“I opine,” observed Brad, “that Mr. Stover thought something worse than a buzz saw had struck him.”
As they were chatting in this manner two horsemen came riding along the street. One of them, the younger, was dressed in corduroy and woollens. He sat his horse beautifully. The other, however, was the most picturesque figure of the two: for both were Indians, and the older man, bent and bowed, wore, despite the warmth of the unclouded sun, a dirty old red blanket draped about his shoulders.
Tucker saw them first, and, uttering a yell, he grabbed Dick’s shoulder.
“Look,” he cried, pointing; “look there, Richard! What do you see?”
“So help me marvels,” exclaimed Dick, astounded, “it’s old Joe Crowfoot and young Joe!”
CHAPTER XXIV.
TWO INDIAN FRIENDS.
True enough, the newcomers were Dick’s childhood friend Shangowah, and his grandson, young Joe Crowfoot, Dick’s college friend. The young Indian’s keen eyes had discovered Dick already, and there was a smiling look of joyous astonishment on his handsome bronzed face. Both redskins reined toward the hotel steps as the group of young men came charging down from the veranda.
Then the guests lounging on that veranda beheld a singular spectacle. They saw the young Indian leap from his horse and shake hands with one after another of those delighted youthful palefaces. They saw the old Indian let himself down slowly and painfully from the saddle to stand half bent and seemingly tottering, with arms extended, to give Dick Merriwell an affectionate embrace. This was a sight that caused many of the wondering ladies, and not a few spick and span gentlemen, to gasp and turn up their noses.
“Of all surprising things,” young Joe was saying, “this is the greatest. Merriwell, Buckhart, Tucker, Bigelow—here in Colorado Springs!”