“Why, you don’t know how to handle such a toy as that!”
“Don’t I? Perhaps not, but I’ve had a few lessons from a man who is your master with any kind of a weapon.”
“Meaning you?” asked Carson of Merriwell.
“Meaning an old Indian by the name of Joe Crowfoot,” explained Frank, in a low tone. “Crowfoot taught him to shoot rifle, revolver, and bow and arrow, and he’s a credit to his tutor.”
“Well, you’re a mere kid, and you have no right to carry concealed weapons,” said Elrich.
“And you’re a mere ruffian, who has less right to carry concealed weapons,” flung back Dick. “I know you’ve got a gun on your hip, and I shall ask to have you searched if you make complaint against me.”
“That’s the stuff!” muttered Carson. “He’s sized up Black Elrich in a minute, and he’s bluffing the most dangerous man in Denver.”
The eyes of Bart Hodge glowed with satisfaction. Bart had never spoken a word of praise to Dick, but there was about the boy much that awakened his admiration.
“Where’s your father?” demanded the gambler, furiously. “I’ll call on him and see if he——”
“You’ll never call on him,” Dick declared, “for you’re not going in his direction. He’s up there.”