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Frank Merriwell's Bravery, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 30. Search For The Trail |
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_ CHAPTER XXX. SEARCH FOR THE TRAIL "Preston March!" The man who had just stepped out of the tent fell back, a look of astonishment, not unmingled with fear, on his face. "Yes, Preston March!" cried the Hermit. "You know me, and I know you, treacherous friend, base scoundrel that you are!" The man called Foster Fairfax lifted his hands, as if to ward off a blow. "Preston, it was a mistake--a fearful mistake." "For you--yes! I have sworn by the heavens above to have your life if fate ever threw you across my path. I shall keep that oath!" "I expect it." "Then draw your weapon, and defend yourself! I shall not murder you in cold blood. Draw, draw!" "No! Shoot, if you will! I'll never lift a hand against you." "Coward?" The Hermit was quivering with fury, while the face of the other man was still ghastly white. Other men came from the tent, rubbing their eyes, all of them very much surprised. One of them attempted to intervene. "Here!" he cried, addressing the Hermit; "what do you mean by coming into this camp and raising such a row? Are you insane? You are not going to do any shooting here!" Old Rocks strode forward, Frank Merriwell at his heels. "I'll allow as how the Hermit has fair play," said the guide, grimly. "He ain't alone in this yar deal." "Who are you?" demanded the man, haughtily. "Are we to be assailed by a band of desperadoes?" "None whatever. I'm hyar ter see fair play. I'll allow thar's some deeficulty atwixt these yere gents, an' ther Hermit feels like settlin' right now an' yere." "It is an outrage! You have no right to come here and make trouble. Fairfax, if that ruffian touches you----" Foster Fairfax motioned the speaker to be silent. "This man is not a ruffian," he declared, speaking as calmly as possible. "There is a misunderstanding between us. I have wronged him, and he has a right to seek satisfaction." The man's companions were astonished by his words. They looked at him in a dazed way. Even the Hermit seemed a trifle surprised, but he said: "It is true, and I demand satisfaction. Draw and defend yourself, Fairfax!" "No; you have not wronged me. Here, March--here is my heart! Shoot! You cannot miss it at this distance." Preston March, the Hermit of Yellowstone Park, half lifted the weapon which he had drawn. Then he fell back a step, hoarsely saying: "Would you put a curse upon me by making me a murderer? You have a weapon. Draw it, and we will play fair and even. It shall be a duel to the death at twenty paces. One of us shall die! The other can go back to----" "Hold! Speak not the name here! I tell you, Preston, there was a blunder--a frightful blunder. If you will listen----" "You will tell me a mess of lies. A man who would deceive his best friend as you deceived me would not hesitate to lie with his last breath!" "You shall judge if I lie. If you demand that I meet you, I demand that you first listen to my explanation." "If I must----" "On no other condition will I meet you." "But there are others to hear. Will you speak before them?" "No. Come aside where no one but ourselves may hear." The Hermit bowed, and they walked away, keeping several feet apart. "Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, "we don't seem ter be in thet none whatever, an' so we'd best make ourselves easy." He flung himself down upon the ground, produced his black pipe and a plug of tobacco, and began preparing for a smoke, whittling off the tobacco with his bowie-knife. The campers drew aside and talked among themselves, regarding their uninvited visitors with suspicion, which did not disturb the guide at all. Frank was restless. He walked up and down, keeping his eyes on Fairfax and the Hermit, who had halted at a distance and were talking earnestly. In the east the streaky clouds had flushed to a deep red and paled again to richest gold. To the west the mighty mountains which rose beyond the lake were wrapped in garments of rose. The light of day had spread itself over all the heavens, and the sun was shooting glittering glances above the horizon. The campers began to move about. Wood was piled upon the ashes where the last embers of the old fire still smoldered, and the crackling of a match was followed by a blaze. Some of the campers prepared breakfast, while one of them approached Old Rocks, whom he questioned concerning the Hermit. "Yer know purty derned nigh ez much 'bout him ez I do," grunted the guide. "All I know is thet he's bin hyar in ther park fer ther last y'ar ur so. Some galoots has said as how he wuz cracked in ther upper story, but I'll allow thet's a mistake. Yer heard t'other gent admit thet he'd done the Hermit a crooked turn, an' I reckons thet's whut makes ther Hermit whut he is. Now I've tol' yer whutever I know 'bout ther Hermit, mebbe ye'll give me a few p'ints 'bout t'other gent?" "We know nothing in particular of him, save that he seems to be a man of leisure and means, rather melancholy, given to fits of despondency, followed by spells of wild hilarity." A queer look came into the guide's eye, and he asked: "How much o' it does he drink a day?" "How much what?" "Hilarity. Does he kerry it in quart bottles, or by ther gallon?" "He does drink at times," admitted the camper; "but he declares that he hates liquor, and I believe him. He seems to take it to drown memory." "Wa-al, he may drown memory fer an hour ur so, but he'll find it comes back a derned sight harder when he lets up on drinkin'." Rocks lighted his pipe, settled himself into a comfortable position, and began to smoke. The fire was burning brightly, and a blackened coffee-pot was brought forth. As soon as there were some coals, the pot was placed upon them, and it soon began to simmer and send forth a delightful odor, making Frank ravenously hungry. Old Rocks was hungry, but he showed no symptom of it, smoking on indifferently, all the while keeping an eye on the Hermit and Fairfax. Frank offered to pay for something to eat and a cup of coffee; but the campers declined to take anything, telling him he was welcome. They then offered Old Rocks something, and the guide accepted gracefully. For nearly an hour the Hermit and Foster Fairfax talked. The manner of both became subdued, and the strange man of the park seemed to have lost his desire to meet Fairfax in a deadly encounter. All at once they parted, and the Hermit hurried away, while Fairfax walked back toward the camp. Old Rocks shouted to the Hermit, but the man paid no heed to the call. "Come, youngster," said the guide, getting on his feet and picking up his rifle. "We'd best foller thet critter. He said he hed a chance, an' thet wuz whut we wuz arter." Frank thanked the campers for their hospitality, and then hastened after Old Rocks, who was striding away after the Hermit, who had already vanished from view. "Whatever's got inter ther man?" growled the guide. "He seems ter hev clean fergot we're on earth." For at least a mile Old Rocks followed on the trail of the Hermit, and it finally ended at the shore of the lake, where it was seen that the man had taken a canoe. And far out on the lake he was paddling swiftly away. Putting his hands to his mouth, the guide sent a call across the water: "Oh, Hermit!" The man paddled on without looking back. Rocks repeated the cry several times, but without apparent effect, and then gave up in disgust. "I'll allow this is onery!" he growled, as he sat down and lighted his pipe once more. "Dog my cats ef it ain't!" Frank was disheartened. "Poor little Fay!" he murmured, sadly. "What will become of her?" "We'll find her," declared Old Rocks, grimly. "We'll find her ef we hev ter tramp clean round this yar lake ter strike ther trail o' them p'izen Blackfeet!" "Do you think we can ever find their trail?" "Wa-al, I'll allow! Ain't we got ter find 'em? Ain't they got ter come ter shore somewhar? You bet yer boots! Old Rocks is on ther warpath, an' ther measly varmints want ter look out!" The guide seemed very much in earnest, which gave Frank fresh hope. The boy was ready to spend any length of time in the search for the missing child. Having smoked and meditated a short time, Old Rocks arose. "Come," he said, and he struck out once more. Along the shore they went, the eyes of the guide always searching for the trail. Sometimes they were forced back from the water by steep bluffs and precipices, but the guide missed no places where the Indians could have landed. It was about midway in the forenoon that the trail was struck. The canoes were found craftily concealed, and in the soft ground near the lake were the imprints of tiny feet. "Thar!" cried Old Rocks, looking at the marks; "thet shows we ain't on a wild-goose chase. Now we don't hold up none whatever till we overtakes ther p'izen skunks an' rescues ther gal. You hear me!"
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