membership of each club – ran very evenly, and as the shoot drew toward its close, the count of the club scores showed five in favor of the boys of Lake Lily, with Ward Hammond’s score three more than Merriwell’s, and the best that had been made.
“Don’t l’ave him bate yez, Merry, me b’y!” Barney Mulloy whispered.
“You may be sure I’ll do my best, Barney,” responded Merriwell, compressing his lips as he stepped again to the line and took up the bow.
“Seven – in the red!” cried the marker.
Then, as Ward Hammond followed:
“Nine – in the gold!”
There were only three more rounds, twenty-one of the twenty-four rounds of the contest having been shot.
“Here are the leading scores, as revised after that last shoot,” announced the youth who kept the score card, reading from the card, while the excited and anxious lads gathered closely about him. “Ward Hammond, 145; Frank Merriwell, 140.”
The Blue Mountain boys swung their caps and sent up a cheer of delight.
Again Frank faced the target and let his arrow fly.
“Nine – in the gold!” came the voice of the marker.
“Good boy!” cried Harry Rattleton. “That gives you one hundred and forty-nine. Do it another time.”
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 twang 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 grass 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 coarse. 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 assist 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 asserted, starting back and giving a last look at the arrow, which lay on the grass 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
