Frank Merriwell's Champions Part 4

Frank Merriwell did it another time; and when the marker called "nine,"

Ward Hammond became noticeably rattled, for he had made only seven in the previous shot.

Hammond's hands were seen to shake as he drew on the bowstring, and when the marker called, "only five-in the blue," his dark face grew almost colorless.

"One more round," said the score marker. "Frank Merriwell now has 158; Ward Hammond, 157."

The excitement was at fever pitch as Merriwell again went forward to shoot.

He knew that everything depended on this last shot. If he could again hit the gold, it would then be impossible for Hammond to beat him, for he already led Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more than strike the gold. Therefore he went about his preparations with the utmost coolness and care.

Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand, he placed the notch of the feathered arrow on the middle of the string with his right, resting the shaft across the bow on the left side just above and touching his left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect them, he grasped the string and the arrow-neck.

It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell at this supreme moment, as he stood ready to shoot. He seemed to be unconscious that there was another person in the world. His body was gracefully erect, his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left arm rigidly extended, and his right hand drawing steadily on the string of the bow.

There was a shining light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush.

The profound silence that had fallen on every one was broken by the tw.a.n.g of the bowstring, by the arrow's whizzing flight and by the audible sighs that went up as it sped on its way.

"Nine-in the gold!" called the marker, with a thrill in his usually monotonous voice.

But there was no cheering, though Rattleton felt like cracking the blue dome of the sky and his throat as well. The excitement was too intense.

"I'll duplicate that or break the bow!" Hammond was heard to mutter.

Merriwell walked down toward the target, anxious to observe the arrow as it struck, a proceeding that was perfectly allowable so long as he kept out of the archer's way.

Diamond, who was watching Hammond, saw the latter's face darken while the pupils of the boy's eyes seemed to contract to the size of pin points.

"That fellow is a regular devil," thought Diamond. "I must warn Frank to look out or he'll be waylaid and shot by him some of these fine evenings."

Hammond drew the arrow to the head with a steady hand, but, just as he released it, his foot slipped back on the gra.s.s and the arrow was sharply deviated from the line it should have taken to reach the target.

Instead of flying toward the gold, it flew toward Merriwell.

"Look out!" screamed Diamond, jumping to his feet.

Merriwell had reached the narrow path that ran across the grounds and was directly in front of a tree that stood in the path and cut off the view toward the village.

He heard the "whir-r-r" of the arrow, heard Diamond's cry, and dropped to the ground on his face.

At the same instant, the straight, lithe form of a girl of seventeen or eighteen appeared from behind the tree.

She was directly in the line of the arrow's flight. She, too, heard the warning, but she did not understand it. She did not dream of peril.

Then the arrow struck her, and, uttering a cry, she staggered backward and went down in a heap.

CHAPTER IV-BRUCE BROWNING'S ADVENTURE

"Heavens, she is killed!" thought Frank, leaping up and running toward the fallen girl.

There were excited exclamations from the group of archers, and a sound of hurrying footsteps.

Frank saw the girl struggle into a sitting posture and pluck away the arrow, which seemed to have lodged in the upper part of her left arm or in her shoulder. Then she staggered to her feet. When he gained her side she was trembling violently, and her thin face was as white as the face of the dead.

Only a glance was needed to tell him that she was the daughter of one of the poor whites of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her dress was of faded cotton, her shoes heavy and coa.r.s.e. In one hand she clutched a calico sunbonnet, which had dropped from her head as she fell.

"You are hurt!" gasped Merriwell. "Will you not let me a.s.sist you in some way?"

She shivered and gave him a quick glance, then stared toward the lads who were rushing in that direction. The sight galvanized her into activity.

"I dunno ez I've any call ter be helped!" she a.s.serted, starting back and giving a last look at the arrow, which lay on the gra.s.s at her feet, where she had flung it as if it were a snake. "Leastways, I 'low ez how I kin make my way home. I war a good 'eal more skeered than hurt."

"But I saw the arrow strike you!" Merriwell persisted.

She put out her hands as if to keep him from coming nearer, then sprang back into the path, and vanished behind the tree and into the depths of the woods before he could do aught to prevent the movement.

"She's gone," said Frank, as the others came up on the run. "There's the arrow. I saw her pluck it out of her arm or shoulder, but she would not stay to explain how badly she was hurt."

"That is Bob Thornton's girl, Nell," said Hammond, in a shaky voice. "I hope she isn't much hurt. That was an awkward slip I made, and if I had killed her I could never have forgiven myself."

Merriwell gave him a quick and comprehensive glance. It was caught by Hammond, and served to increase his agitation.

"It was a very awkward slip, as you say, Mr. Hammond. That arrow might have killed me. It would certainly have struck me, if I hadn't dropped as I did."

"Accidents will happen, you know!" pleaded Hammond. "I hope you don't think I would do such a thing on purpose. It was a slip, just as when Dunnerwust shot the arrow into your n.i.g.g.e.r's cap."

He was about to say more, but checked himself, in the fear that he was beginning to protest too much.

"Perhaps we'd better gollow the firl-I mean follow the girl," suggested Rattleton. "She may have tumbled down again."

He did not wait for an order, but sprang into the path that led behind the tree, and hurried along it, with a half dozen curious fellows at his heels.

It was soon evident that the girl had not stuck to the path, which would have taken her back toward the village, but had plunged into the woods, which in places was thick with undergrowth.

"It's no use to follow her," said Hammond, joining the searchers. "It is likely she will make a short cut for home, where her father probably is, and where she can have the wound dressed. That is, if she was really wounded, which I doubt, from her actions. Perhaps the arrow only struck in her clothing, and frightened her. When I picked it up and examined the point, I could see no blood on it."

The archery contest was virtually ended, with Merriwell and the Lake Lily Club the winners, and no one was in a hurry to go back to the shooting ground. But it was universally conceded in a little while that no good could be done by trying to follow one who knew the wilderness paths as well as any deer that roamed them, for it would be impossible to overtake her as long as she did not want to be overtaken.

While the boys talked and speculated, Nell Thornton was hastening on through the laurel scrub, unmindful of the stabbing pain in her shoulder; and, at the same time, Bruce Browning, wrapped in a heavy coat and with a handkerchief knotted about his shivering neck, was advancing slowly and languidly up the path in the direction of the archery grounds.

"I'm afraid that confounded chill is coming back," Bruce grumbled, pushing a vine out of his way, "and I suppose I was a fool for leaving the cottage. I wish I had taken that other path, even if it is farther around. The bushes are thick enough here to make a squirrel sick, trying to worm through them. h.e.l.lo! What does that mean?"

Nell Thornton, who had struck into this path from the woods, came into view, and was seen to reel and lurch like a boat in a gale.

Browning stopped and stared.

Then he saw her reach out to steady herself by a sapling, and sink down in an unconscious heap.