At the same time he held his own rifle ready for instant use.
Old Joe Crowfoot seemed either not to hear or to be too enraged to heed. Like a mountain-goat, he raced upward over the rocks and hastened straight toward the boy. But, what was strangest of all, the boy made no effort to escape, nor did he seem at all frightened. Instead, he seemed to stand and await the approach of the Indian.
Frank and Bart were surprised by this, but they were still more surprised by what followed. The Indian reached the boy and quickly clutched him. Then, with a swift swing, the strange old redskin swept the lad round behind him and up to his back. The arms of the boy immediately clasped about the Indian’s neck, while his legs twined round the old fellow’s body, and there he hung pickapack fashion.
Scarcely had Old Joe Crowfoot paused in his upward race. When Frank and Bart had confronted him at the mouth of the valley both had fancied him old and rather feeble, but now he seemed to have the strength of a youth and the agility of a mountain-goat. Having swung the boy to his back, he continued to clamber upward over the rocks as if quite unimpeded by his burden.
“Well,” gasped Hodge, “if that doesn’t beat the old boy himself!”
Merry was no less amazed. To both it had seemed that the old Indian meditated doing the boy harm as he clambered toward him, but the youngster had betrayed no fear, although his hand flung the missile that destroyed Old Joe’s aim and saved Frank Merriwell’s life.
“He’s running off with the boy!” palpitated Bart.
“And the boy is perfectly willing,” said Merry.
“But the kid threw the stone at the old duffer.”
“For which I am very thankful, as it is certain the old duffer meant to perforate me.”