“Hark away!”

The sound of baying hounds and the hunter’s horn cut the crisp morning air.

“The dogs have struck a track!” gayly cried Frank, who was mounted on Firefoot, having chosen that horse, although warned that he was the most dangerous animal in the Springbrook stables. “Listen to that! Is it not music to stir the blood?”

The baying of the hounds grew more and more distinct, and surely it was sweet music to the ear of the enthusiastic hunter. Rising, falling, now loud and clear, now faint and low, the mellow notes came across the meadows.

“They’re coming this way!” cried Diamond, excitedly, as his mount pricked up its ears and pawed the ground, plainly longing to be off after the baying dogs. “Come, Frank!”

“Shimminy Ghristmas!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust, who was astride an old steed. “You don’d pelief dese hoss vos bound to run avay mit myseluf, do I?”

“I don’t think ye need ter worry abaout that,” grinned Ephraim Gallup.

“I make you feel petter ven you said dot,” declared the Dutch boy. “I peen avraidt I might run avay mit dese hosses und throw heem off.”

“It’s a warm scent, fellows!” palpitated Bart Hodge, who was a-quiver with excitement. “Oh, this morning will be filled with glory!”

“I thought you fellows would enjoy it,” said Kenneth St. Ives, who was with Frank and his friends, the hunters having split into two parties. “I want you to enjoy all the time you spend at Springbrook.”

“There’s the horn again!” fluttered Diamond; “and there they come! It’s a signal to us. Look! look! look!”

Out from a bit of scattering timber far across the meadows broke the hounds, the foremost running nose to the ground, the others following close, but often baying with uplifted muzzles. As the dogs had just struck the track, the hunters were close after them, and the bright colors of their clothing showed through the trees almost before the dogs appeared, rising and falling with the movements of their galloping horses.

“Harden is in the lead!” cried Kenneth St. Ives, “and Fenton is a close second. Look—look, fellows! The third one is my sister! Doesn’t she ride beautifully! Oh, she is as good as the best of them! I’ll wager a sawbuck she leads both Fenton and Harden before the chase is over, and she is sure to be in at the death.”

“That’s a habit I have myself,” smiled Frank Merriwell; “and I shall make an attempt to be in at the death this morning.”

“Firefoot will balk on you before you are through with him,” declared Kenneth. “He’s got speed and blood, but he is treacherous.”

“I don’t believe he will play any tricks on me,” said Frank. “I do not believe he has been handled right. Your hostler, Wade, had a grudge against the horse, and Fenton didn’t know how to treat him. But this is no time to talk of that. See—the dogs take that hedge! Hurrah! See Harden follow! What a glorious sight! Hurrah! hurrah!”

The boys could not repress their cheers. The horses they bestrode were dancing now, but the animals were held in check yet a little longer, and then, with a cry to the others, Frank gave Firefoot his head.

Down toward the hunters charged the second party, riding to join them. They were seen, and Harden set the horn to his lips and blew a welcome.

Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-tar!

How the bugle note cuts the frosty air! It is enough to stir the blood in the veins of a sluggard.

The horses cannot be held in check. Oh, the glorious excitement of the mad ride—the delight of speed! Whip nor spur is not needed, and like birds they go across small washouts, down into a tiny ravine, and then up again with short, sharp jerks.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

It is the baying of the hounds, the whole pack bursting into a grand swell of melody. Who would not rise early to hear such a morning chant!

The fox—there he goes! He is a red fellow, fine and large, good for many a mile. He seems to run with his legs stretched straight and his body almost touching the ground, while his brush is defiantly erect.

“This is indeed sport!” thought Frank Merriwell. “And, barring accidents, Firefoot will bring me in at the death.”

“Hi! hi! hi!”

The fox came to a fence. Under it he went. A moment later the hounds reached the fence, Pirate in the lead. Over they went in a stream, as pretty a spectacle as one could ask to see.

Firefoot swept along like a meteor. Frank could have cut ahead of Harden, but he knew better than to do such a thing. He fell behind the bugler, but ahead of Fenton. The others of his party were farther back.

The fence was reached, and Harden cleared it beautifully, without seeking for an easy spot. Frank followed, and Firefoot sailed over the obstruction like a bird.

“Good boy!” laughed Merry. “You’re all right! I’d like to own you!”

A strong feeling of affection for the horse sprang up in his breast. He touched Firefoot’s neck with a caressing hand.

Now came some scrub timber, and through it darted the fox, with the hounds plunging at its heels. Harden did not swerve, but held straight on the track. Frank followed.

Limbs were dodged, bushes slapped him in the face, and vines tried to drag him from the saddle; but he did not draw rein. Straight on he kept, and soon the small timber was behind.

A road was reached and crossed. Ahead was a field that sloped gradually, presenting a full view of the chase. Still the fox was running speedily, holding its own with the dogs.

“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”

Again and again the entire pack gave tongue. An old farmer on his way to market, stopped his cart on the road, stood up, waved his hat about his head, and cheered like a boy.

Once Frank looked back.

“Jove!” he exclaimed.

Almost neck and neck, Steve Fenton and Iva St. Ives were following him. It was plain that the girl was riding with as much reckless abandon as the best of them. It was not an easy thing for her dark-faced cousin to hold his own with her.

“She is a queen!” muttered Frank, as he once more gave his attention to the chase. “I don’t wonder that Harden is stuck on her. And he appears like a fine fellow. I hope he wins her.”

The fox had darted under another fence, and again the dogs were streaming over. Harden followed close, seeking no favors. His horse cleared the fence, and onward he went.

“Firefoot, old boy,” laughed Frank, “you can follow him anywhere he goes.”

Straight at the fence he charged. Firefoot lifted to the couch, settling on his haunches, then going up into the air.

Just then, from some unknown point, a shot rang out, and the black horse pitched forward. Its forward feet struck the rail, and Frank was flung headlong.

Firefoot came down with a crash, and lay still, a bullet in his brain!

And just beyond the fallen horse Frank was curled in a heap upon the hard ground!

But Frank did not lie thus a great while. As he was getting upon his feet, rubbing his arm and shoulder, he saw Iva St. Ives and Stephen Fenton come over the fence. And Fenton jumped his horse almost in the track of the boy who had been in advance, although he must have seen that an accident of some sort had happened.

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 assassin 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 passed 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 passed 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.

“Just as I thought!” he cried. “The shoes are set the wrong end forward on the creature, and I might have been fooled if I had not seen Wade riding into the timber. It was a clever trick, but it failed.”

Then he turned and looked down at the man once more.

“In at the death!” he grimly said.