Frank Merriwell's New Comedian: or, The Rise of a Star

CHAPTER VI. – A CHANGE OF NAME

At the open upper window of the ranch the sad-faced, pretty girl watched and waited till Frank Merriwell came riding back over the prairie.

“Here he comes!” she whispered. “He is handsome – so handsome! He is the first man I have seen who could be compared with Lawton.”

Kent Carson had heard of Frank’s departure on Wildfire, the bucking broncho. He found it difficult to believe that his guest had really ridden away on the animal, and he was on hand, together with Bart and Ephraim, when Merry came riding back.

Near one of the corrals a group of cowboys had gathered to watch the remarkable tenderfoot, and make sarcastic remarks to Hough, who was with them, looking sulky and disgusted.

Mr. Carson hurried to greet Frank.

“Look here, young man,” he cried, “I’d like to know where you ever learned to ride bucking bronchos?”

“This is not the first time I have been on a cattle ranch, Mr. Carson,” smiled Frank, springing down from Wildfire.

One of the cowboys came shuffling forward. It was Hough.

“Say, tenderfoot,” he said, keeping his eyes on the ground, “I allows that I made some onnecessary remarks ter you a while ago. I kinder hinted as how you might ride a kaow bettern a hawse. I’ll take it all back. You may be a tenderfoot, but you knows how ter ride as well as any of us. I said some things what I hadn’t oughter said, an’ I swallers it all.”

“That’s all right,” laughed Frank, good-naturedly. “You may have had good reasons for regarding tenderfeet with contempt, but now you will know all tenderfeet are not alike. I don’t hold feelings.”

“Thankee,” said Hough, as he led Wildfire away.

Frank glanced up toward the open window above and again he caught a glimpse of that sad, sweet face.

Mr. Carson shook hands with Frank.

“Now I know you are the kind of chap to succeed in life,” he declared. “I can see that you do whatever you undertake to do. I am beginning to understand better and better how it happened that my boy thought so much of you.”

He took Frank by the arm, and together they walked toward the house. Again Merry glanced upward, but, somewhat to his disappointment, that face had vanished.

It was after supper that Merry and Hodge were sitting alone on the veranda in front of the house, when Bart suddenly said, in a low tone:

“Merriwell, I have a fancy that there is something mysterious about this place.”

“Is that so?” said Frank. “What is it?”

“I think there is some one in one of those upper rooms who is never seen by the rest of the people about the place.”

“What makes you think so?”

“There is a room up there that I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave. The door is always closed. Twice while passing the door I have heard strange sounds coming from that room.”

“This grows interesting,” admitted Frank. “Go on.”

“The first time,” said Bart, “I heard some one in there weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break.”

“Her heart?” came quickly from Merry’s lips.

“Yes.”

“Then it is a female?”

“Beyond a doubt. The second time I heard sounds in that room to-day after you rode away on the broncho. I heard some one singing in there.”

“Singing?”

“Yes. It was a love song. The voice was very sad and sweet, and still there seemed something of happiness in it.”

Hodge was silent.

“Well, you have stumbled on a mystery,” nodded Frank, slowly. “What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know what to make of it, unless some friend or relative of Carson’s is confined in that room.”

“Why confined there?”

“You know as well as I do.”

Frank opened his lips to say something about the face he had seen at the window, but at that moment Carson himself came out onto the veranda, smoking his pipe. The rancher took a chair near, and they chatted away as twilight and darkness came on.

“How are you getting along on your play, Mr. Merriwell?” asked the man.

“Very well.” answered Frank. “You know it is a drama of college life – life at Yale?”

“No, I didn’t know about that.”

“It is. Just now I am puzzled most to find a name for it.”

“What was the name before?”

“‘For Old Eli.’”

“U-hum. Who was Old Eli?”

“There!” cried Merry. “That shows me there is a fault with the name. Even though your boy is in Yale, you do not know that Yale College is affectionately spoken of by Yale men as ‘Old Eli.’”

“No, never knew it before; though, come to think about it, Berlin did write something in some of his letters about Old Eli. I didn’t understand it, though.”

“And the public in general do not understand the title of my play. They suppose Old Eli must be a character in the piece, and I do not fancy there is anything catching and drawing about the title. I must have a new title, and I’m stuck to find one that will exactly fit.”

“I suppose you must have one that has some reference to college?”

“Oh, yes! That is what I want. One that brings Yale in somehow.”

“All you Yale men seem to be stuck on that college. You’re true blue.”

Frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight.

“I have it!” he exclaimed.

“What?” gasped Mr. Carson.

“The title!”

“You have?”

“Yes; you gave it to me then!”

“I did?”

“Sure thing.”

“What is it?”

“‘True Blue.’ That is a title that fits the play. Yale’s color is blue, you know. People may not understand just what the title means, but still I believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. ‘True Blue’ is the name! I have been well paid for coming out here, Mr. Carson! Besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m glad if I’ve done that,” laughed Kent Carson.

“I must put that title down on the manuscript,” said Frank. “I feel an inspiration. I must go to work at once. I am in the mood now, and I can write.”

Excusing himself, he hurried into the house. Soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. Looking in at that window, Hodge saw Frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. He was seated at a table, writing away swiftly.

Kent Carson got up and stood beside Hodge looking into the room.

“Merriwell is a great worker,” said the rancher.

“He’s a steam engine,” declared Bart. “I never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. There is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. Now that he has the title, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning.”

“If that happens, I shall be sorry I gave the title so soon,” said the cattleman, sincerely. “I have taken a great liking to that young man.”

Frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. At last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. He had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. He arose and flung wide the window.

The moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. Soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. There was a haze on the plain. Slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching.

“Cattle,” said Merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again.

He resumed work on the play. He did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room.

Like a flash Frank whirled about and found himself face to face with —

The girl he had seen at the window!

In astonishment Frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. He saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. The color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was.

Only a moment did Frank remain thus. Then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying:

“I beg your pardon! I did not know there was a lady in the room.”

She bowed in return.

“Do not rise,” she said. “I saw you to-day from my window, and I could not sleep till I had seen you again. Somehow you seemed to remind me of Lawton. I thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way. Still you made me think of him. I have been shut up there so long – so long! I have not talked to anybody, and I wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world – something of the places far away. I am buried here, where nobody knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses.”

Frank’s heart was thrilled with sympathy.

“Do they keep you shut up in that room?” he asked.

“No; I stay there from choice. This is the first time I have been downstairs for weeks. I have refused to leave the room; I refused to see my father. I can’t bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger.”

“Your father – he is Mr. Carson?”

“Yes.”

“It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son.”

In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom.

“No!” she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; “he never speaks of me! He says I am dead – dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche.”

Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry’s heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarrassing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand this.

“Don’t think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way,” she entreated. “Don’t think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me – hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world.”

“I shall be glad to do so,” said Merry, gently. “But don’t you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?”

“Nothing – nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I interrupted you?”

“No; I am through working on my play to-night.”

“Your play?” she cried, eagerly. “What are you doing with a play? Perhaps – perhaps – ”

She stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check.

“I am writing a play,” Frank explained. “That is, I am rewriting it now. I wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. I am going out again soon with a new company.”

Her eagerness seemed to increase.

“Then you must know many actors,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”

“Know whom?”

“Lawton – Lawton Kilgore.”

Frank shook his head.

“Never heard of him.”

She showed great disappointment.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. If you can tell me nothing, I must tell you. I must talk to somebody. You see how it is. Mother is dead. Father sent me to school in the East. It was there that I met Lawton. He was so handsome! He was the leading man in a company that I saw. Then, after the company disbanded for the season, he came back to spend the summer in the town where I was at school. I suppose I was foolish, but fell in love with him. We were together a great deal. We became engaged.”

Frank fancied he knew what was coming. The girl was skipping over the story as lightly as possible, but she was letting him understand it all.

“I didn’t write father about it,” she went on, “for I knew he would not approve of Lawton. He wanted me to marry Brandon King, who owns the Silver Forks Ranch. I did not love King. I loved Lawton Kilgore. But the principal of the school found out what was going on, and he wrote father. Then Lawton disappeared, and I heard nothing from him. They say he deserted me. I do not believe it. I think he was driven away. I waited and waited for him, but I could not study, I could not do anything. He never came back, and, at last, father came and took me away. He brought me here. He was ashamed of me, but he said he would not leave me to starve, for I was his own daughter. His kindness was cruel, for he cut me off from the world. Still I believe that some day Lawton will come for me and take me away from here. I believe he will come – if they have not killed him!”

She whispered the final words.

“They? Who?” asked Frank, startled.

“My father and my brother,” she answered. “They were furious enough to kill him. They swore they would.”

She had told Merry her story, and she seemed to feel relieved. She asked him many questions about the actors he knew. He said he had the pictures of nearly all who had taken parts in his two plays. She asked to see them, and he brought them out from his large traveling case, showing them to her one by one. She looked at them all with interest.

Of a sudden, she gave a low, sharp cry. Her hand darted out and caught up one of the photographs.

“Here – here! – ” she panted. “You have his picture here! This is Lawton Kilgore – Lawton, my lover!”

It was the picture of Leslie Lawrence!

CHAPTER VII. – THE TRAGEDY AT THE RANCH

“That?” exclaimed Frank. “You must be mistaken! That man’s name is not Kilgore, it is Lawrence.”

He fancied the girl was crazy. He had wondered if her misfortune had affected her brain.

“This is the picture of Lawton Kilgore!” she repeated, in a dull tone.

“Do you think I would not know him anywhere – under any circumstances? This is the man who promised to marry me! This is the man my father hates as he hates a snake!”

“Well, that man is worthy of your father’s hatred,” said Merry, “for he is a thoroughbred villain. But I think you must be mistaken, for your father met him in Denver. This man had me arrested, and your father followed to the police station, and was instrumental in securing my release. If this man was Kilgore, your father would have found his opportunity to kill him.”

“You do not understand,” panted the girl. “Father has never seen him to know him – has never even seen his picture. If Lawton was known by another name, father would not have recognized him, even though they met in Denver.”

Frank began to realize that the girl was talking in a sensible manner, and something told him she spoke the truth. To his other crimes, Lawrence had added that of deceiving an innocent girl.

“And he is in Denver?” panted the rancher’s daughter. “He is so near! Oh, if he would come to me!”

Frank was sorry that he had permitted her to see the photographs, but it was too late now for regrets.

The girl pressed the picture to her lips.

“You must give it to me!” she panted. “I will take it to my room! I wish to be alone with it at once! Oh, I thank you!”

Then she hurried from the room, leaving Merry in anything but a pleasant frame of mind.

There was a sound outside the window. Frank got up and went over to the window. Looking out, he saw two horses standing at a little distance from the ranch. A man was holding them, and the faint light of the moon fell on the man’s face.

“Well, I wonder what that means?” speculated Frank. “Those horses are saddled and bridled. Who is going to ride them to-night?”

Then he remembered the two forms he had seen coming out of the mist that lay on the plain, and he wondered if they had not been two horsemen.

Something about the appearance of the man at the heads of the horses seemed familiar. He looked closer.

“About the size and build of Lloyd Fowler,” he muttered. “Looks like Fowler, but of course it is not.”

There was a step on the veranda, and a figure appeared at the open window. Into the room stepped a man.

Frank sprang back, and was face to face with the intruder.

“Leslie Lawrence!” he whispered.

“Yes,” said the man, advancing insolently; “I am Leslie Lawrence.”

“What do you want?”

“I want an engagement in your new company. I have come here for it. Will you give it to me?”

Frank was astounded by the insolence of the fellow.

“I should say not!” he exclaimed. “What do you take me for? No, Leslie Lawrence, alias Lawton Kilgore, villain, deceiver of innocent girls, wretch who deserves hanging, I will not give you an engagement, unless it is with an outraged father. Go! If you wish to live, leave instantly. If Kent Carson finds you here, he will know you now, and your life will not be worth a cent!”

At this moment the door was flung open, and Ephraim Gallup came striding into the room, saying as he entered:

“Darned if I knowed there was a purty young gal in this haouse! Thought I’d come daown, Frank, an’ see if yeou was goin’ to stay up all night writin’ on that play of – Waal, I be gosh-blamed!”

Ephraim saw Lawrence, and he was astounded.

“Didn’t know yeou hed visitors, Frank,” he said.

“So you refuse me an engagement, do you, Merriwell?” snarled Lawrence. “All right! You’ll wish you hadn’t in a minute!”

He made a spring for the table and caught up the manuscript lying on it. Then he leaped toward the open grate, where the fire was burning.

“That’s the last of your old play!” he shouted, hurling the manuscript into the flames.

Both Frank and Ephraim sprang to save the play, but neither of them was in time to prevent Lawrence’s revengeful act.

“You miserable cur!” panted Frank.

Out shot his fist, striking the fellow under the ear, and knocking him down.

At the same time Ephraim snatched the manuscript from the fire and beat out the flames which had fastened on it.

Lawrence sat up, his hand going round to his hip. He wrenched out a revolver and lifted it.

Frank saw the gleam of the weapon, realized his danger, and dropped an instant before the pistol spoke.

The shot rang out, but even as he pressed the trigger, Lawrence realized that Merriwell had escaped. But beyond Frank, directly in line, he saw a pale-faced girl who had suddenly appeared in the open door. He heard her cry “Lawton!” and then, through the puff of smoke, he saw her clutch her breast and fall on the threshold, shot down by his own hand!

Horror and fear enabled him to spring up, plunge out of the open window, reach the horses, leap on one and go thundering away toward the moonlight mists as if Satan were at his heels.

There was a tumult at the Twin Star. There was hot mounting to pursue Lawrence and his companion. Carson had heard the shot. He had rushed down to find his daughter, shot in the side, supported in the arms of Frank Merriwell.

A few words had told Carson just what had happened.

He swore a fearful oath to follow Lawrence to death.

The girl heard the oath. She opened her eyes and whispered:

“Father – don’t! He didn’t mean – to shoot – me! It was – an – accident!”

“I’ll have the whelp stiff at my feet before morning!” vowed the revengeful rancher.

He gave orders for the preparing of horses. He saw his daughter carried to her room. He lingered till the old black housekeeper was at the bedside to bind up the wound and do her best to save the girl.

Then Carson bounded down the stairs and sent a cowboy flying off on horseback for the nearest doctor, a hundred miles away.

“Kill the horse under ye, if necessary, Prescott!” he had yelled at the cowboy. “Get the doctor here as quick as you can!”

“All right, sir!” shouted Prescott, as he thundered away.

“Now!” exclaimed Kent Carson – “now to follow that murderous hound till I run him to earth!”

He found men and horses ready and waiting. He found Frank Merriwell and Bart Hodge there, both of them determined to take part in the pursuit.

“We know him,” said Merriwell. “He fired that shot at me. We can identify him.”

Frank believed that Lawrence had murdered the rancher’s daughter, and he, like the others, was eager to run the wretch down.

They galloped away in pursuit, the rancher, four cowboys, Merriwell and Hodge, all armed, all grim-faced, all determined.

The sun had risen when they came riding back to the ranch. Ephraim Gallup met Frank.

“Did ye git ther critter?” he asked, in a whisper.

“No,” was the answer.

“Then he got erway?” came in accents of disappointment from the Vermonter.

“No.”

“Whut? Haow’s that?”

“Neither Lawrence nor Fowler escaped.”

“Then it was Fowler with him?”

“I believe so.”

“Whut happened to um?”

“They attempted to ford Big Sandy River.”

“An’ got drownded?”

“No. Where they tried to cross is nothing but a bed of quicksands. Horses and men went down into the quicksands. They were swallowed up forever.”

The doctor came at last. He extracted the bullet from Blanche Carson’s side, and he told her she would get well, as the wound was not dangerous.

Kent Carson heard this with deep relief. He went to the bedside of the girl and knelt down there.

“Blanche,” he whispered, huskily, “can you forgive your old dad for treating you as he has? You are my own girl – my little Blanche – no matter what you have done.”

“Father!” she whispered, in return, “I am glad you have come to me at last. But you know you are ashamed of me – you can never forget what I have done.”

“I can forget now,” he declared, thinking of the man under the quicksands of Big Sandy. “You are my daughter. I am not ashamed of you. You shall never again have cause for saying that of me.”

“Kiss me, papa!” she murmured.

Sobbing brokenly, he pressed his lips to her cheeks.

And when he was gone from the room she took a photograph from beneath her pillow and gazed at it long and lovingly.

She knew not that the man had been swallowed beneath the quicksands of the Big Sandy.

The tragic occurrences of the night hastened the departure of Frank and his friends from Twin Star Ranch, although Kent Carson urged them to remain. Frank had, however, finished his play, which, thanks to the prompt act of Ephraim, had been only slightly injured by its fiery experience, and was anxious to put it in rehearsal.

So, a day or so later, Frank, Bart and Ephraim were once more in Denver.