“Ay de mi!” cackled the voice of Silva, “he grab one coyote dog and think him so beeg lak mountain! It ees most fonny. Fat gringo no tell coyote dog from bear so beeg lak mountain, huh, huh, huh!”
This, from the hated Silva, was more than Fritz could stand, and he began forthwith to do a war dance and to brandish his fists. The clawing he had received from the coyote dog had not done very much to sweeten his temper.
“So hellup me cracious,” he whooped, “I vill knock you py der mittle oof lasdt veek! No greaser lopster can laugh my face in same as dot.”
He started for Silva, but somebody tripped him and he pitched sprawling upon the rocky ground.
“Get out of here, Silva!” ordered Merriwell. “I don’t want any more fussing between you and Fritz.”
The Mexican retired slowly toward his own post, whistling as though for a missing dog and calling loudly for the animal to “Come, bonita, come, li’l wan—hyah, hyah!”
Fritz was fairly boiling with rage. Merriwell helped him up, ordered him to resume his guard duty, and not to make any further disturbance, or to try to mix things with Silva. Then, laughing heartily among themselves, all the boys went back to their blankets.
“So that coyote dog is hanging around our camp, eh?” muttered Clancy, as he settled down in bed. “I hope to thunder, Chip, he hasn’t transferred his affections from Lenning to you. There’s something about that brute that gives me the creeps.”
“Oh, slush!” answered Merriwell. “You don’t mean to say, Clan, that you’re taking any stock in that stuff Hotchkiss batted up to us?”
“About an abused coyote dog taking the war path as a lone avenger? Well, no, I’m not so superstitious as all that, but I can’t get out of my mind that picture of the miserable brute tied to an ironwood tree, a dynamite cartridge fastened to his tail, and a bunch of hoodlums taking pot shots at him. I can just see that dog, Chip, turning somersaults at the end of the rope while bullets are kicking up the dust all around him.”