CHAPTER XXVIII—INDIAN CHARLIE IS SURPRISED
Indian Charlie came swaggering up. He regarded the boys with a glance of supreme contempt.
“Permit me to compliment you on your thoughtfulness, Miss Rodney,” he said, in a most insinuating manner.
The rancher’s daughter looked puzzled and perturbed.
“I do not think I understand you,” she said, slowly.
“Surely you have done your best to make sport for us to-day. You have brought us some rare curiosities.”
Now Bart Hodge had a temper of his own, and he did not fancy being insulted, even though the person who offered the insult was a fire-eating cow-puncher. So Bart murmured:
“Oh, I don’t know! There are others!”
The foreman of the Lone Star looked astonished, and then scowled blackly.
“Were you referring to me, sir?”
Although the words came from his lips like the cut of a whip through the air, Hodge began to whistle in the most unconcerned manner possible, without even looking toward Indian Charlie.
Frank, who was keeping watch of everything, saw the red tide of anger surge into the face of the cowboy, and he knew Charlie was in a most dangerous mood.
Sadie Rodney, rancher’s daughter though she was, showed signs of alarm. She shrank close to Inza, murmuring:
“How did he dare say anything like that? Charlie has been known to shoot a man for less provocation.”
To her astonishment, Inza did not seem at all alarmed, but confidently returned:
“It will be a good thing for him if he tries to shoot any one in this crowd. Those boys can take care of themselves.”
Miss Abigail nodded.
“I am sure that Mr. Merriwell can take care of himself,” she said.
“Und I peen retty to brotect you mit your life!” declared Hans, who was clinging close to the spinster.
With two bounds Indian Charlie was upon the veranda.
“Did you refer to me, sir?” he said, facing Hodge.
Bart surveyed him from head to feet.
“Excuse me,” he said, cuttingly. “I do not think I have the honor of your acquaintance.”
Then he started to turn away.
A snarl came from Indian Charlie’s lips, and his hand fell on the butt of a revolver resting in the open holster at his hip.
He did not draw the weapon.
Frank Merriwell’s fingers closed on the man’s wrist, and Frank’s cool voice sounded in his ear:
“Slow and easy, sir! Don’t do anything rash, for you might regret it. That is, you might if you thought quick enough during the brief time you would be given to regret anything after that.”
The foreman of the Lone Star turned his head and his eyes met those of Frank Merriwell. For some moments their glances fought a silent duel.
“Take your hand from my wrist!”
Charlie hissed the words.
“First take your hand from the butt of that revolver,” said Frank, with perfect calmness.
The cowboy seemed to doubt the evidence of his senses. Was it possible this tenderfoot dared face him—dared touch him? With a sudden wrench he attempted to break from Frank, but, to his surprise, the young Yale athlete gave his wrist a twist, snapping the revolver from his fingers, and, almost at the same instant, snatched the other weapon from its holster.
“These are not suitable for a careless man to handle,” said Merry, as he flung them far out upon the grass.
For a single instant Indian Charlie was dazed. How the trick had been accomplished by this smooth-faced youth he could not conceive, and it filled him with wonder.
That passed in a moment, and he was like a furious tiger, his white teeth gleaming beneath his black mustache.
“That settles you!” he snarled.
He attempted to clutch Frank by the throat, but his hands were brushed aside, and again Merry warned him to go slow and easy.
“There are ladies present,” Frank said. “Have some regard for them, sir. If you wish to settle——”
But the man had quite lost his self-possession, and he struck at Frank in a wicked manner.
The blow was parried with ease.
An instant later Indian Charlie was stretched upon the veranda.
“I beg your pardon for doing such a thing in your presence, ladies,” came quietly from Merriwell’s lips; “but I was forced into it. As he may make further trouble I beg you to retire.”
“No!” palpitated Inza. “I shall stay here.”
“Me, too,” said Miss Abigail. “Goodness sakes! what dreadful things men are!”
“Shall I sit on him and hold him down, Frank?” yawned Browning, who did not seem in the least disturbed.
“No, let him alone. He——”
With a leap like a wild creature the man came to his feet. There was a demon in his eyes.
“Look out!” screamed Diamond, suddenly.
A knife flashed in Indian Charlie’s hand, and he darted at Frank.
Browning reached out to grasp the furious fellow, but was too slow.
The knife was driven at Frank by the man, who at that moment was crazed with rage.
Merriwell dodged, caught the fellow’s wrist, gave it another wrench, and the blade fell clanging to the floor.
Both Inza and Sadie had screamed, but the danger was over before they could draw a second breath.
Then Frank laughed. It was the same old dangerous laugh that those who knew him best understood.
Smack!—with all the force he could command he struck the man.
Indian Charlie went down again, but came up like a ball on the rebound.
Frank followed him up, and was on hand to meet him when he arose.
A second blow landed, and the foreman of the Lone Star was sent spinning over the end rail of the veranda to the ground.
He struck on his head and shoulders and lay still.
Some cowboys who had seen the encounter came running up and bent over the fallen man.
One of them, a little bow-legged fellow, after taking a good look at Indian Charlie, arose, and, placing his hands on his hips, stared in profound amazement at Frank Merriwell.
“Wa-al, may I be durned!” he said. “Ef I ever saw anything like that yar, my name ain’t Pecos Pete! He’s knocked Charlie clean out, an’ he ain’t nothin’ but a tenderfoot kid!”
“That’s whatever,” agreed one of the others. “An’ I will allow it wur ther slickest job Hank Kildare ever seen done. Say, young feller, I wants ter shake yer paw!”
Then Kildare, who had a face that was like tanned leather, came up on the veranda and grasped Frank by the hand, wringing the boy’s arm up and down as if it were the handle of a pump.
“Thar ain’t many tenderfeet like you,” he said; “an’ you kin boast o’ bin’ ther fust critter to lay out Injun Charlie.”
“But I wants ter warn yer, youngster,” said Pecos Pete, as he also came up and shook Frank by the hand. “Injun Charlie is bad medicine, an’ he ain’t goin’ ter fergit ye none whatever. When he gits round from this he’ll lay fer yer, an’, ef you know what’s healthy, yer won’t linger round these yar parts.”
“That’s so,” agreed Kildare. “You’ll mosey right lively, an’ take yer friends with yer, fer he may start in ter clean out ther hull bunch, an’ nothin’ but chain lightnin’ will stop him next time. You hear me!”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” smiled Frank, calmly. “I came here with my friends, being invited to attend the tournament here to-day, and we do not propose to be frightened away. If I have further trouble with that man I shall not be so gentle with him.”
“Gentle!” snorted Kildare. “Wa-al, did yer hear that? Gentle! Is that w’at yer calls ther way yer knocked him out, tenderfoot?”
“Gentle!” echoed Pecos Pete. “Why, that last blow o’ your’n would hev knocked down a steer!”
“So yer think you’ll stay?” asked Kildare.
“Sure.”
“Do you carry guns?”
“No.”
“Be yer armed anyway?”
“No.”
“Hyar, take one o’ my shooters.”
“What for?”
“You’ll need it.”
“Oh, I scarcely think so.”
“That’s right,” nodded Pecos Pete—“that’s right, Hank. He won’t need it ef Charlie draws on him. What show’d he have? Charlie is old lightnin’, an’ he’d fill the boy full o’ bullets afore the kid could think o’ reachin’ fer a gun.”
One of the men bending over the foreman of the Lone Star spoke:
“It may be as how Charlie won’t be in condition to do any shootin’ fer some time. He’s stiff as a spike.”
“I hope I did not hurt him seriously,” said Frank, at once. “He forced me to do what I did in self-defense.”
“Don’t let it worry yer, youngster. You’re all right.”
Then they lifted the unconscious man and carried him away toward one of the outbuildings.