"Look here! A band of horsemen pursuing a white man—plainly an American. Look, he is shooting again!"
Once more the shots were heard.
Frank ran to the door, catching up a rifle that had been leaning against the wall of the hut, for he knew he was in a "bad man's land."
"Stand aside!" he shouted, forcing his way past the professor. "No countryman of mine can be in danger that I do not try to give him a helping hand."
"What do you mean to do?"
"Get a crack at those Greasers."
"You are crazy! You will bring the entire band down on us!"
"Let 'em come! One Yankee is good for six Greasers."
Past the hut at a distance a single horseman was riding, hotly spurring the animal which bore him. At least a dozen dark-faced, fierce-looking ruffians, mounted on hardy little ponies, were in pursuit.
As Professor Scotch had said, the fugitive was plainly an American, a native of the United States. He had turned in the saddle to send bullets whistling back at his pursuers.