There were seven of the Indians, and nearly all of them carried weapons in their hands. Although they were not in war paint, they were a decidedly ugly-looking gang, and their savage little eyes denoted anything but friendliness.
“Ugh!” grunted the tallest Indian of the party, an old fellow with a scarred and wrinkled face.
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” grunted the others.
Then they stared at the boys and their bicycles, the latter seeming a great curiosity to them.
“Well, this is a scrolly old jape—I mean a jolly old scrape!” fluttered Rattleton. “We’re in for it!”
Toots looked up, saw the Indians, uttered another wild howl, and tried to bury his head in the sand, like an ostrich.
Frank singled out the tall Indian and spoke to him.
“How do you do?” he said.
“How,” returned the Indian, with dignity.
“Unfortunately we did not know you were here, or we should not have called,” explained Merriwell.