“You’re right,” whispered young Joe. “But how did he get in there?”
Even as he asked that question his eyes answered it, for he discovered the opening high up at the back of the closet, and he knew the old Indian had mounted the shelves, squirmed through that opening and entered the next room in a decidedly unusual manner.
“He will play poker and he will drink,” muttered young Joe. “He says he’s too old to abandon such habits, though he’s rather proud because his grandson has listened to the counsel of Injun Heart and never become a confirmed victim of such practices.
“It’s ten to one.” Joe went on, as he closed the closet door, “that he’s fallen in with a bunch of sharks, and he’s in poor condition to take care of himself.”
“If that is true,” laughed Dick, “it will be something unusual; for, sober or otherwise, I’ve never yet seen Shangowah in such a condition that he could not look after number one. However, I think it will be well enough to get in there if we can and pry him away from that bunch.”
As they reached the door of the other room the sound of loud, angry, and excited voices came to their ears, Merriwell’s hand fell on the doorknob, but the door was locked.
“Kill him!” shouted a voice within the room.
Dick stepped back two strides, then he flung himself forward, and his shoulder crashed against the door, which flew open, the lock broken.
Into that room leaped the two youths red and white. In a twinkling they had seized old Crowfoot’s assailants and sent them reeling right and left. The aged Indian was torn free from the hostile hands that had clutched him.
“Ugh!” he grunted stoically. “Heap much obliged.”