“You’re a private little society for the prevention of cruelty to coyote dogs, eh?” Lenning sneered. “That cur has been snooping around our camp for days, stealing our grub. We’re going to put him out of business, and you chumps can’t come crow-hopping around here and meddle with our plans.”
“There are other ways of putting a dog out of business,” said Frank, “than singeing him with bullets and then blowing him up with dynamite.”
“It’s none o’ your put-in,” scowled Lamson, rubbing a blister on his hand where the match had burned him.
“I reckon we can do as we blame’ please in our own camp,” said Hummer.
Merriwell, stepping to the cowering brute, bent over to remove the string from his stump of a tail.
“Keep away from that dog, Merriwell!” stormed Lenning, taking a couple of threatening steps in Frank’s direction.
Clancy promptly jumped in front of Lenning.
“That will be far enough,” he said curtly. “Go on, Chip,” he added to Frank. “I’ll look after this duffer.”
The words were hardly out of Clancy’s mouth before Lenning struck him. The blow caught the red-headed chap in the shoulder and spun him half around. The next instant Clancy was going for Lenning, hammer and tongs. Before Lamson, Hummer, or Parkman could interfere, a stiff right-hander had put Lenning on his knees.
“That’s enough of that kind of work!” cried Merriwell, leaping up and tossing the dynamite cartridge into the bushes. “We didn’t come here to kick up a row. Hands off, you fellows!” he ordered, facing Lenning’s restive comrades.