Frank Merriwell's Champions Part 43

One glimpse of Fenton's face did Frank obtain, and he knew the man had hoped to maim or kill him. Barely was he able to leap aside and escape from beneath the feet of the horse Fenton bestrode.

Iva St. Ives would have reined about, but Frank motioned for her to keep on, shouting:

"Don't stop for me! I'm all right! I'll be in at the death!"

The other hunters cheered him, while Fenton and the girl went on without stopping.

Frank knew a shot had been fired. He stooped over Firefoot, and a glance showed him the horse was dead. From a bullet hole in the animal's head blood was welling.

"I knew it!" muttered the boy, his face hard and set. "I saw the puff of smoke even as I fell. It came from those bushes yonder."

Toward the bushes he ran, paying no heed to those who called to him. He was on a fresh scent, and he kept repeating over and over:

"I'll be in at the death-in at the death!"

Into the bushes he plunged, regardless of the fact that he did not know but the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin was still crouching there. He was ready for anything he might meet.

The clump of bushes was small; the ground was moist. He looked around, then stooped and examined the ground. Yes, this was the very spot! Here were the footprints of a man, and here he had kneeled upon one knee as he took aim when the shot was fired. Without doubt he had rested the gun in the crotch of a sapling that was just the right height. A slight abrasion in the bark of the sapling told Merriwell he was right.

But whither had the wretch gone? Frank looked around, he forced himself through the bushes. There were the tracks.

A valley lay below. Away to the west the baying of the hounds sounded, fainter and fainter. Through the valley ran a small stream. There was some timber, and into the thickest of this a horseman was vanishing.

Something in his hands looked like a gun.

"There's my game," cried Frank. "I'd give something for a good horse--Jupiter!"

A horse was feeding in a pasture at a distance. It looked like a fairly good animal.

A moment later Frank was running back toward the spot where the dead black horse lay under the fence. Two or three of his friends were there.

He gave no heed to them, but, with feverish haste, he stripped the bridle from the dead animal.

"What's up, Merry?" asked Rattleton, excitedly. "Who did it, anyway? and what are you--See him go!"

But Frank stopped suddenly and wheeled about.

"I want that horse, Rattleton!" he cried. "There's one over yonder you may take, if you want to bother to saddle and bridle him. I can't spare the time to catch him."

Harry tried to ask further questions, but not a word would Frank reply.

He pulled Rattleton from the saddle, and sprang up himself. Then he gave the animal the spur and was away.

Frank did not glance over his shoulder to see if the others were following. He thought of nothing but the human game he was after. Would the wretch secure such a start that it would not be possible to overtake him?

"No!" came through Frank's set teeth. "I will run him down!"

Round the clump of bushes he guided the horse, and then cut down through the valley toward the spot where he had seen the unknown horseman riding into the timber.

Over the stream leaped the horse, up the slope he galloped, and the timber was reached. Then Frank found the very spot where the man's horse had been hidden, and he struck the trail of the murderous-minded rascal.

Now, Eastern boy and Yale student though he was, Frank Merriwell had followed at the heels of the best trailers in this country. He had seen them work, and he had studied their methods, becoming a fairly expert trailer himself.

At first what he discovered puzzled him. The tracks of the horse showed quite plainly on the soft ground, but the marks of the shoes did not seem to indicate that the animal had gone toward the timber.

"I saw him!" muttered Frank. "It was no optical delusion."

Then he got down on his knees, holding on to the bridle of his horse, and examined the tracks still more closely. An exclamation broke from his lips.

"Queer horse that! Never heard of a horse walking on his heels before!"

A moment later he sprang into the saddle and was away, but he was riding in a direction precisely opposite that which it seemed the horse had gone!

Into the timber Frank plunged. It was not a very wide strip, and he soon pa.s.sed through it. On the farther side he found the tracks again. The shoes of the horse pointed to the north, but Frank Merriwell rode to the south.

The other boys had paused to help Rattleton catch the horse in the pasture, so they were unable to follow Frank closely.

Ahead of Merriwell, beyond a field, lay a road. He made straight for a gap in the fence, and there he found the horse had pa.s.sed through, apparently having turned from the road and taken to the field at that point, judging by the direction in which the shoes pointed.

Frank took to the road, gave his horse the spur, and tore along till he came around a bend. Nearly a mile away a horseman was just leaving the road and taking to the fields. He carried a rifle in his hands.

"You're my game for a cool thousand!" thought the boy, triumphantly; "and I believe you have handicapped yourself by the trick you have tried to play."

He rode in hot pursuit, and it was not long before the man discovered he was followed. Then the unknown showed guilt, for he whipped up his horse and tried to run away.

"I'll kill this horse before you shall do it!" grated Merriwell.

It was a hunt by sight now, with the fugitive making for a long strip of timber between some hills. Frank felt that the man stood a good chance of escaping if he got into those woods.

A fence lay before the man in advance. It was a high, zigzag affair.

Without seeking an opening, he made straight for it.

Frank was watching. He saw the horse try to clear the fence, saw the animal strike, saw the man and beast go down.

"Hurrah!" shouted the boy. "That's a check!"

But neither the man nor horse got up. Both were hidden beyond the bushes that grew along the base of the fence.

Before long Frank was close to that fence, and he was lying flat on the back of his horse, half expecting the one he was pursuing was crouching behind the bushes, ready to stop the pursuit with a second shot.

With his usual reckless disregard of consequences in times of great danger, Merriwell rode at the fence, rose in the saddle, and jumped his horse over.

Man and horse lay under the bushes. The latter lifted his head and struggled to rise, but fell back. The man lay quite still, with his head curled under his body in a cramped position.

Out of the saddle leaped the boy, and he was bending over the man a moment later. Still the man did not stir, but the horse regarded the boy with a look of pain and appeal in its eyes, and whinnied pitifully.

Frank turned the man over, and the bloated face of Bill Wade, the hostler, was exposed. The man was stone dead, his neck being broken, and the horse had broken a leg.

"Poor fellow!" muttered Frank, but he was thinking of the horse.

Then he stooped and looked at the horse's feet.