He could discern the look of admiration on the girl’s face as she regarded the magnificent Indian who commanded the players on the side that opposed Merriwell.
Frank was somewhat dismayed when he discovered that Whirling Bear was the commander of his side.
The young Indian who had been drunk at Embudo the day before was straight enough now, and he seemed to be somewhat of a favorite among the Pueblo athletes.
Not a few of the Indians showed a strong dislike for John Swiftwing, and Frank understood this was because he had been away to the white man’s school. They wished to see him beaten at everything that he might know how weak he had become while he was learning the white man’s knowledge.
When the ball glanced from Swiftwing’s bat it was not allowed to fall to the ground. A lithe savage ran under it and sent it spinning into the air.
Far over Whirling Bear’s side sped the little black sphere.
Whirling Bear shouted a command.
Like a flash three of the rearmost bucks darted after the ball, and one of them, who had the speed of the wind, ran under it as it was falling to the ground. Without stopping or pausing, he swung his bat and hit the ball.
Oh, what a shout of delight pealed from white men and Indians alike! Surely the ball had been kept from the ground in a most amazing manner, for the batter was not able to stop and turn till he had passed at least forty feet beyond the point where he hit the ball.
There was a rush on Swiftwing’s side, and the ball was returned.