Going Some Part 22

"Surely you don't care for her seriously?"

"Not now. I--I love my Cuban, but"--he quivered apprehensively-- "I'll bet that rummy packs a 'shiv' in every pocket."

From outside the bunk-house came the low, musical notes of a quail, and Gla.s.s puckered his lips to answer, then grew pale.

"That's her," he declared, in a panic. "I've got a date with her."

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Not for a nose-bag full of gold nuggets! Take a look, Wally, and see what she's doing."

Speed did as directed. "She's waiting."

"Let her wait," breathed the trainer.

"Here comes Stover and Willie."

"More bad news." Gla.s.s unrolled his prayer-rug, and stepped upon it hastily. "Say, what's that word? Quick! You know! The pa.s.sword. Quick!"

"Allah!"

"That's her!" The fat man began to mumble thickly. It was plain that his spirit was utterly broken.

But this call was prompted purely by solicitude, it seemed.

Willie had little to say, and Stover, ignoring all mention of the earlier encounter he had witnessed, exclaimed:

"There's been some queer goin's-on 'round here, Mr. Speed. Have you noticed 'em?"

"No. What sort?"

"Well, the other mornin' I discovered some tracks through one of Miss Jean's flower-beds."

"Tracks!"

"Sure! Strange tracks. Man's tracks."

"What does that signify?"

"We ain't altogether certain. Carara says he seen a stranger hangin' around night before last, and jest now we found where a hoss had been picketed out in the ravine. Looks like he'd stood there more'n once."

"Why, this is decidedly mysterious."

"We figured we'd ought to tell you."

"It has nothing to do with me."

"I ain't sure. It looks to us like it's somebody from the Centipede. They're equal to any devilment."

Speed showed an utter lack of comprehension, so Willie explained.

"Understand, we've made this race pay or play. Mebbe they aim to cripple you."

"Me!" Speed started. "Good Heavens!"

"Oh, they'd do it quick enough! I wouldn't put it past 'em to drop a .45 through your winder if it could be done safe."

"Shoot me, you mean?"

"Allah!" said Gla.s.s, devoutly from his corner.

Stover and Willie nodded. "If I was you, I'd keep the lamp between me and the winder every night."

"Why, this is abominable!" exclaimed the young college man, stiffly. "I--I can't stand for this, it's getting too serious."

"There ain't nothin' to fear," said Willie, soothingly.

"Remember, I told you at the start that we'd see there wasn't no crooked work done. Well, I'm goin' to ride herd on you, constant, Mr. Speed." He smiled in a manner to rea.s.sure. "If there's any shootin' comes off, I'll be in on it."

"S--say, what's to prevent us being murdered when we're out for a run?" queried Gla.s.s.

"Me!" declared the little man. "I'll saddle my bronc' an' lope along with you. We'll keep to the open country."

Instantly Speed saw the direful consequences of such a procedure, and summoned his courage to say: "No. It's very kind of you, but I shall give up training."

"_What!_"

"I mean training on the road. I--I'll run indoors."

"Not a bit like it," declared Stover. "You'll get your daily run if we have to lay off all the punchers on the place and put 'em on as a body-guard."

"But I don't want a body-guard!" cried the athlete desperately.

"We can't let you get hurt. You're worth too much to us."

"Larry and I will take a chance."

"Not for mine!" firmly declared the trainer. "I don't need no mineral in my system. I'm for the house."

"Then I shall run alone."

"You're game," said Willie admiringly, and his auditor breathed easier, "but we can't allow it."

"I--I'd rather risk my life than put you to so much trouble."

"It's only a pleasure."

"Nevertheless, I can't allow it. I'll run alone, if they kill me for it."

"Oh, they won't try to _kill_ you. They'll probably shoot you in the legs. That's just as good, and it's a heap easier to get away with."

Speed felt his knee-caps twitching.