In another moment he would have shot the Indian, but Frank was in time to grasp his wrist and turn the revolver skyward.
The weapon spoke, and the bullet flattened against the face of the lava cliff above.
The man turned his dark eyes on Frank, and the boy saw a blazing devil in their depths. His face turned crimson, but his voice was still quite cool, as he addressed Merriwell:
“My dear young man, do you know it is very dangerous to chip into a game like that?”
“I saved you from committing murder, sir,” said Frank, equally as cool.
The man’s teeth seemed to gleam through that black mustache.
“Murder!” he said, scornfully. “You kept me from shooting a dog, that’s all. If you will take your hand off my wrist, I’ll do the job now.”
“No, you must not!”
Never had Frank seen a more dangerous look on the face of a living man. He felt that wrist tremble beneath his fingers.
“You are a tenderfoot,” said the owner of the silk hat. “If you were anything else——Well, this would mean your funeral! I am ashamed to shoot you, but I may forget myself if you do not withdraw from the game.”