Both were Indians, but the first, almost six feet tall and straight as an arrow, was dressed in the garments of civilization. The other, however, must have attracted attention anywhere in Denver from his half-savage attire. The first was young and handsome; the second was old and wrinkled.
“Joe!” cried the boy, as he saw the old Indian.
“Ugh!” said Old Joe Crowfoot.
With a furious exclamation, Black Elrich started to whip out a revolver; but his wrist was clutched from behind by fingers that seemed like bands of steel, and he was held fast, while a quiet voice spoke in his ear:
“I wouldn’t try that trick, sir! You have been monkeying with my brother, and I shall have to call you to account if he is molested further.”
Elrich was trembling with the intensity of his rage.
“Let go!” he panted, as he looked round.
A pair of calm brown eyes looked into his with utter fearlessness, and Frank Merriwell spoke again:
“I shall not let go until you realize the folly of trying to do any shooting here. Two friends are with me, besides the two who have just interfered to protect my brother, and we can do some shooting when it is necessary.”
Elrich became cool at once.