"Here," called Red Ben.
Something whizzed through the air and fell at Frank's feet.
It was the Indian's hunting knife.
Del Norte was advancing, the moonlight showing a deadly look of hatred on his face.
Merry dropped his rifle and flung off his coat in a twinkling. Stooping, he caught up Red Ben's knife just as his foe rushed upon him.
With a quick, sidestepping movement, Merry flung up his hand and deftly parried the blow of Del Norte's blade, steel clashing against steel.
"Ha!" panted Del Norte, as he was flung back by a surge of Merry's powerful arm. "Next time, gringo—next time!"
He was at Frank again in a twinkling, but once more the young American met and baffled him.
Out of the shadows stalked Red Ben, holding his rifle in both hands and standing near as if ready to use it in a twinkling. The moonlight fell full on his dusky face, showing there an expression of savage satisfaction in the battle he was witnessing.
"Best man shall have gal," he muttered. "Ben he see fair play. Merriwell him best man, Ben stand by him."