Frank Merriwell's Champions Part 13

The pig lay on the ground as if dead.

"Id vos maging a vool uf me, maype," he reflected. "It vos shust agting like I vos deat. Id shust vant to play mit me, like I vos a gat und id vos a mouses."

Still, when the pig maintained that strange silence, Dunnerwust's courage began to come back.

He lifted himself still higher, ready to drop down and play the game of "'possum" for all it was worth if the pig showed signs of life and pugnacity. Still, the pig did not move.

Hans rolled over, and slowly got on his hands and knees, then lifted himself to a standing position, ready to run if the pig so much as moved.

"It maype is sdill voolin' me, alretty yet!" he gurgled. "Dere vos no tepending on me somedimes. I haf heert apout dose vilt peasts dot blay sleeby to vool demselves like dot!"

But the pig was dead. There could be no doubt of it, and if Hans had not been insane from fright, he must have discovered the fact sooner. He had struck with all his weight, and that was not small, in the middle of the pig's curved spine, and had snapped it as if it were a pipestem.

"Whoop!" he yelled, as soon as he was sure the pig was dead. "Dot vos a recklar knock-oud, you pet me! He vos kilt me der virst lick!"

Then, to make sure that the pig could not by any possibility come back to life to frighten him again, he picked up an enormous club, and proceeded to belabor it to such an extent that if there had been any life remaining in the pig's body, it would have been beaten out.

Having done this, Hans walked around his fallen foe with the victorious air of a conquering hero, uttering exclamations of delight, and figuratively patting himself on the back for his valor.

"Who vos a cowart?" he demanded, squaring his shoulders and striking out at imaginary foes. "I vould bunch mine heat uf you sait nottings like dot, Hans Dunnerwust, you vos der pinking uf vighting mans dis moindain on, und don'd let dot vorget me! I pet him you vos der beacherino uf der Lilywhites!"

Then, still strutting like a peac.o.c.k, he threw the dead pig over his shoulders, picked up his alpinstock, and marched along the path like a high-stepping horse.

From the top of the bluff, where his friends had found their way seemingly blocked, he heard voices calling to him-the voices of Harry Rattleton and Jack Diamond, who had turned back to search for him.

Hans answered, with a squeak of delight.

"See dot!" he cried, taking the pig from his shoulders and holding it above his head. "Dot vos a vilt hock vot kilt me ven I dried to ead him ub! I vos a fighder, I tolt you, ven I ged him starded!"

It was with the utmost difficulty that Ward Hammond concealed his intense chagrin and bitter hate when he arrived with his companions at the goal of the mountain-climbing race and found that Frank Merriwell's party had beaten them by more than thirty minutes.

"It's all right," he said, with a sickly smile. "Though I do think you fellows must have had wings hidden about you to get here so soon. But wings weren't barred. Of course, we wanted to win, but we didn't, and that's all there is to it."

While he was talking, old Bob Thornton, carrying the long rifle that Sam Turner had taken from its peg in the cabin, was creeping through the laurel and over the vines toward a point of rocks that commanded a view of the path by which he was sure Merriwell and his friends would descend from the mountains.

He did not try to conceal his bitter hate, as Hammond was doing. His mind was inflamed with the angriest of pa.s.sions, for Hammond had made him believe that the mountain climb was an excuse on the part of Merriwell to get into these hills, where Thornton's little copper still, for making liquor, lay hidden.

The ravine that held it was less than a mile from the top of Bald Mountain, in a wild and almost inaccessible gorge, and he was fairly shaking with the fear that Merriwell had spotted the gorge from the mountain's top, and would try to enter it later in the day.

"He'll never hunt anuther still ef I git a good crack at him!" the mountaineer growled. "The guv'ment's got ter be larnt that it jes' ain't ary bit o' use to send revnoo spies peekin' 'roun' hyar. We uns o' Bald Mounting won't stan' it!"

Ward Hammond dissembled with considerable skill. He laughed, joked and praised the climbing of the members of the Lake Lily Club, all the while wondering if Bob Thornton would try the shot he threatened, and hoping that the bullet would at least maim Merriwell for life.

Hammond held by inheritance from these rude mountaineers the fierce hate that made them such a terror to their foes, and caused among them such b.l.o.o.d.y feuds. In him Frank Merriwell had an enemy to be feared.

He had a purpose in playing a friendly part that day, and in staying with Frank's party. He fancied that if Merriwell should be killed by a shot sent from the woods by an unseen hand, he might be suspected as the shooter, which could not be the case if he remained at Merriwell's side.

"Hammond doesn't seem so bitter as we've been led to believe," declared Rattleton, speaking to Bart Hodge. "Perhaps he's been painted a good deal blacker than he really is."

"I hope so," said Hodge, who more than once had been made uneasy by the accounts given by Colson and others of Hammond's fire-eating and unforgiving spirit. "He seems pleasant enough to-day, at any rate."

Without a thought of danger, Frank descended the mountain path, laughing and joking.

Bob Thornton was still stealing through the bushes, with the long rifle in the hollow of his arm.

But there was another stealing after him, with bated breath and s.h.i.+ning eyes. Nell Thornton, his daughter, who, having observed his movements, suspected his evil intentions, and was now following to thwart them if she could.

When he reached the rocky point, from which he expected to send the shot, and from which he could dive into a jungly growth that would protect him from view and pursuit, Nell was close at his heels, though he was still unaware of it.

His face darkened as he dropped the rifle out of the hollow of his arm and inspected the percussion cap, when Merriwell and the others came into view around a bend in the path.

"He'll never hunt anuther moons.h.i.+ner!" Thornton grated, through his set teeth. "He'd better be a-sayin' of his prayers when I pull down on him with this ole Bet!"

Nell heard the grated threat, and s.h.i.+vered, but the look of determination grew in her white, thin face and shone brighter in her glittering eyes.

Thornton waited until the party was near enough to make the shot safe, but still far enough off to enable him to plunge into the undergrowth and lose himself to pursuit before any one could reach him.

Then he threw the long rifle to his cheek, ran his eyes down the brown barrel, and covered Frank Merriwell's heart with the sights. Though his eyes were blazing, his muscles seemed as steady as iron.

The finger pressed the trigger, and there was a whip-like report.

But the bullet did not reach Frank Merriwell!

Just as Thornton's finger pressed on the trigger, Nell leaped from the bushes that screened her and caught at his arm, thrusting the rifle aside.

With a shriek, Ward Hammond threw up his arms and dropped to the ground.

The bullet intended for Merriwell had lodged in the body of his enemy.

CHAPTER X-NELL'S LETTER

"How is Hammond this morning?" Frank anxiously asked of Browning, whom he joined near the boathouse. "Have the doctors found the bullet yet?"

Bruce had just come from the village, whither he had gone to make inquiry concerning Hammond's condition.

"Yes," he answered, as they walked together toward the cottage. "They extracted it this morning. It struck a rib, and the wound isn't as bad as it might be. He'll be laid up for a time, they say. There is no question but that he'll get well."

"I'm glad to hear it," was Frank's sincere rejoinder. "I thought he was a goner when I saw him drop near me at the crack of that gun."

"h.e.l.lo! what's this?" Bruce exclaimed, a moment later, as they entered his room.

He stepped quickly to the little table, and took up a bunch of flowers, to which was tied a note, oddly scrawled and spelled.

It was from Nell Thornton, and this is what it said: