University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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THE REDWOOD. But he could bore me through and through, Bob groaned, and in the ex- citement of the close finish, that is sure to be, no one would hear the reports, or know that a crime had been com- mitted until I toppeled over ! What am I to do? To throw the race to save myself would be cowardice and treachery ; to crawl to my captain with this note would be craven ; to win means death! Suddenly a scene flashed on his mind. He saw his father bidding him goodbye as he left for the. East, and the university ; he felt the clasp of the strong hand ; he heard the deep-voiced : Son, always do your duty, no mat- ter what the cost! My duty is to win for the college, he exclaimed aloud, and Fll do it! I hope I can stagger to the finish ahead of Thorsen. When Dad sees my dou- ble finish, he won ' t think I have lost my nerve because I have had to con- form to other ways ; I ' ll do my duty — come what may. Four hurdlers knelt on their marks the next afternoon, when the high hur- dle event was called in the annual Sira- must-Clarenta meet. For Siramust, Ihorsen, the star, and Stellman were entered; Adams and Murrdock repre- sented Clarenta. In the concrete grand stand opposite the finishing line, a crowd of madly enthusiastic partisans cheered for their respective favorites, all unconscious of the shadow of tragedy that was hov- ering near. To one side of the grand stand, half concealed by a projection, a slender, dark-faced man kept his cold, steely eyes on the track. To make the hardness of fate more terrible. Sheriff Richard Adams stood not five yards from the gambler. Rob was not a coward, but he died a thousand deaths while he toed his mark. He had grimly determined to gain as big a lead as possible, so he might maintain some of it from the tenth hurdle to the finish, but even his set resolve could not prevent his im- agination from hearing the muffled re- port, and the feeling of the hot flame as it scorched his chest. Crack! The starters ' pistol sent out a sound, which seemed to Bob a forewarning of what was to occur at the other end of the hurdles, and the four athletes leaped for the first stand- ard. Bob ' s determination to gain a start made him strain every muscle, and he led by a foot over the second hurdle, with Thorsen next and the oth- er two losing ground behind the fly- ing rivals. Down the smooth stretch of cinders the hurdlers sped, rising over the stand ' ards with that apparent ease which contains so much scientific ef- fort. The crowd was already yelling and cheering so loudly, that Bob thought the report of a cannon would not be heard in the commotion at the finish. At the fifth hurdle Thorsen, profit- ing by a slight relaxing of Bob ' s sprint, closed with him, and the two rose in the air almost simultaneously. The sixth and seventh hurdles shot un- der their flying forms, but at the eighth, Bob faltered. Try as he might, he could not fight down the terrible dread that assailed him. Suppose the bullet struck him in the face, or in the stomach, that meant a death of horri- ble agony. One more hurdle. Then if he led at the last one, a bullet tear-

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THE REDWOOD. You are a wonder, sir! exclaimed the sheriff, with more than his usual readiness to deal out deserved praise. I am considered some handy with a gun, but yuh got me beat, and I con- fess it. O that ' s nothing, the marksman said. Watch ! He snatched the wide-brimmed hat from the sheriff ' s head, and sent it spinning through the air towards the end of the gallery. The revolver in his left hand spurted a red flame — once, twice, three times, be- fore the hat settled to the floor. Before the exasperated sheriff could resent the insult to his person, the rcarksman laid the revolver down, gave a low laugh, and passed quickly from the gallery. The proprietor and Bob succeeded in calming the seething sheriff and the attendant picking up the hat, restored it to its owner. In a space not five inches in circumference, three holes lad been neatly drilled. Let ' s get out of this, gasped Bob when his father had picked up his re- volver and paid the bill. I thought you could shoot some, but that chap — They passed out into the street, which was jammed! with pedestrians. W hile dodging cars and teams in cross- ing. Bob felt a hand push suddenly into his coat pocket. He reached into his pocket, and his fingers closed on an envelope which had not been there when he left the shooting-gallery . A note from Bess, he thought, and turned in hopes of seeing the gentle intruder. What is it, son? inquired the father. O — er — O, nothing, answered Bob, hesitatingly. I thought some one was trying to relieve me of my watch, but he evidently failed. Once back to the hotel, Bob lost no time in getting his father comfortably seated in a soft chair in the smoking room, exchanging experiences with a fellow Texan. The young athlete hur- ried to his room to see what Bess might have to say. On the outside was written in pen- cil : Adams, High Hurdler of Clar- enta. That certainly isn ' t the way Bess writes, he thought, and tearing the envelope, he read: Adams : — I was fool enough to let a fellow badger me into betting my last red cent on Thorsen, but I ' m not fool enough to let him win if I can prevent it. You saw me shoot tonight, and you know I could wing a hurdler as he clears the standard as easy as not. You have got to throw that race to Thorsen tomorrow. Clarenta has the meet cinched, and it won ' t matter. No one will know. Remember this — if you are one inch ahead at the tenth hurdle— I ' LL PUT A BULLET THROUGH YOUR HEART. There was no signature. For ten minutes Bob sat staring at the threat- ening message, his heart filled with a strange feeling of dread. He thought of showing it to his father, but, instinctively, he realized that his father doubted his courage, and he knew that to appeal to him for assistance out of danger would confirm the sheriff ' s obvious suspicion that col- lege life had ruined his son. It would be better to convince his father that he was wrong, endure the test, then tell him of this curipiis situation.

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THE REDWOOD. ing through his jersey. He could lose by an inch, and the consequence wouldn ' t affect Clarenta ' s chance. He would think I was afraid, shot through his mind. I ' ll win, or die! He made a second spurt, based on the same straining effort which had given him the lead in the start, and skimmed the ninth hurdle barely two inches ahead of the Black and Gold hurdler. Ten yards ahead the last standard awaited him. The tenth h ur- dle — and death! In a state of mind bordering on frenzy, he literally flung himself at the standard, leaving Thorsen a foot in the rear. As his spikes bit into the cin- ders on the other side of the hurdle, his ears, straining for the sound of the shot as a condemned spy listens for the report of the rifle which his blind- folded eyes cannot see, heard ' the muf- fled crack of a pistol. But no leadened messenger of death tore through his jersey, and he dashed across the line, alive, the winner. Puzzling over the strange outcome of the race he made his way to the dressing room. He was alone as he pealed oflf his running clothes until his lather stepped through the doorway and without a word drew his revolver, snapped out an empty shell, refilled the chamber with a ball cartridge, and restored the weapon to his pocket. Bob thought he now understood why the gambler ' s threat had failed. You — you shot him to save me. Dad? he gasped. The first blank I ever fired, and the last, he said grimly. Out with that hand of yours, my boy. Bob you ' re the same old Bob, with the same good old manly character. And I ' m proud of you. All that last night, laughed the sheriff, was a part of the game. I had the intention of testing you when I started down here, so Harry and I framed up a way. I had him shoot so as to impress you that he could bore your heart, no matter how fast you ran. I slipped the note into your pocket which I had scribbled before I came aown. Just to make it more emphatic, I fired a blank over your head as you went over the last stick, sort o ' cele- brating the victory of my son. But, stammered the still bewilder- ed youth, where did you get that ' Harry? ' He shoots like a demon. For an answer. Sheriff Bob Adams crossed over to the door and whistled a signal. The slender, dark-faced man left the crowd and made his way to the Texan. As he walked into the room the sheriff took off his wide-brimmed, bullet-punctured hat with a sweeping bow. Son, he said grandly, make the acquaintance of ' Harry Graves ' , an old Clarenta graduate, the new foreman of cur ranch. Harry, my son, Bob. —Thomas R. Plant.