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CHAPTER XXII – THE BALL GAME

Up, up into the air sailed the little ball.

With a shout the players rushed to get beneath it.

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 anticipated 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 passed 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 space, before a player could reach it, and a great shout of victory went up.

Whirling Bear, although the commander of the side that Frank was on, had said nothing to Merriwell, and he seemed to show signs of disgust, as if he were not pleased that it should have been a white lad who had knocked the ball.

Dan Carver did not seem at all disturbed by what had happened, but continued to take bets, offering to place any sum on Swiftwing at one or two.

In a moment the game was resumed, and it went forward with more intensity than before. The players seemed warmed up to the work, and their skill in keeping the ball in the air was astonishing, to say the least.

Several of the white players won some glory.

Both Diamond and Rattleton got in good strokes, and Bruce Browning struck once with all the power in his muscular arms, sending the ball so high into the air that it was a mere speck and almost went out of sight.

“Begorra! it’s not such fun as this Oi’ve had since Oi attinded me larst Oirish fair!” cried Barney, who was in his element. “This b’ates a wake!”

“It’s a darn sight more fun than shuckin’ corn at a huskin’-bee!” grinned Ephraim Gallup. “Take that, gol darn ye!”

He managed to hit the ball at last, after missing it three times, and nearly turning himself wrong side out with the violence of his efforts.

“Whee!” he squealed, as the little sphere carromed off his bat and whizzed into the air. “I bet a squash that started the bark on her!”

Toots got a crack on the shins that upset him and made him howl with pain.

“Land ob wartermillions!” he wailed. “Nebber see no such mess as dis am! Dutchmans an’ Irish all mixed up in a stew! An’ ebry one ob um seems tryin’ teh git a crack at de nigger’s shins wif dem sticks! I’s gwan teh retellyate on some pussen bimer-by – yes, sar!”

Once Harry Rattleton was able to save Swiftwing’s side from a second and final defeat. An Indian struck and missed the ball, but Harry caught it with his bat, having struck almost at the same instant.

“Gear she hoes – I mean here she goes!” he yelled. “Can’t do it again over there! We’re going to do you up, after all!”

Finally three players on Whirling Bear’s side ran for a ball. Dunnerwust and Toots were two of them, and they both fell down, while an Indian fell on top of them.

Over the three sailed Bart Hodge, his bat poised and his teeth set. He reached the ball and kept it from striking the ground, but it glanced from his bat and went off sideways.

It went in a bad direction.

Whirling Bear tried to reach it, but failed, and it fell to the ground.

And now the sides were tied with the chances even for the final struggle.

CHAPTER XXIII – THE WRESTLING MATCH

Less than half a minute elapsed before the game was resumed.

The players went at it with unabated energy and enthusiasm, and the excitement was more intense than ever.

This round would settle it.

Whirling Bear was in a bad humor. Although one of the white lads had won the first set with a drive, it seemed to Whirling Bear that the second one had been lost because Hodge had not hit the ball as skillfully as he might.

In fact, Hodge had done well to reach it at all.

Frank and Whirling Bear both rushed at the ball and came face to face. As Frank struck, he saw the Indian swing his bat.

Whirling Bear did not strike at the ball, although he pretended to do so.

He struck straight at Frank Merriwell’s head.

Merry saw this and dodged.

He succeeded in hitting the ball, and he escaped Whirling Bear’s bat at the same time. The bat whizzed through the air.

In another moment Frank was ready to meet the Indian’s assault, but, seeing he had failed in the first attempt, the Pueblo darted away.

“That fellow is treacherous,” Merriwell decided. “He has a grudge against me for some reason, and I’ll have to keep my eye on him. If he had hit me, my skull would have been cracked.”

Inza witnessed Merriwell’s peril, and she caught her breath, uttering a little cry of terror. When Frank dodged, she breathed again, and she panted:

“Go for him, Frank – don’t let him get away!”

Whirling Bear, however, got away like a leaping cat, and continued giving orders to his men as if nothing unusual had happened.

Faster and more furious waxed the game. Spurred on by the shouts and yells of the spectators, each side was exerting itself to the very utmost.

It was really very exciting, and the skill of the players aroused the admiration of all. The Indians handled themselves in a remarkable manner, and, with one or two exceptions, the white boys were doing almost as well.

On Whirling Bear’s side Merriwell and Hodge were the most conspicuous among the white players, while Mulloy and Diamond showed great skill and judgment on the other side.

“Hurro!” the Irish lad was heard to shout. “It’s hot shtuff we are, an’ don’t yez fergit thot! Erin go braugh! Th’ United States an’ Ould Oireland feriver!”

For some moments there was a furious volleying, so fierce at moments that the eye followed the movements of the players and the flying ball with no little difficulty.

Inza Burrage was greatly excited. She clapped her hands and waved her handkerchief.

“Oh, aunt!” she cried; “it’s almost as good as a football game! Isn’t it just perfectly splendid!”

“It is confusing – very confusing,” said Miss Abigail, severely. “It seems to be a genuine savage game.”

At last Hodge saw his opportunity, and he drove the ball toward an opening in the ranks of the opposing players. It was skillfully done, and, almost before any one could realize it the game was over, Whirling Bear’s side having conquered.

Then the Indians danced and sang songs of victory.

Swiftwing seemed to take his defeat gracefully, and he insisted that the white boys, Merriwell and Hodge, and not members of his own race had brought it about.

Frank told Swiftwing that he was astonished to find the Indians played the game with so much skill.

“It is great sport,” he said. “I feel well satisfied for my trouble in visiting Taos.”

“You feel satisfied now,” said Swiftwing, in a peculiar manner. “You may not be so well satisfied when you depart.”

Frank was puzzled by this remark.

“I wonder what he means by that,” he muttered, as the Indian walked away.

“Begobs! Oi think he m’anes we’ll be beaten at iverything ilse we thry,” nodded Barney.

But Frank fancied that was not just what the Indian had meant.

The boys found the Indian who had charge of their clothes, and soon they were in sweaters.

Whirling Bear sought the party, and, standing with his hands on his hips, eying them insolently, he said:

“What white boy think he want to wrastle?”

“Gol darn his eyes!” muttered Ephraim, who did not like the appearance of the Indian. “I’d like ter thump him betwixt ther eyes!”

“What white boy dare to wrastle with Whirling Bear?” asked the Indian.

With a spring the impulsive Irish lad landed before the insolent redskin.

“It’s mesilf that’ll thry yez a whirrul!” he cried.

“You?” said Whirling Bear, contemptuously. “You no wrastle! Go ’way!”

That, as he afterward confessed, made the Irish boy “hot.” He told Whirling Bear he could stand him on his head in a minute.

“All right,” said the Indian, with a wicked gleam in his black eyes. “You strip off and try. Come.”

Immediately Barney began to “peel.”

“Look out for him,” warned Frank, assisting the Irish lad to get out of his sweater. “He is treacherous, and he dislikes all whites. I can see that. He may try to injure you seriously.”

“Oi’ll kape me oie on th’ spalpane, Frankie. Av he gits th’ bist av me it’s a smart chap he is.”

In a short time the Irish lad was ready.

The challenge had been heard, and there was a rush of the spectators to witness the wrestling match.

A ring was formed, and the crowd was kept back by some of the spectators who appointed themselves for that purpose.

Soon all were ready, and, at opposite sides of the ring, the white boy and the Indian crouched, their hands on their knees, watching each other like hawks.

Suddenly, as if moved by the same impulse, they rushed at each other and grappled.

Both obtained good holds, and a terrific struggle began.

Barney knew considerable about the science of wrestling, and he immediately discovered that the Indian was not a novice.

As soon as holds were secured Whirling Bear leaned heavily to the left and pinned Barney’s right arm close to the elbow, at once causing the Irish lad trouble.

Barney tried to straighten the Indian, but saw that Whirling Bear fancied he had an advantage and was determined to hold it.

Now the Irish lad knew that, for all that the redskin was bothering him by this trick, Whirling Bear could not be firm in such a position, and it would not be difficult to throw him if the trick came right.

Barney knew that a wrestler who leans to the left always lays himself open to the cross-buttock, and he immediately began to work to use that trip on his opponent.

In order to work the cross-buttock successfully it is necessary to have a hold that is loose at first and yet firm and then to move with the utmost rapidity. The least hitch or false move may prove fatal to the aggressor.

As the Indian and the Irish lad strained and squirmed and sought to trip each other, Barney worked his hold looser and looser, all the while watching for the opportunity he sought, although pretending to be working for something else.

The crowd watched the movements of the contestants with the greatest interest.

Dan Carver was on hand, and, after a moment, he offered to bet even money that the Irish boy would take the first fall. He was able to get up a small amount, and then, hands in pockets, he calmly regarded the contest.

Barney was tempted once or twice to try the trip, but was not quite satisfied with his opportunity. If he tried and failed, the Indian might throw him heavily by sharply jerking him backward.

Twice Whirling Bear jerked Barney forward to get him off his guard and then tried the inside click, but failed to throw the sturdy Irish youth.

This seemed to anger the redskin, for it was plain he had looked on the white boys with no small contempt, and had anticipated securing an easy victory.

Furiously he went at Barney, and this gave the white boy the very opportunity he sought.

Quick as thought Barney turned his left side toward his opponent, got his hip partly beneath him, and then, with a rapid movement, crossed both his legs and lifted him from the ground.

Down went Whirling Bear, with Barney uppermost!

It was a pretty fall, and it awoke the admiration of the spectators so that they cheered the Irish lad heartily.

Barney sprang up, but the Indian arose almost as swiftly, and, before any one realized it, the struggle was on again.

This time Whirling Bear was fiercer than before. The muscles stood out on his bare limbs and back, while the cords of his neck were drawn taut and there were knots in his forehead. The look on his face was not pleasant to see. He looked as if he longed to murder the Irish lad.

Frank was watching every movement closely. He was well pleased with Barney’s success, but it seemed that the Indian had been taken by surprise, and it was doubtful if the Irish boy could repeat the trick.

Barney tried the backheel trip, and his failure to throw Whirling Bear nearly resulted in his own downfall.

Next Barney attempted the hip stroke, but that was another failure, and Whirling Bear now seemed like a cat on his feet.

All the while Barney was forced to look out for various trips and heaves which the Indian attempted in rapid succession.

Some one offered to bet Carver even that the Indian took the second fall, and the sport shook his head.

“I knew the Irishman was going to surprise him at the start,” he said. “Now he is out for blood. I’ll go something he takes this fall.”

All at once, in some astonishing manner, the Indian got under Barney and raised him into the air directly across his back.

Then Whirling Bear lifted Barney above his head to hurl him to the ground!

CHAPTER XXIV – THE FOOT RACE

Frank saw a gleaming spirit of evil in the eyes of the savage.

Whirling Bear meant to injure, perhaps to kill, Barney.

He intended to cast the Irish youth down upon his head, and the prospect was that Barney’s neck would be broken instantly.

Immediately Frank leaped forward.

As the Indian dashed Barney to the ground, Frank caught him and kept him from falling on his head.

The Irish lad went down heavily, but he was not severely injured.

Whirling Bear gave a cry of anger when he saw what Merriwell had done, and then rushed at Frank.

Frank dodged and tripped the Indian with the greatest skill, so that the redskin was pitched forward on his face and stunned for the moment.

“If you will try the copper-skin a whirl, I’ll back you for any amount,” said Dan Carver, quietly.

Whirling Bear sat up, savagely glaring at the white boys.

“No can wrastle with two!” he growled. “One at time is ’nough. Why other white boy do something?”

“I simply kept you from murdering my friend,” said Frank. “You were trying to break his neck, and I saw it.”

Whirling Bear got up, looking disgusted.

“Sometime may get ’nother chance,” he said, and then walked away, paying no heed to the spectators who were calling for him to remain and settle the match by seeing who could get the third fall.

“Begorra! it’s a roight nate thrick he did whin he lifted me inther th’ air,” confessed Barney. “Sorry a bit do Oi know how he did it at all, at all!”

“I do not think I ever saw a throw made in that manner,” confessed Frank. “He went under you like an eel, and brought you up across his back and over his shoulder.”

“He is the champion wrestler of the Pueblos,” declared a spectator. “I did not fancy you would be able to throw him at all.”

“You should be proud to say you broke even with him,” declared another.

Frank felt a hand on his arm, and a voice said in his ear:

“The sun priests are resting. While they rest there will be a footrace, the same as white men run. Will you enter. Swiftwing says you are a great runner.”

The speaker was a young Indian of evident intelligence.

Frank was willing and ready to take part in the footrace, and he immediately accepted the invitation.

“I know I shall be pitted against Swiftwing,” he thought, “and it is liable to be the race of my life, for he can run like the wind. I will beat him – or die!”

A straight course of nearly a quarter of a mile was prepared, and the spectators ranged up on either side near the finish.

There were five starters, four of whom were Indians. Merriwell was the only white persons who had been invited to take part.

The Indians were stripped for the race, as they had been in taking part in other sports.

Frank brought out a pair of running shoes, and these he put on. He removed his sweater and stripped down to a light, sleeveless undershirt.

As they stood side by side, Swiftwing spoke to Frank.

“Much depends on this race,” he said – “much more than you can know. Beat me, Merriwell, if you can. You will be sorry if you fail.”

All this was very mysterious, but Frank returned:

“You may be sure I shall do my best to beat you.”

A moment later a great shout went up from the spectators.

The runners had started, darting off from the scratch like so many deer.

Swiftwing started in a most astonishing manner, seeming to leap off at full speed in a second.

Frank was not slow in starting, but he found the Indian had gained a slight advantage at the outset.

It was a beautiful sight to see the five runners come speeding along the track, heads up, breasts thrown forward, nostrils dilated and eyes flashing.

Of them all, two persons seemed to fly over the ground with very little exertion.

They were John Swiftwing and Frank Merriwell.

At Frank’s side ran a tall Indian who was making great speed, but did not seem as graceful as the white boy or the Indian in advance.

Although Swiftwing had gained an advantage at the start, he was not able to widen the distance between himself and the white boy. Close behind him he could hear the feet of Frank Merriwell.

And Frank? He was preparing for one mighty spurt at the last of the race, feeling that he would surprise Swiftwind then.

The spectators cheered wildly, and some enthusiastic cowboys fired shots into the air, yelling for the white boy to run faster and not let a “copper-skin” beat him.

Far ahead at the end of the course Frank saw Inza Burrage watching their approach. Near her stood an Indian who had just dismounted from the back of a magnificent horse, which he was holding.

Inza waved her handkerchief.

Was it a signal to Frank? or was it meant for John Swiftwing?

“In either case,” thought the white boy, “it is enough. I will win!”

He set his teeth and gave a great spurt that must have carried him into the lead; but, at that moment something happened.

The tall Indian who had been racing at Frank’s side thrust out a foot and neatly tripped Merriwell up. This happened at the very moment when the white boy started to spurt, and Frank was flung into the air and hurled forward upon his head. His hands were thrust out to break his fall, and he saved himself in a measure, but he was stunned and lay motionless for some seconds.

With a gasp he sat up.

“Beaten!” he hoarsely grated – “beaten by a foul trick! I did not think John Swiftwing would have anything to do with a plot of this sort!”

Then he saw something that caused his heart to give one mad leap and stand still.

Swiftwing reached the end of the course. As he rushed over the line, without pausing, he caught Inza Burrage about the waist, swung her into the air, tossed her over his shoulder, and —

How was it done? An instant later the Indian was astride the horse which the other Indian had been holding ready for him. He still held fast to Inza. Frank heard her scream with sudden terror, and the cry was drowned by a hoarse sound from Swiftwing. Like an arrow leaving the bow, the horse, bearing its double burden, shot away.