Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record онлайн

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The boys were startled.

“Do you mean to say they’ve been around here, Dolliver?” Frank asked.

“That’s what,” was the reply. “They was here late yesterday arternoon, ridin’ a couple o’ hosses. The white-faced feller had a roll of bills enough to choke a dog. They’re up to somethin’ crooked, I’ll bet you.”

“Which way did they go when they left here?”

“Quién sabe?” answered Dolliver. “They jest went, an’ I didn’t see ’em when they shacked away.”

“You know Barzy Blunt?” went on Frank, casting a look at his chums that kept them silent.

“Well, I reckon. I’ve knowed Barzy ever since he was gopher-high.”

“Did you see him yesterday afternoon?”

“Nary I didn’t. He ain’t around in these parts. If he was, ye can gamble he wouldn’t pass without sayin’ how-de-do to Dolliver.”

At Dolliver’s, the boys turned from the wide trail and started into Mohave Cañon. Here the road narrowed, and angled back and forth until the mouth of the gulch was reached, and the riders turned to follow the dammed-up waters that sparkled in the late forenoon’s sun.