Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record - Burt L. Standish - Страница 6

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Frank and his chums, Owen Clancy and Billy Ballard, sat on the front veranda of the Ophir House and saw a horseman come pounding along the road. The rider was a cowboy—that much could be seen at a glance. Cowboys were no novelty in the streets of Ophir, and this one secured attention mainly because he was pointing for the hotel.

Gracefully he dashed at the veranda steps, just as though he intended to gallop into the hotel; then, deftly whirling his horse, he came to a halt broadside on to the three lads who were watching him over the veranda rail. So suddenly did the cowboy stop, that his horse sat down and slid to a standstill in a flurry of dust.

“Whoop!” cried the admiring Clancy to the master horseman, “say, old man, you’re all to the mustard.”

“Shucks!” grinned the cowboy, “stoppin’ in a horse’s length from full gallop ain’t nothing to what old Hot Shot can do. This here little cayuse can ride up the side of a house, with me on his back, and then turn a summerset off’n the ridge pole. Fact. Which is the hombray that totes the label of Merriwell?”

“I’m the hombre,” laughed Merry.

The cowboy drew back in his saddle and peered at him through half-closed eyes.

“Is that all there is of ye?” he inquired. “From what I’ve heard, I reckoned ye was about ten feet high an’ went chuggin’ around like a steam engine. My notions was kinder hazy, more’n like. Since I was a kid, my favor-ite hero has allers been that dad o’ yourn. I allow, that pullin’ off athletic stunts comes mighty easy for you, arter the way you was brung up. Here’s a paper talk I was asked to kerry in an’ pass over to ye.”

The cowboy jerked a letter from the breast of his shirt, flipped it toward Merriwell, then rattled his spurs and bore on with a husky “Adios!” Frank had caught the missive deftly, and he now sat staring glumly after the disappearing rider.

“Come out of it, Chip,” said Ballard. “Just open that paper talk and let’s hear what it says.”

“That cowboy thinks athletics come easy for me because dad made such a record,” muttered Frank. “I wish to thunder people would understand that such things can’t be handed down in a fellow’s family, like silver spoons, and the grandfather’s clock, and the old homestead.”

“Don’t fret about anything that cowboy said,” returned Clancy. “He also had a notion that you were ten feet high, and went snorting around like a locomotive. His ideas don’t seem to be reliable, anyhow. What’s in the letter, Chip?”

Frank tore open the envelope and drew out the inclosed sheet. His face brightened as he read the letter.

“Here’s news, fellows,” said he; “listen.” And he read aloud:

“‘I’ll bet something handsome you’ll be surprised when you get this and find out some of us Gold Hill fellows are back at the old camp in the gulch. We’re here for a week, and we want you and Reddy, and Pink to come out and see us to-morrow. Hotch and I challenge you for a canoe race, or a swimming match, or any other old thing that’s in the line of sport and excitement. We hear that you’re soon to leave Arizona, and we can’t let you go without having a visit with you. Of course, we don’t expect to beat you at anything—you were born with the athletic virus in your veins and all sports are second nature to you—but give us a chance to do our best against you, anyway. Come on, and stay as long as you can.’

“And that,” Frank added, with the shadow of a frown crossing his face, “is signed by Bleeker, the Gold Hill chap we’re pretty well acquainted with.”

“It’s a bully letter!” Clancy declared. “What’s more, it hits me about where I live. Staying holed up in this hotel for the rest of the time we’re in Arizona doesn’t appeal to me a little bit. We’ll go, of course?”

“No studies for a couple of days, Chip!” put in Ballard, repressing his exultation. “Mrs. Boorland will reach Ophir to-day, and then she and the professor will be busy selling out their mine to the syndicate. The prof told us, you remember, that he regretted the break in our studies, but that he expected to make it up as soon as the mine is out of the way. Let’s pile in and enjoy ourselves. What?”

“Did you absorb what Bleek says about all sports being second nature to me?” fretted Merry, staring gloomily at that particular passage in the letter. “Say, I wonder if anybody gives me credit for doing anything in my own right? I’ve put in some pretty hard licks trying to make a sprinter, a pitcher, and a few other things out of myself, and yet there’s an impression around that dad’s responsible for it all. It’s a thundering big handicap, and I’m getting tired of it. I don’t care a picayune what a fellow inherits, he has to stand on his own feet, and it’s what he does himself that makes or breaks him.”

Merriwell was getting rather warm on the subject—too warm, he suddenly realized, and put the clamps on himself.

“Of course,” he went on, “I’m mighty lucky in having a father in the champion class. He has been mighty good to me, and his advice has been the biggest kind of a help, but he has only pointed the way, and it was left to me whether I made good or not. It’s the most foolish thing in the world, strikes me, to think a fellow is worthy or worthless simply because his father was one or the other. Now——”

Merriwell paused. The stage from Gold Hill, several hours late, was lumbering up the main street of Ophir. He had been watching it moodily while he talked; and then, abruptly, his moodiness vanished and he jumped to his feet.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, in pleased surprise. “As sure as shooting, fellows, there’s Barzy Blunt!”

There was no doubt about it. Barzy Blunt, on horseback, was riding along at the side of the stage; and, on a seat of the stage, was a little old lady with spectacles, and a shawl over her shoulders.

“Hello, Barzy!” Frank called, leaning out over the veranda railing and waving his hand. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. How are you, old man?”

“How’s the ranch, Barze?” shouted Clancy.

“Good old Barzy!” chirped Ballard. “You’re a wonder, all right. Whoever had a notion you’d be turning up in Ophir this afternoon?”

The stage had halted in front of the hotel, and Blunt had swung down from his saddle and rushed to the side of the vehicle. He waved a joyous greeting to the lads on the veranda, and then very carefully helped the old lady to alight. Pophagan, proprietor of the hotel, came briskly out, followed by the Chinaman who acted as porter.

“Glad to see ye, Blunt,” said Pophagan. “An’ this here is Mrs. Hilt Boorland, ain’t it? It’s been a heap o’ years since I’ve seen Mrs. Boorland. Howdy, mum? Feelin’ well, I hope? I been savin’ a good room for you. I’ll take the grip, and the chink, I reckon, can manage the trunk. Come right in whenever you’re ready. Have a break-down, Andy?” he called to the stage driver. “You’re a long time behind schedule.”

The roustabout shouldered the little, hide-bound trunk and trotted into the hotel with it. Pophagan, already up the steps, was swinging a scarred and battered satchel. Blunt, still very carefully, was helping the old lady mount to the veranda. Merry ran down and lent his assistance. Andy, settling back in his seat and picking up the reins, was sputtering about the broken wheel and the delay. He drove on, still sputtering, bound for the post office, where he was to leave the mail bags.

“Merriwell,” said Blunt, after his charge had safely reached the veranda, “this is Mrs. Boorland. Mam,” and he turned to the old lady, “this is Frank Merriwell, and Owen Clancy, and Billy Ballard. I reckon,” and he laughed softly, “that you’re not exactly strangers to each other.”

“Deary me!” exclaimed the little old lady, very much flustered. “Why, the letters Barzy wrote to me at the hospital were just full of things about you boys.” She got up and put her trembling arms about Merriwell. “You don’t mind an old woman showing her affection for you, do you? Seems like you were one of my boys, same as Barzy. You did a lot for Barzy, you and your friends, Frank Merriwell. I just wish I had the last letter he wrote me! If you could see the fine things he said about you, you’d know you’d never lack for a friend so long as Barzy’s alive.”

She turned from Frank to Owen.

“And here’s Mr. Clancy,” she went on, “and Mr. Ballard! Goodness sakes, I am just as pleased as I can be. We’d have got here a lot sooner if the wheel hadn’t broken, ’way off in the cañon. I had to wait in the stage while the driver came on to get another wheel. Well, it was lonesome, but I didn’t mind. Two young fellows came along on foot, and they kind of cheered me up, only they didn’t stay long. Now, Barzy,” and Mrs. Boorland turned supplicatingly to the cowboy, “don’t you go and think hard about those two young fellows. I don’t believe they had a thing to do with it, not a thing. I just pulled out my handkerchief, and the roll came with it—and that’s how it was lost.”

“Never mind, mam,” said Blunt, allowing a smile to chase away the hard look that had come over his face, “you’re not as strong as you might be, and I’m going to take you into the house and make you comfortable.”

“I hope I’ll see a lot of you boys while I’m here,” Mrs. Boorland said, clinging with both hands to Blunt’s arm. “I’ll be here for quite a little while, I reckon. Friends of Barzy’s are always friends of mine, and mighty good friends, too.”

She and the cowboy vanished inside the hotel.

“So that’s Mrs. Boorland!” murmured Ballard. “She’s a nice old lady and I’m glad she’s got a wad of money coming to her.”

“Same here,” spoke up Clancy. “It was a lucky thing for Blunt that, when he was a homeless kid, a woman like Mrs. Boorland took him in and made a home for him.”

“And Blunt, ever since Mr. Boorland died,” said Merry, “has been paying back the debt. While Mrs. Boorland was in the hospital, he sent about all his wages to her, and even sold his favorite riding horse to me so he could send more when he found his wages weren’t enough. Well, I don’t blame him at all. I’d do the same for an old lady like that.”

A few moments later Blunt came back to the veranda. There was an angry frown on his face as he dropped into a chair near Merriwell.

“What’s biting you, Barzy?” Frank inquired.

“A whole lot, pard,” Blunt answered. “I’ve danced the medicine and am going on the warpath. Do you know a fellow with a white face, washed-out eyes, and tow hair?”

“Well, slightly,” Merriwell answered, with a grim smile. “He was brought on from some place unknown by Jode Lenning to coach the Gold Hill football squad. But he and Jode have both got their walking papers, and where they are now is more than I know.”

“They were in the cañon this afternoon,” scowled Blunt. “Mrs. Boorland saw them there. They were on foot and walking this way, but they stopped to talk for a spell. After they left and went down the cañon, this white-faced skunk came back. He talked some more, and when he went away for good, Mrs. Boorland found that two hundred in bills was missing from her hand bag.”

“Great Scott!” muttered Clancy. “Billy Shoup is up to his old tricks.”

“He must have had his nerve with him to steal from an old woman!” exclaimed Ballard contemptuously.

“I’ll bet a row of ’dobies that Lenning was in on the deal as much as Shoup,” said Blunt darkly, “only he was too much of a coward to pull off the robbery. I’m going on the warpath and get that money back—and with interest. You hear me!”