“Excuse me,” he said, cuttingly. “I do not think I have the honor of your acquaintance.”
Then he started to turn away.
A snarl came from Indian Charlie’s lips, and his hand fell on the butt of a revolver resting in the open holster at his hip.
He did not draw the weapon.
Frank Merriwell’s fingers closed on the man’s wrist, and Frank’s cool voice sounded in his ear:
“Slow and easy, sir! Don’t do anything rash, for you might regret it. That is, you might if you thought quick enough during the brief time you would be given to regret anything after that.”
The foreman of the Lone Star turned his head and his eyes met those of Frank Merriwell. For some moments their glances fought a silent duel.
“Take your hand from my wrist!”
Charlie hissed the words.
“First take your hand from the butt of that revolver,” said Frank, with perfect calmness.