“It was because I knew he had the right stuff in him,” asserted Merriwell. “I presume you’ll let him play with us against the Denvers?”
“Sure as you’re shouting! And I’ll disown him if he doesn’t put up a good game.”
At this moment there came a sudden cry. They turned to see Dick Merriwell, caught up by the man with the gray beard, being carried swiftly toward the gate, which was standing open. The man was running, holding the struggling lad under his arm.
For an instant every one seemed paralyzed with astonishment. Then Frank Merriwell sprang out, his arm went back, and, with all his strength, he threw the ball in his hand.
Straight as a bullet from a rifle flew the ball, and it struck the running man fairly on the back of the head, knocking him forward on his face.
This caused him to drop the boy, and, quick as thought, Dick scrambled up and leaped, like a young panther, on the back of the man.
When Merriwell leaped forward, Black Elrich suddenly stepped into his way, and there was a collision. Elrich staggered and caught hold of Merriwell’s arm, to which he tried to cling.
Instantly Frank beat off the hand of the man, sprang round him, and dashed to the aid of Dick. But the man had flung the boy off, and now he rose to his feet, casting one quick look over his shoulder.
A surprising thing had happened, for the man was beardless now, his gray whiskers being grasped in the fingers of the plucky lad. Frank saw the face of the man.
“Mescal!” he cried.