“Look out fer his tommyhawk!” shrieked one.
“An’ his scalpin’-knife!” put in another.
Old Joe folded his arms across his breast, making a picturesque figure.
“Yelping curs!” he said. “Heap no good! Dirt under my feet! I spit on you!”
“Now I will soak yer!” roared the fellow called Jim, as he swung his fist back.
Before the blow could fall a lithe figure sprang down the steps of the hotel, darting past Frank Merriwell, rushed forward, and jumped between the Indian and the young thug, hurling the latter backward.
“You onery whelp!” exclaimed a clear, fearless voice. “If you try to touch Old Joe, I’ll make you sorry!”
“Behold!” said Jack Ready; “another Merriwell hath chipped into the game, and verily I predict that the fur will fly.”
Frank had started forward to interfere between the Indian and his tormentors, but he paused now, something like a grim smile coming to his handsome face as he watched his brother thrust the city ruffian backward.