Frank Merriwell's Athletes Part 42

Frank found himself on the side opposite Swiftwing.

John was the first to strike the ball after it had been batted into play.

Down came the little black sphere, and, poising himself on one foot, the Carlisle "buck" swung his bat and sent the ball straight toward Frank.

The trick was done with marvelous skill, and it seemed to be a challenge.

Frank squared himself in a fraction of a second, and then--

Crack!

Back sped the ball.

A whoop of delight went up from Frank's side.

"Shimminy Gristmas!" cried Hans. "Don'd dot peen a pird! Gif id to him, Vrankie!"

Crack!

Swiftwing hit the ball, and, with equal skill, he shot it back at Merriwell.

Frank was expecting this, and he returned it with all the skill of a professional tennis player.

The spectators roared their applause.

For some moments this "volleying" was kept up, and then the ball glanced from Swiftwing's bat and went high in the air.

Frank had come out best in this first struggle, much to his surprise, as, not being familiar with the game, he had not antic.i.p.ated such success.

The white men in the crowd gave a yell of delight.

Frank caught a glimpse of Inza's face, and he fancied there was an expression of disappointment on it.

"I believe she would have been pleased if he had vanquished me!" thought Frank, a trifle bitterly. "I do not understand her at all of late."

He could discern the look of admiration on the girl's face as she regarded the magnificent Indian who commanded the players on the side that opposed Merriwell.

Frank was somewhat dismayed when he discovered that Whirling Bear was the commander of his side.

The young Indian who had been drunk at Embudo the day before was straight enough now, and he seemed to be somewhat of a favorite among the Pueblo athletes.

Not a few of the Indians showed a strong dislike for John Swiftwing, and Frank understood this was because he had been away to the white man's school. They wished to see him beaten at everything that he might know how weak he had become while he was learning the white man's knowledge.

When the ball glanced from Swiftwing's bat it was not allowed to fall to the ground. A lithe savage ran under it and sent it spinning into the air.

Far over Whirling Bear's side sped the little black sphere.

Whirling Bear shouted a command.

Like a flash three of the rearmost bucks darted after the ball, and one of them, who had the speed of the wind, ran under it as it was falling to the ground. Without stopping or pausing, he swung his bat and hit the ball.

Oh, what a shout of delight pealed from white men and Indians alike!

Surely the ball had been kept from the ground in a most amazing manner, for the batter was not able to stop and turn till he had pa.s.sed at least forty feet beyond the point where he hit the ball.

There was a rush on Swiftwing's side, and the ball was returned.

The one who struck it sent it straight at Hodge.

Bart met it with a good crack and sent it back.

Barney Mulloy poised his bat.

"Begobs! Oi'll knock the paling off it wid me shtick!" he cried.

With all his might he struck.

And missed it!

But one of the young Indians was on hand, and he seemed prepared for such an emergency, as he struck the ball before it could reach the ground, lifting it into the air again, and saving the first defeat for Swiftwing's side.

Hans Dunnerwust saw the ball coming in his direction, and he resolved to get some glory out of the game.

He ran to meet it, tripped himself, fell down, rolled over, sat up, and swung his bat. In some manner he succeeded in hitting the ball as he sat on the ground, and he sent it into the air again.

"You don'd done dot mit me!" he cried, and the spectators roared and cheered, the white men laughing loudly, and not a few of the Indians betraying mirth.

"Gol darn my punkins!" exclaimed Ephraim Gallup, joyously. "This is more fun than a darg-fight! Never see nothing like it before! Let me git a rap at that ball!"

But when he made a run for it, his long legs got tangled with his bat, and he was tripped with such suddenness that he flipped into the air as if sent with a spring, turned over and dropped on the back of his neck.

An Indian struck the ball, however, and it did not touch the ground.

"Say!" snorted the Vermonter, as he sat up and glared around, "p'int me aout the critter what done that!"

No one paid any attention to him, so he got up, secured his bat, and waited for a chance to get at the ball without running after it.

Crack! crack! crack!-the bats were rapping the little ball in quick succession, and the players and spectators were feverish with excitement.

The Indians were betting madly on the outcome of the game, and the white witnesses were taking "chances" on it.

Dan Carver, cool and serene, was covering everything that came his way, backing Swiftwing's side.

Frank was watching an opportunity to get in a good "drive." He observed that the most of the Indian players knocked the ball into the air, and he fancied that a drive that would place it might be successful.

His opportunity came at last.

He gave the ball a fierce crack, sending it shooting over the heads of the other side, just out of the reach of their bats.

It dropped in a clear s.p.a.ce, before a player could reach it, and a great shout of victory went up.