“Come on, ye spalpanes!” he grated. “It’s a roight tough bit av a shcrap we’ll be afther havin’, me laddy-bucks!”
“Gug-gug-good gosh!” stammered Ephraim Gallup, his face turning pale and his knees knocking together. “We’re ketched in a trap, by gum! I wish I was to hum on the farm!”
“What’s the meaning of this, Merriwell?” cried Jack Diamond, clutching Frank’s arm with a strong grip. “Are we in for scalping—or what?”
“It’s all right,” assured Merriwell. “That’s their way of attracting the attention of the crowd and informing them that the ball game is about to begin.”
“Is that all?” gurgled Ephraim, in great relief, seeing the young Indians gather about but observing they did not offer hostilities. “Wal, darned if I ain’t afraid I’ll never be able to comb my hair ag’in! It feels as if it was stickin’ up stiffer than quills on the back of a hedgehoag.”
The shout from the young bucks had attracted the attention of the spectators and they were rushing toward the spot.
A hand touched Frank’s arm.
“Come,” said the voice of John Swiftwing. “A place for us to play will be prepared.”
John was one of the young bucks. He had cast aside the clothes of civilization, and, like the others, he was stripped to the breechcloth.
His physique was magnificent, and Frank regarded him with admiration. Such broad shoulders, such a deep chest, such hard and muscular limbs were not common among the Pueblos.