In his hand the boy held a stone as large as a man’s fist, and even as Merry turned he hurled the stone. Straight through the air whizzed the missile, striking the barrel of the old Indian’s rifle.
Smoke belched from the muzzle of the weapon and the crags flung back the sound of the report, but the bullet flew wild.
Frank Merriwell’s life had been saved by the stone thrown by the strange boy.
With an exclamation of rage, Hodge snatched up his rifle and reined his mount round to take a shot at the redskin, who had wheeled instantly and was clambering up the rocks toward the boy, as if bent on murder.
“Soak him, Merry!” panted Bart.
Frank’s first impulse was to shoot, but he quickly saw that he was in no further danger just then, and he had no desire to shed human blood unless compelled to do so.
Bart’s rifle rose, but Merry thrust the muzzle aside just as the weapon spoke, and the bullet flattened on the rocks.
“Why did you do that?” roared Hodge, in amazement and anger. “Can’t you see! That red devil is going to murder the kid!”
It did seem that the Indian meant the boy harm, and Merry shouted:
“If you put a hand on that boy I’ll bore you!”