"Hurro!" cried Barney, his fighting blood beginning to rise. "Av it's foight ye want, ye red nagurs, jist wade roight inter us! We'll give ye all th' foight ye want, begobs!"
The Blackfeet jabbered among themselves a minute, and it was plain that they were not all of one mind. Some seemed to be for attacking the boys, while others opposed it. Half Hand hotly urged them on.
"Fall back," said Frank, speaking softly to the Irish lad. "Be ready for a rush. If they come, give it to them. I will take Half Hand myself. You take the fellow with the red feather. If they kill us, we'll have the satisfaction of getting two or three of them in advance."
The boy's voice was cool and steady, and his nerves seemed of iron. He glanced over his shoulder in search of some place of shelter, but could discover none near by, much to his disappointment.
Barney was also cool enough, although the hot blood was rushing swiftly through his veins. He was holding himself in check, in imitation of his friend and comrade.
In truth, the two lads were in a tight corner. It was plain that the Indian poachers were made up of rebellious Blackfeet, who could not be kept on the reservation, and their faces showed they were the very worst sort. Having been caught almost in the act of killing game within the park, and believing the two lads had no friends near by, the dusky villains might not hesitate at outright murder spurred on by their greed for plunder, lust for blood, and a desire to keep the boys from notifying the soldiers of the presence of Indians on forbidden ground.
Frank fully understood their peril, and he felt that they would be lucky indeed if they escaped with their lives.
He blamed himself for running into the trap in such a blind manner, and still he felt that he was not to blame. He had seen moving figures at a distance, and, as the Indians were keeping under cover, in order to creep upon the buffalo, he had no more than caught a glimpse of them. They were dressed in clothes they had obtained by trade or plunder from white men, and so, at a distance and under such circumstances, it was not remarkable that Frank had not noted they were savages.
In a few moments Half Hand seemed to bring the most of the Indians to his way of thinking, and he again turned on the boys.
"Good white boys," he croaked, craftily. "Don't be 'fraid of Injuns. Injuns won't hurt um."