gloves hung from pegs, a catcher’s mask lay on a shelf, and a breast protector hung beneath it. On the same shelf with the mask stood a tarnished silver cup, bearing an inscription to the effect that it had been presented to one Ellis Darrel for winning a two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash under the auspices of the Gold Hill Athletic Club. Dumb-bells and Indian clubs stood on the floor close to the wall.

Thick dust covered everything. The prowler stood in the center of the room as though in a trance, and slowly allowed his eyes to wander about him.

He was a young fellow, not much over seventeen, slender and with a body remarkably well set-up. His hair was light and curly, his eyes blue, and his face was handsome and winning, although clouded with melancholy and a certain haunting sadness.

The long, wavering survey of the room seemed to overcome the intruder. Suddenly he sank down into a dusty morris chair, bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands. As suddenly, he roused himself again, shook his shoulders as though to free them of a grievous burden, and made his way toward the door of a closet.

From the closet he removed a suit case, lettered with the initials “E.  D.,” and followed with the address, “Gold Hill, Ariz.” Kneeling beside the bit of luggage, he opened it and took out a sleeveless shirt, a pair of running pants, and a pair of spiked shoes. A couple of cork grips rattled around in the suit case as he removed the other contents, but he left them, closed the grip, and returned it to the closet. Then he carefully closed the closet door.

Rolling his sprinting outfit into a compact bundle, the intruder rose to his feet and started for the hall door. On his way he paused. Below the cross foils hung a picture, turned with its face to the wall.

A flash of white ran through the lad’s bronzed cheeks. With his bundle under his arm, he put out one trembling hand to the picture and turned it around.

It was a framed photograph of a young fellow in running costume, taken on a cinder path. The lad in the photo was holding a silver cup—the same cup that stood on the shelf in that room. And it was more than evident that the youngster in the picture was the very same lad who had entered that house like a thief in the night, and was now staring at a kodak testimonial of a former track victory.

Why was the photograph turned to the wall? Why was the dust lying thick upon every object in the room? The cause was no mystery to the intruder. His lip quivered and a mist rose in his eyes as he turned the photograph to the wall once more.

He peered around to make sure that he had left nothing which might prove a clew to his presence in the room, then turned off the light, passed into the hall, and shut and locked the door behind him. As he had come gropingly to the upper floor, so now he felt his way down the stairs and to the opened window. To climb through the window and lower the sash from the outside required but a few moments.

He tried to relock the sash, but found it impossible. Hesitating a moment by the unlocked window, he turned finally and made his way through the oleanders to the fence; then, leaping the pickets as he had done before, he vanished along the gloomy street.

He had come from Nowhere, this mysterious lad who had come prowling by night into the house of Colonel Hawtrey; but he was going Somewhere, and, for the first time in months, he had a destination and a fixed object in mind. Although he believed that he had left no clews behind him, and that he had not been seen coming or going from the house, yet he was mistaken.

Some one, leaving the dwelling by the front door, had passed along the walk between the shadowy palms just at the moment the intruder was standing by the fence. At the very moment the prowler leaped the pickets, this other person was at the gate and had caught sight of the figure disappearing into the oleanders.

The person who had left the house repressed a cry of alarm and stood, for a few moments, leaning over the gatepost. It had seemed to him as though, in the starlight, he had recognized the form that had leaped the fence. A gasp escaped his tense lips, and it was plain that he was gripped hard with astonishment and dismay. While he stood there, slowly recovering control of himself, he heard muffled sounds from within the house; then, leaving the gate, he passed through the oleander bushes and found the open window. He was on the point of following the intruder into the house when a glow of light shone out from the second floor. Hurrying to a pepper tree that grew near a rear corner of the building, the spy climbed swiftly upward until he was on a level with the window through which came the light. The prowler had not drawn the shade, so all that went on in the upper room came under the eyes of the spy.

One look at the lad in the house, under the electric light, convinced the person in the tree that the prowler was really the one whom he had at first supposed him to be. The spy gritted his teeth and his hands clutched the tree limbs convulsively. When the intruder had left the house and vanished down the street, the spy came down from the tree, hurried around to the front door, and let himself into the building. Quickly he turned on the lights and made his way to the room, through the window of which the intruder had gained entrance into the house.

This room was the colonel’s study. A desk stood in the center of it, the walls were lined with books, and in one corner was a massive iron safe.

In the light it could be seen that this second youth was not more than two years the senior of the lad who had come and gone. But the face of this second youth was dark and sinister, and the puzzled light in his shifty eyes was gradually taking on a cunning gleam.

“What is he back here for?” he was asking himself, half aloud. “Just getting his old running suit, eh?” and there was something of a sneer in the voice. “There’s money in the safe, and I thought——” Just what the lad thought did not appear. A look at the safe showed it had not been tampered with. “Has he returned to soft soap the old gent and get back into his good graces? That’s what he has on his mind, and I’ll bet on it! He stole in here like a thief—just to get his old track clothes! I wonder——”

The youth paused, the cunning light growing in his eyes. On the floor, below the window, lay an open pocketknife. He picked it up and looked at it. On a piece of worn silver in the handle was marked, “E.  D., from Uncle Alvah.”

“By Jupiter,” whispered the lad, “I’ll do it! Here’s a chance to cinch the situation—for me. I can make it impossible for that soft-sawdering beggar to get back into Uncle Alvah’s confidence. I’ll fix him, by thunder!”

Swiftly the schemer darted to the safe. Kneeling before it, he turned the knob of the combination back and forth for a few moments, and then pulled open the heavy door. The inner door was drawn out easily, and a package of bills, wound with a paper band and marked “$1,000” was removed. The boy hesitated, the package of bills in his hand.

“Hang it,” he muttered, “it’s now or never. There’s nothing else for it!”

With that, he pushed the bills into his pocket and got up.

“It will look like a clear case,” he went on. “The old gent will come here to-morrow morning, find the safe open, the window unlocked, the money gone—and Darrel’s knife on the floor! I’ll bet a row of ’dobies,” he added fiercely, “that will fix Darrel for good. What did he want to come back here for, anyhow? He ought to have had better sense. Lucky thing I had to run into town from Mohave Cañon, in order to fix up a scheme to knock Frank Merriwell out; and it’s lucky I was leaving the house and saw Darrel, and spied on him instead of giving a yell and facing him down. Oh, I reckon things are coming my way, all right! But Darrel—here! Who’d have dreamed of such a thing? There’ll be merry blazes when the old gent gets home to-morrow!”

Chuckling to himself, the plotter put out the lights, made his way to the front door, and was soon clear of the house and in the street. He had laid an evil train of circumstantial evidence, designed to benefit himself at the expense of Darrel.

[CHAPTER II.]
A STRANGER IN CAMP.

Frank Merriwell, junior, and his two chums, Owen Clancy and Billy Ballard, were camping at Tinaja Wells with the football squad of the Ophir Athletic Club. Besides Frank and his friends there were fifteen campers in the grove at the Wells, enumerated by Ballard as one professor, one Mexican, one Dutchman, and twelve knights of the pigskin.

The professor was Phineas Borrodaile. He hailed originally from a prep school in the middle West, had come to Arizona for his health, and, aided by the two Merriwells, senior and junior, had found wealth as well. The professor was now being retained as instructor by young Frank and his chums, thus enabling them to keep up with their studies while “roughing it” in the Southwest.

The Mexican was Silva, the packer. Silva had a burro train, and had packed the equipment of the campers over the fifteen miles separating Ophir from Tinaja Wells. For ten miles the trail was a good wagon road; but from Dolliver’s, at the mouth of Mohave Cañon, up the cañon to Tinaja Wells, the trail was a mere bridle path, and only pack animals could get over it. Hence the lads had found it necessary to make use of Silva and his burros.

The Mexican had hired out as cook, as well as packer; but two days of Silva’s red-hot Mexican cooking, with garlic trimmings, made it necessary for the boys either to line themselves with asbestos or get another cook. Clancy was sent in to Ophir and he came back with Fritz Gesundheit, the Dutchman. Fritz had presided over a chuck shanty in the cattle country, and carried recommendations which highly extolled his sour-dough bread, flap jacks, and crullers.

Fritz was nearly as broad as he was high, but he proved a chef of rare attainments. He would roll around between the stove and the chuck tent, and play an errorless game in his cooking and serving; but let him waddle out of his culinary environment and he was as full of blunders as a porcupine is of quills. For a lot of skylarking boys, he was an everlasting joy and a perpetual delight.

Silva resented the loss of his cooking job. He burned to revenge himself on the fat gringo chingado who had kicked the red peppers and the garlic out of camp and preëmpted the culinary department. Less than an hour after Fritz had evolved his first meal for the campers and covered himself with glory, the Mexican’s dark plots came to a head. Placing the professor’s mule, Uncle Sam, between two clumps of cholla cactus, he smilingly invited Fritz to take a ride.

“Carrots,” as Fritz had instantly been christened by the lads on account of his hair, accepted the invitation and climbed to Uncle Sam’s hurricane deck. Thereupon the vengeful Silva twisted Uncle Sam’s tail with direful results. Carrots made a froglike leap over the mule’s head into one clump of cactus, and Silva, caught by the mule’s heels before he could get out of the way, sat down in another clump.

The campers were not long in finding out that Carrots was the subject of weird hallucinations. His latest delusion concerned buried treasure. It cropped out in the afternoon of his second day in camp. Merry had taken the football players out for a “breather”—down the cañon to Dolliver’s, and back. Silva was out with a shovel and hornspoon, somewhere in the hills, hunting a placer, and incidentally nursing his grievances. The professor was reading in the shade of a cottonwood. In the shade of another cottonwood, Carrots was mooning over a pipe of tobacco.

“Brofessor,” called the Dutchman, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and putting it carefully away in his pocket, “vill you told me someding?”

The professor looked up from his book and over his spectacles at Fritz.

“What is it that you desire to know?” he asked.

“Ask me dot.”

The professor showed signs of impatience.

“Simpleton! Am I not putting the query? What shall I tell you?”

“Py chiminy Grismus! Oof I know vat you vas to told me, for vy should I make der rekvest for informations?”

Borrodaile gave a grunt of disgust and hunted the shade of another cottonwood. Fritz was persistent, however, and followed him up.

“I hat a tream mit meinselluf der oder night, brofessor,” continued Fritz, coming up from behind, “und you bed my life it vas der keveerest tream vat I know. Iss treams someding or nodding? Tell me dot, oof you blease. Ballard, he say it iss; aber you know more as anypody, so tell me, iss it?”

“Go away,” said the professor severely; “you annoy me.”

“I peen annoyed like anyding mit dot tream,” went on Fritz, not in the least disturbed by the professor’s ill humor. “Dis iss der vay I ged it: Fairst, I valk along der moonlight in, mit der dark around, und I see a shtone mit a gross on der top. Yah, so hellup me, I see him so blain as nodding; und I pull oop dot shtone, und I tig, and vat you dink?”

“I am not interested at all in your foolish delusions!” came tartly from the professor. “If you have business anywhere else, do not let me detain you a moment.”

“Make some guesses aboudt dot!” persisted Fritz. “Vat you dink is der shtone under mit der gross on, hey? Shpeak it oudt.”

The professor, goaded to desperation, merely glared.

“Py shinks!” cried Fritz, “I findt me so mooch goldt dot shtone under mit der gross on dot I cannot carry him avay!” He leaned down and whispered huskily, his eyes wide with excitement: “Puried dreasure it vas, brofessor, so hellup me! Come, blease, und hellup me look for der shtone mit der gross on. Ven I findt me der dreasure, I gif you haluf.”

With an explosion of anger, the professor leaped to his feet, flung his book at Fritz, and dove head-first into a tent. Fritz turned away wonderingly.

“Vat a foolishness,” he muttered, “for der brofessor to gif oop haluf der dreasure like dot! Vell, I go look for der goldt meinselluf, und ven I findt him, I haf him all.”

Now, Fritz might have walked his legs off looking for a stone “mit a gross on,” had not Silva grown tired of hunting a placer and returned suddenly to the Wells. He saw Fritz in close converse with the professor, crept to a point within earshot, and listened. Creeping away as silently as he had approached, he showed his teeth in a smile of savage cunning as he pulled a half-burned stick from the smoldering fire and dogged the Dutchman down the gulch.

Apparently there was not a doubt in the mind of Fritz but that he would find what he was looking for. With a shovel over his shoulder, he puffed, and wheezed, and stumbled along the trail, eying the rocks on each side of him and singing as he went.

Silva, chuckling with unholy glee, made a detour from the trail and got back into it ahead of Fritz; and then, with the burned stick, he marked a rough cross on one of the bowlders and retired behind a screen of mesquite bushes to enjoy the sight of his fat enemy, working and sweating to such little purpose.

When Fritz saw that marked rock, he let go a howl of delight and triumph that echoed far down the cañon. It reached the ears of Merry and his friends, who, in their running clothes, were strung out in a long line on their way back from Dolliver’s.

The lads halted, bunched together, and made up their minds that the noise they had heard should be investigated. Proceeding cautiously forward, they peered around a ridge of bowlders and saw Fritz digging into the hard ground like mad. So feverishly did the fat Dutchman work that one could hardly see him for the cloud of sand and gravel he kept in the air.

Not more than ten feet away from the sweating Fritz was the Mexican, Silva. He was in a flutter of delight.

“What the deuce is going on, Chip?” inquired Clancy.

“I can tell you, Clan,” spoke up Ballard, stifling a laugh. “Fritz had a dream last night that he found a rock with a cross on it, and that he rolled away the rock, dug up the ground, and found more gold than he could carry. He told me about it. I’ll bet a farm he thinks he’s found the rock. Silva’s in on the deal somewhere, although Carrots doesn’t know it.”

“This is rich!” gulped Hannibal Bradlaugh, shaking with the fun of it. “Say, Chip, can’t you ring in a little twist to the situation and turn the tables on the greaser?”

“Throw your voice, Chip!” suggested Clan. “Make Carrots think he’s digging up more than he bargained for. Go on!”

“All right,” laughed Merry. “Let’s see what happens.”

The boys, caught at once with the idea, suppressed their delight, and peered over the top and sides of the ridge. Suddenly a nerve-wracking groan was heard, and seemingly it came from the depths of the shallow hole in which Fritz was working. The Dutchman paused in his labor, mopped the sweat from his face, and looked around.

“Vat iss dot?” he puffed. “Vat I hear all at vonce? Who shpoke mit me?”

Again Merry caused a hair-raising groan to come from the hole. A yell of fear escaped Fritz. Dropping his shovel, he pawed out of the hole, and got behind a rock a dozen feet away. From this point of vantage he stared cautiously back at the hole and, his voice shaking with fear, inquired:

“Who shpoke mit me? Vat it iss, blease? I don’d hear nodding like dot in der tream, py chiminy grickeds!”

“How dare you disturb my bones, looking for treasure?” came a hollow voice from the ragged opening in the earth. “I am the big Indian chief, Hoop-en-de-doo, and I will haunt you and take your scalp! I shall call all my braves from the happy hunting grounds, and we will dance the medicine and go on the war trail; we will——”

Merry was interrupted by a wild shriek that went clattering up and down the gulch in terrifying echoes. Fritz was not the author of it, for he seemed stricken dumb and rooted to the ground. It was the Mexican who had given vent to the blood-curdling cry. Frightened out of his wits, Silva, still emitting yell after yell, bounded like a deer for the trail and the home camp.

Fritz did not see Silva, but the fierce howling, coming nearer and nearer, must have given him the idea that Chief Hoop-en-de-doo and all his shadowy band of warriors were after him. Fritz awoke to feverish activity in less than a second. He whirled, and, with remarkable speed considering his size, scrambled for Tinaja Wells. Silva chased him clear to the camp, where Fritz, utterly exhausted, dropped in a heap and rolled into the chuck tent. The Mexican vanished into some other spot that he considered safe.

When the boys, roaring with laughter, finally reached the grove, they were met by the professor and a young fellow with blue eyes and light, curling hair. There was a stranger in camp, it seemed, and Merry and his companions smothered their merriment to give Borrodaile a chance to free his mind.

“Merriwell,” said the professor, “this hilarity is most untimely. This young gentleman, I fear, will think you are a lot of hoodlums. Allow me to present Mr. Ellis Darrel, who has just arrived from Gold Hill and is earnestly in search of information respecting the Gold Hill Athletic Club. Darrel, Frank Merriwell, junior.”

Darrel was smiling. There was something about him which, at the very first glance, appealed to Merry. The two shook hands cordially.

[CHAPTER III.]
A FRIEND IN NEED.

“Well, fellows,” said Ellis Darrel, after Merry had introduced him to all the other fellows, “it looks a whole lot as though I had dropped into the wrong pew. If I haven’t forgotten the country hereabouts, this is sure Tinaja Wells.”

“Surest thing you know, Darrel,” smiled Frank.

“I was told in Gold Hill that a bunch of athletes belonging to the Gold Hill Athletic Club had gone into camp here.”

“Some one got mixed,” put in Clancy. “It’s an Ophir outfit that’s taken over the Wells.”

“Blamed queer,” muttered Darrel, “and I’ll be hanged if I can sabe the layout at all. The man in Gold Hill who gave me the information is an officer of the club there. It’s a cinch that he ought to know.”

“We’ve been here for four days,” observed Ballard, “and we haven’t seen a thing of the Gold Hill chaps.”

“Live in the town, Darrel?” asked Frank.

“Used to,” was the answer. “Don’t live much of anywhere now. Home’s wherever I hang my hat. I——” He broke off abruptly, hesitated, then recovered himself and went on. “I trained with the Gold Hill crowd something like a year ago. When I drifted into town last night and heard the gang was off in Mohave Cañon, I kind of warmed up on the subject of athletics, bundled up my track clothes, and moseyed in this direction.”

Darrel’s announcement that he was, or had been, a member of the Gold Hill club, caused the Ophir fellows to draw back into their shells somewhat, and to eye him with distrust. Their altered demeanor was so plain that Darrel noticed it.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked, looking blankly into the faces that surrounded him. “Have I stepped on the tail of somebody’s coat, or trampled on somebody’s toes?”

“Never mind, Darrel,” laughed Frank. “Professor,” he added, to Borrodaile, “take Darrel to our wickiup and make him comfortable. I’ll have a talk with him as soon as we take a dip in the pool.”

The professor led the puzzled Darrel away, while Merry and his companions hurried off for a short swim after their dusty run.

“Don’t like the way this Darrel is shaping up,” grumbled Spink, splashing around in the water.

“Nor I,” seconded Handy. “How do we know but that the Gold Hill crowd have steered him this way to spy on us?”

“If he’s a spy, Handy,” said Frank, “then he’s a good deal of a fool. Would a spy talk like he did?”

“He would not!” declared Ballard.

“The last time we went up against Gold Hill at football,” remarked Bradlaugh, “we found that they had all our signals down pat. Maybe they’re making another play of that kind.”

As hurriedly as he could, Frank gave himself a rub-down and got into his clothes.

“Take it from me, Brad.” said he, “Darrel isn’t that kind of a chap. He’s straight goods, and I’ll bet on it.”

When he got back to the camp he found Darrel sitting on a blanket just within the open front of the tent. He was peering off across the cañon, with a thoughtful, almost a sad, look on his face. He turned his head quickly when he heard Frank, and the thoughtfulness and the sadness vanished in a bright smile.

“You needn’t have rushed things on my account, Merriwell,” said he.

“All I wanted was a plunge,” answered Frank, dropping down beside him. “If you were in Gold Hill, even as long as a year ago,” he proceeded, “you must have known that there is a hot rivalry between the athletic club in that town and the one in Ophir.”

A grim expression flashed through Darrel’s eyes.

“Haven’t they got over that, yet?” he asked. “Why can’t they act like good sports instead of a lot of kids? I had a notion that Uncle Alvah——” He bit his words short. “I had a notion,” he finished, “that they’d see what a rotten exhibition they were making of themselves, and get together and play the game as it ought to be played.”

“Probably they will, some time. Just now, though, if you mention Gold Hill in an Ophir crowd, it’s like a spark in a powder magazine. That’s why the fellows suddenly got back of their barriers when you said that you were a Gold Hiller, and had once trained with the Gold Hill Athletic Club.”

“Well, strike me lucky!” grinned Darrel. “It’s plain enough, now. They’re afraid I’m here to do a little dirty work, eh? ’Pon honor, Merriwell, such a thought never entered my noodle. As far as that goes, I doubt whether I’m on very good terms with the Gold Hill bunch. My half brother, Jode Lenning, is a big, high boy among the Gold Hillers, and—and—well, Jode hasn’t much use for me,” Darrel flushed. “Haven’t seen Jode for a year—nor any of the other fellows, for that matter—and I was bound for their camp to see what sort of a reception they’d give me.”

A strained silence fell over the two boys. Darrel was touching upon personal matters, and he was doing it in a way that made Merry uncomfortable.

“You see,” Darrel went on, a touch of sadness again showing in his face, “it’s been a year since I had a home. For more than twelve months I’ve been knocking around the West, and—and——”

“You don’t have to dig down into your personal history, Darrel,” said Frank, “in order to convince me that you’re straight goods. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Much obliged, Merriwell. Not many fellows would take the word of a perfect stranger—especially as you’re from Ophir, and I was from Gold Hill—once.”

“I’m only temporarily from Ophir.” laughed Frank. “Mr. Bradlaugh asked me to coach the Ophir eleven for the Thanksgiving Day game with Gold Hill, and we’re doing a certain amount of practice work every afternoon up on the mesa back of camp.”

“Wow! And I came right along and jumped into the thick of you! Well, anyhow, there’s something about you that makes a big hit with me; and it’s been so long since I’ve had a friend I could trust that I’d like to have a heart-to-heart talk with you. You see, I’ve been in a heap of trouble, and now that I’m back from Nowhere, I’m guessing a lot as to which way the cat’s going to jump. I’d like to get a little of that trouble out of my system, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll begin to unload.”

“Go ahead,” said Frank. “I’m sure you’re the right sort, and if I can help you any I will be glad to do it.”

“Shake!” exclaimed Darrel, reaching out his hand.

The professor was under a cottonwood with his book, and the rest of the campers, seeming to realize that Merriwell’s talk with Darrel was of a private nature, kept away from them. Darrel pushed farther back into the tent and sat on a cot. Merriwell fallowed him and took possession of a camp stool.

“I’ve been over a good bit of the country during the past year,” said Darrel, “but in all my wanderings I’ve never let out a whisper of what I’m going to tell you. I said that Jode Lenning was my half brother. My father, John Darrel, died, when I was a little shaver, and a year later my mother followed him. Darrel was my mother’s second husband, and David Lenning, Jode’s father, was her first. I’m over seventeen, and Jode’s close to twenty. My mother’s maiden name was Hawtrey, and after her death, Jode and I went to live with her brother, Colonel Alvah Hawtrey.”

“Why,” exclaimed Frank, “Colonel Hawtrey is a big man over in Gold Hill! There’d be nothing to the Gold Hill Athletic Club if you took the colonel out of it. At least,” he added, “that’s what I’ve heard over in Ophir.”

“Well, that about hits the thing off. Uncle Alvah is a fine old chap. He saw to it that Jode and I got our share of physical training. I was just a little bit better than Jode at pretty nearly everything in the athletic line, although he could give me cards and spades in book learning, and then leave me at the quarter post. The colonel insisted that our mental and physical training should go on side by side, but he’s got a sportsman’s love for athletics, and I think he was secretly pleased because of my good showing on the field and track. While he tried to be impartial in his dealings with Jode and me, yet it became pretty clear that I was his favorite nephew. Jode didn’t like that at all; and when the colonel took us to an athletic meet in Los Angeles, and I won a silver cup in the two-twenty dash, Jode was soured completely.

“I reckon I hadn’t ought to talk like this, Merriwell, and it may look to you like mighty poor policy for me to run my half brother down, but I can’t put this business up to you in a way that you’ll understand if I’m not frank in telling what I know.”

“I guess I understand how you feel,” said Frank, “so push ahead.”

“Just after winning that silver cup,” proceeded Darrel, “I made the mistake of my life. Jode was drinking a little and gambling a whole lot on the sly, and I was young and foolish and thought I’d have a little of the same fun on my own hook. I hadn’t savvy enough to understand that by keeping away from drink and tobacco, while Jode was taking them aboard a little on the q.  t., I’d been able to do a fair amount of successful work in athletics. That’s where I had the best of Jode, you see, but didn’t realize it. Well, I got into Jode’s crowd, went from bad to worse, and woke up one day to find that I’d forged the colonel’s name to a check for five hundred dollars. Anyhow, that’s what they said I’d done, and as I had been rather hazy from liquor at the time the forging was done, I couldn’t deny it. I wish I could forget the bad half hour I had with the colonel when he found it out!”

Darrel shivered.

“Uncle Alvah’s notions of honor are pretty high,” he continued, “and he had always prided himself on the fact that Jode and I never smoked, or drank, or gambled. The blow was a tough one for him. He used to be in the army, and he’s as bluff and stern as any old martinet you ever heard of. When he told me to clear out and never let him see my face again, I—I cleared. That was a little over a year ago, and I’ve been running loose all over the Pacific slope ever since, earning a living at whatever turned up, and was honest and square. But I’d had my lesson; and drink, cards, or tobacco couldn’t land on me again. I’m physically more fit than ever I was in my life, for the batting around I’ve had has toughened me a heap. What’s more, I’ve had a year to think over that forgery business, and I’ve got a notion that I didn’t—that I couldn’t—have done such a thing, no matter how hazy I was. It was up in Spokane that I was struck with the idea that I’d better stop drifting, come back to Gold Hill, and look into matters a little. I don’t know what I can find, nor what I can do, but, if it’s possible, I’m going to prove to the colonel that I didn’t put his name to that check for five hundred. The first thing I wanted to do was to see Jode. I was told that he had come to Tinaja Wells, with a camping party, so I——”

Footsteps, approaching quickly, were heard outside the tent, and Darrel suddenly ceased speaking. The next moment Clancy, his freckled, homely face filled with excitement, showed himself at the tent opening.

“Say, Chip,” he cried, “here’s a go! A crowd of Gold Hillers have just reached the Wells, bag and baggage, and claim that they’re entitled to this camping site and are going to have it. It’s an ugly mess, and I’m looking for all kinds of trouble. Better come out and see what you can do.”

Without a moment’s delay, Merriwell jumped up from his seat and hurried out of the tent.

[CHAPTER IV.]
A CLASH OF AUTHORITY.

The sight that met Merriwell’s eyes, as he came out of the tent and followed Clancy toward the edge of the camp, was vastly disturbing. A train of pack animals was being unloaded in the grove, while fifteen or twenty saddle horses were being stripped of their gear, watered in Mohave Creek, and staked out in the “bottoms” among the picketed Ophir stock.

A swarm of youngsters overran the flat, some looking after the horses, some helping the packer, and some beginning the erection of tents. Merry judged that there were at least twenty members in the party that had just arrived.

“Here’s a pretty fair-sized bunch of Indians, Chip,” said Clancy, “and they’ve got their tomahawks out. Well,” he added grimly, “while we’re not looking for trouble, you can bet we won’t dodge any.”

A worried look crossed Merriwell’s face.

“With the two clubs at loggerheads, like they are,” said he, “it would be a mighty bad move, all around, for the Gold Hillers to camp so close to us.”

“Bad?” echoed Clancy. “Say, Chip, how the mischief could we do any practice work with the fellows we’re to fight hanging around and looking on?”

“We couldn’t,” was the answer.

The Ophir contingent was drawn up in compact formation, at the edge of the flat, watching angrily while the Gold Hillers went calmly on with their preparations for a permanent camp at Tinaja Wells. Bradlaugh, whose father was president of the O.  A.  C., was stumping up and down and spouting wrathfully.

As Merriwell and Clancy walked toward the Ophir fellows, a youth approached Bradlaugh from the direction of the Gold Hill crowd. He was ragged out in gray corduroy riding breeches, tan shoes and leggings, Norfolk jacket, and a fancy brown sombrero with carved leather band and silver ornaments jingling at the brim. He carried a riding crop under his arm and was removing a pair of gauntlet gloves.

“Look here, Lenning,” shouted Bradlaugh, plunging straight at this rather startling figure, “what are you trying to do here, anyhow? What business have you got bringing a Gold Hill crowd to Tinaja Wells?”

Lenning turned a pair of shifty, insolent eyes upon Bradlaugh.

“We’ve a right here,” said he sharply, “or we shouldn’t be here. Pull in your horns before you make a fool of yourself. Bradlaugh—that’s my advice to you. Where’s this big chief, Merriwell?” A sneer there was no mistaking came with the words “big chief.” “Trot him out,” Lenning finished, “and it won’t take two minutes for me to show him where you Ophirites get off.”

Lenning’s manner was insulting, to the last degree. A bitter partizan spirit was already flaming in the Ophir ranks, aroused by the plain determination of the Gold Hillers to take possession of the camping ground. Brad’s temper had been strained to the breaking point even before the appearance of Lenning, and now, under the weight of Lenning’s insolence, it gave way utterly.

“You pup!” shouted Brad, leaping at Lenning with clenched fists. “It’s a cinch you’ve got some dirty trick up your sleeve or you wouldn’t blow in here in this high-and-mighty fashion. I’ve a notion to punch your head on general principles.”

Lenning jumped back and lifted the riding crop.

“Try it on,” he snarled, “and I’ll rip off some of your hide!”

A number of Gold Hillers, scenting trouble, hastened to run out of the grove and line up back of their champion. The Ophir fellows pressed forward to back up Bradlaugh. Fritz Gesundheit, who loved excitement in any form, showed himself for the first time since being chased up the cañon by the spook of old Chief Hoop-en-de-doo. Rolling out of the chuck tent, he waddled toward Bradlaugh.

“Gif him fits mit himselluf, Prad!” he called. “I bet you someding for nodding he iss some pad eggs.”

The Gold Hill packer was a Mexican, and already he and Silva had come to blows. They could be heard screeching and floundering around in the underbrush. It was a moment rife with many disagreeable possibilities, and only quick and judicious action on Merriwell’s part could prevent a general row.

“Clan,” said he, “you and Ballard go over and separate those greasers before they get to knifing each other. I’ll take care of this end of the ruction. Do your best to smooth things out, or we’ll all be in hot water.”

While Clancy grabbed Ballard and hustled away with him, Merriwell jumped in between Brad and Lenning.

“Cut it out, Brad!” said he sharply, giving the fiery youngster a push backward. “All you fellows,” he added, to the Ophir crowd, “are carrying too much sail. Double reef your tempers and we’ll weather this squall without much trouble.” He whirled on Lenning. “I’m Merriwell,” said he. “I believe I heard you asking for me as I came up.”

“That’s what you heard,” was the answer. “I’m Jode Lenning, and Colonel Hawtrey, of Gold Hill, is my uncle. The colonel——”

“What has this to do with Colonel Hawtrey?” interrupted Merry.

Remembering what Darrel had just been telling him, Frank was taking Lenning’s measure with a good deal of interest. His comparison of the two half brothers gave Darrel no end the best of it.

“My uncle,” drawled Lenning, running his eyes over Merry in an impudent up-and-down stare, “has a lot to do with our athletic club but he’s not mixed up in this camping expedition. He has been out of town for a week, but I expect him back to-day, and——”

“Let us hope that he gets back safely,” said Merry, with just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you intending to camp here, Lenning?”

“Not intending only, but we’re going to.”

“Allow me to suggest that we have already occupied the flat, and that I don’t think the grove is big enough for an outfit of Gold Hillers and Ophirites. You ought to know that as well as I do. Move on and find some other place.”

“You’ve got a rind!” grunted Lenning. “We’re out here for fun and work, and we need the mesa for an athletic field. I’ve leased the ground, and I want you fellows to pack up and clear out at once.”

This was staggering. Merriwell supposed that Brad’s father had leased the ground. In that section of the country there were very few places so adapted to the needs of the Ophir fellows as was the grove and mesa at Tinaja Wells.

“We’ve leased the ground ourselves!” shouted Brad, “and we’ve got it down in black and white.”

“He’s shy a few,” said Lenning, and drew a paper from the pocket of his coat and showed it to Merriwell.

It was a written memorandum of agreement. In consideration of twenty dollars, in hand paid, one Lige Struthers had given the Gold Hill Athletic Club exclusive camping privileges at Tinaja Wells.

“This appears to be all right, Brad,” said Merriwell, bewildered.

“Who leased the ground to Lenning?” demanded Brad.

“A man named Struthers; Lige Struthers.”

Brad laughed ironically.

“Struthers doesn’t own the ground,” said he. “Newt Packard is the owner, and he’s the one that gave us our lease. Hold your bronks a minute.”

Brad turned and hurried off to one of the tents. When he came back, he brought a paper showing that Bradlaugh, senior, had secured the site exclusively for the Ophir club.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Merriwell. “How could two different men execute leases on the same plot of ground? There’s a hen on, somewhere.”

“It’s Packard’s ground,” declared Brad. “Right at this minute Struthers is fighting Packard for it in the courts, but Struther’s claim is a joke—he hasn’t a legal leg to stand on. Everybody says so. This is a scheme of Lenning’s, Chip, to drive us from Tinaja Wells.”

“Scheme or not,” cried Lenning, “we’ve got our rights and we’re going to stand up to them!”

“Even if Struthers has a just claim on the place, Lenning,” said Merry, “your right here isn’t any better than ours. If Struthers happens to win the lawsuit, then we have to get out, for our leave isn’t any good; but if Packard wins, then that paper of yours isn’t worth a whoop, and Tinaja Wells is ours.”

“You’ll make tracks from here,” stormed Lenning, “or we’ll drive you out! We’ve got a big enough crowd to do it.”

Merry’s dark eyes flashed dangerously.

“You’ll not drive us out,” said he calmly, “as long as we have a right here. And we’ll not be able to force you to leave so long as the lawsuit is hanging fire.”

“Bossession iss nine points oof der law,” clamored Fritz truculently, “und ve vas here fairst, py shinks. I haf reasons for vich I don’d vand to ged oudt, und I don’d vant more fellers as is necessary aroundt.”

Nobody paid much attention to Fritz just then. The Ophirites were keeping their eyes on Merriwell, smothering their hostility as best they could and letting him cut the pattern they were to follow.

Clancy and Ballard, a little while before, had returned from the chaparral with Silva. The Mexican was fairly boiling with rage, but the lads were managing to hold him in check.

“Carramba!” hissed Silva. “Dat odder Mexicano he move my burro, to give his burro best place. I lick him for dat, bymby!”

Merry was filled with forebodings as to what might happen if both parties went into camp at the Wells; and yet, considering the peculiar condition of affairs, there seemed no possible way to avoid a division of the camping privileges. Both sides held a lease of the ground; and, not until the lawsuit between Struthers and Packard was settled, would it be known which side was entitled to the exclusive use of Tinaja Wells.

“I’ll give you fellows half an hour to begin packing.” blustered Lenning. “If you don’t show symptoms of leaving by that time, there’ll be a fight!”

“I think not,” said Frank, still holding his temper in check. “For the present, Lenning, we’ll both camp at the Wells, and both have the use of water and forage. You and your crowd will keep away from us, however, and we’ll do our best to keep away from you. There’s no sense in having a mix-up.”

“Half an hour,” threatened Lenning. “I’m banking on Struthers. This is his water and his ground, and he’s the only one that has a right to give a lease. We’ve got a bigger crowd than you have, and it won’t bother us much to run you out.”

Here was a complication of the tangle which Merriwell did not relish a little bit. Nevertheless, he knew he was within his rights and he had no intention of backing down and letting Lenning have his way.

Lenning had spun around on his heel with the intention of returning to the spot where his own camp was being put in shape, when Ellis Darrel hurried forward.

“Don’t be in a rush, Jode,” called Darrel. “I want a word with you.”

[CHAPTER V.]
A CHALLENGE.

The sound of Darrel’s voice caused Lenning to whirl as though a rattlesnake had suddenly buzzed its warning behind him. The look on the fellow’s scowling face was one of stunned astonishment. For a brief space, the two half brothers stared at each other; then Lenning, seeming to get a grip on himself, demanded contemptuously:

“Who the devil are you?”

Darrel peered at him in amazement.

“Well, strike me lucky!” he muttered. “You can’t run in a bluff like that, Jode. You know me, all right. I’ve changed a heap in a year, I know, but not in the way that would keep you from recognizing me.”

A gasp of astonishment escaped Brad’s lips. His surprise was echoed by at least half a dozen others among the Ophir crowd, and by practically all the Gold Hillers.

It was to be presumed that a former member of the Gold Hill club could not have dropped entirely out of remembrance during the absence of a year; and it was but natural that some of the Ophir fellows should have been acquainted with Darrel. That the Ophir lads had not recalled Darrel before, seemed strange to Merriwell. And he was even more astonished now, when recognition seemed almost general, at the queer twist which had entered into the situation.

While plainly discovering in Darrel something that was familiar to them, a general acceptance of the “boy from Nowhere” as the person he purported to be, was hanging fire. Darrel himself seemed as much perplexed about this as Merriwell was.

“I don’t recognize you,” said Lenning, “and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, if you don’t,” answered Darrel, “some of the other fellows from Gold Hill have better memories. How about it, boys,” he asked, appealing directly to the crowd behind Lenning.

“You look a lot like Ellis Darrel,” said one of the Gold Hillers.

“He’s a dead ringer for El,” averred another.

“But he can’t be my half brother!” cried Lenning. “He’s an imposter, by thunder! Why are the Ophir fellows springing him on us? What’s your scheme, Merriwell?” he demanded, turning on Frank.

“No scheme about it,” Frank answered. “This chap is Ellis Darrel. If he looks like Darrel, and says he’s Darrel, what in thunder’s the reason you don’t accept him as Darrel?”

“Because Ellis Darrel is dead,” said one of the Gold Hillers who had spoken before.

“That’s news to me,” returned Darrel whimsically.

“It’s a fact; whether it’s news to you or not,” said Lenning.

“When did I die?” inquired Darrel, with a short laugh.

“Three or four months ago,” went on Lenning. “The papers were full of it. You can’t run in any rhinecaboo on us, just because you happen to look like my half brother.”

“No rhinecaboo about it, Jode. If the papers reported my demise, then the report was slightly exaggerated. I never felt better in my life, nor more like living and making life worth while. How was I taken off, eh?”

“Darrel was killed in a railroad wreck in Colorado. He was identified by something in his coat pockets. Uncle Alvah sent on enough to bury him, and some of the authorities had him decently planted. I don’t know what your real name is, but I’ll gamble a thousand against a chink wash ticket that this railroad accident is no news to you. You’ve come on here to bluff the thing through, make the colonel believe you’re his wandering nephew, and then put you in his will along with me. But the scheme won’t work. When the real Darrel forged that check, he killed all his hopes of ever connecting with any of Uncle Al’s money. Didn’t know about that forged check, eh? Well, you’d better skip if you don’t want to get yourself in trouble.”

With a contemptuous fling of his shoulders, Lenning whirled again as though he would leave. Darrel, his face convulsed with anger, leaped at him and jerked him around.

“You don’t get away from me like this, Jode,” he cried. “There’s been a big mistake, but I think I can understand how it happened. While I was working at a mine in Cripple Creek some one stole my coat. I think it was a hobo. If there was a railroad smash-up, then the hobo was killed and supposed to be me from something found in the stolen coat. I never heard of that wreck, or that I was supposed to have been a victim of it. I don’t know whether I should have set the matter right, even if I had heard of it; but I can correct the mistake now, and you can bet your bottom dollar I’m going to!”

Lenning, held against his will, shook Darrel’s hand roughly from his arm.

“You’ve got your scheme all framed up, I reckon,” said Lenning angrily, “but it won’t work. My half brother’s dead, and you can’t palm yourself off as Ellis Darrel. You’ll find yourself behind the bars if you try it. The colonel won’t stand for any monkey business of that sort.”

“I didn’t come back to get any of the colonel’s money,” went on Darrel. “What I came back for was to prove that I’m not a forger. First, I’ll offer evidence that I’m Ellis Darrel, and then I’ll make the other part of it plain.”

“How’ll you prove that you’re my half brother?” asked Lenning mockingly.

“Who was the best sprinter in the Gold Hill Athletic Club?” returned Darrel. “Who won the two-twenty dash at Los Angeles?”

“Darrel,” answered one of the Gold Hillers.

“Who was the next best sprinter in the club?”

“Jode Lenning.”

“Now you’re shouting,” went on Darrel. “If I run against Lenning, and beat him, I’ll bet a pack of pesos that every member of the Gold Hill club will agree that I’m the fellow I say I am. If I look like Darrel, and am trying to run in a bluff on you because of it, is it at all likely that I could run like Darrel? You’ll see, if you give me the chance to show it, that I have the same form and the same speed.”

“You’re a rank counterfeit,” scoffed Lenning, “and I’ll not have a thing to do with you.”

But the rest of the Gold Hillers, as Frank could see, were not disposed to have the matter brushed lightly aside in that way. Perhaps there were some among them who had known and liked Darrel, and felt that this newcomer should have every chance to make good his pretensions.

Merriwell, facing a difficult situation because of the dispute regarding the camping site, saw a chance to shift the attention of the rival clubs to a foot race, and thus, for the time, patch up their other differences. Not only that, but the “boy from Nowhere,” while helping out the general situation, would be making a logical attempt to prove his identity.

Personally, Merriwell did not doubt Ellis Darrel in the least; but he was beginning to have ugly misgivings regarding Jode Lenning.

“Is that a challenge, Darrel?” Frank asked.

Darrel nodded. “Jode wants to believe that I have kicked the bucket,” said he, “and he’s afraid to run against me. He knows, if he does, that I’ll beat him, and that the Gold Hill fellows will wipe out that foolish railroad accident and take me at my word.”

“You’re a fake,” scowled Lenning, “and I tell you I’ll not run against you. What I’m going to do, though, is to send to Gold Hill after the sheriff and have you locked up. The colonel will deal with you, my festive buck!”

Again Lenning started to leave the scene. This time, however, he was halted by one of his own crowd.

“Don’t be in a hurry, Jode,” said the fellow who had stepped in front of him. “I reckon this here’s a case that’s not to be passed up in any offhand way like you’re doin’. Hey, fellers?”

There was a chorus of approval of the Gold Hill chap’s words from the rest of his companions.

“You can prove he’s a fake, Jode!” said one.

“Give him a chance, anyhow!” cried another.

“It’s no more than a fair shake to run against him,” chimed in a third.

All the others had more or less to say in favor of Lenning’s accepting the challenge. Lenning, because of this, was placed in a most uncomfortable position. If he still refused to run, it would appear as though he was anxious not to do the fair thing; on the other hand, if the race was run, and Darrel came out ahead, this might convince the Gold Hillers that he was all he claimed to be.

Lenning stood for a moment, thinking the matter over; then, suddenly, his face cleared.

“All right, Bleeker,” said he to the fellow who had stepped in front of him. “I’m not afraid to run against the fellow. Even if he wins, and if he proves that he’s really Ellis Darrel, he’ll be sorry for it. My half brother disgraced himself, and was ordered by the colonel to clear out. If this chap wasn’t a fool, he’d prefer to drop the matter right here and make himself scarce, rather than to try to prove that he’s Darrel, the forger.”

“Then you accept the challenge, do you, Lenning?” inquired Merriwell.

“You heard me,” was the snarling response.

“What’s the distance, and when do you want to pull off the race?”

“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.”

[CHAPTER VI.]
PUZZLING DEVELOPMENTS.

A thrill ran through Merriwell’s nerves. Colonel Hawtrey had come to Tinaja Wells and had ridden his horse hard in making the trip. Why was he there, and why was he in a hurry?

The colonel’s presence in camp would not have taken on such a momentous aspect had Frank not instantly recognized the colonel’s companion. This man’s name was Hawkins. He was a good friend of Frank’s; but, as it also happened, he was a deputy sheriff.

Hawtrey had come to the camp hurriedly, and had brought with him an officer of the law. Merriwell’s mind circled vainly about these two facts. His heart sank as he thought the developments might portend some fresh disaster for Darrel.

At the edge of the grove the colonel and the deputy dismounted. Jode Lenning appeared, seemingly nervous and ill at ease, and stumbled forward to grasp his uncle’s hand. The two, talking earnestly together, disappeared in the direction of one of the Gold Hill tents.

Hawkins, catching sight of Merriwell, smiled and greeted him with a friendly wave of the hand; then, leading the two horses, he went down over the edge of the flat and into the cañon.

Frank would have liked to follow him, and to learn, if possible, the reason why he and the colonel had come to Tinaja Wells. Just at that moment, however, Darrel appeared in his track clothes and Brad came up with the starter’s pistol.

Fritz was already busy with supper preparations, and Darrel would have no more than an hour for practice, at the outside. Merry, leaving the puzzling developments to take care of themselves, joined Darrel and Brad, and the three made their way up a low slope beyond the flat to the mesa.

This little plateau was at least two acres in extent, as flat as a floor, clear of obstructions in the form of bowlders and desert plants, and with a surface almost as hard and springy as a cinder path. It was a natural athletic field, and its proximity to Tinaja Wells was what made the place so desirable as a camping ground for a club that intended to give sports a large share of its outing.

Darrel, in his track clothes, was a splendid specimen of physical development. To Merriwell’s practiced eye, however, he seemed built for a sprinter, and perhaps could have done well as a long-distance man, but could hardly distinguish himself as an all-round athlete.