“It’s a lie!” snarled the big thug. But just then Dick Merriwell’s fist caught him on the chin and he was knocked down.
The fellow jumped up at once, but that blow had dazed him, and Dick gave him no chance to recover. The moment the fellow was fairly on his feet he received another blow on the ear, and went down again.
“Somebody else hit me den!” he howled. “Dey’re all jumpin’ on me, fellers! Come on an’ give it ter ’em!”
Then, as he scrambled to his feet, he urged the boys to give him aid. A few of them seemed inclined to do so, but one chap held them back.
“Let Squinty fight it out,” he said. “If he cannot lick dat chap, he oughter git soaked.”
So the bully received no assistance, and Dick Merriwell proceeded to polish him off in a most scientific manner, without being once struck hard himself.
Still, with his arms folded, the old Indian looked on. His face seemed expressionless as that of a graven image, but the light in his beady eyes told of the admiration in his heart.
Dick made short work of the bully, who soon lost his spirit when he found the boy was more than his match and that none of his friends would aid him.
At last, after being knocked down again, the fellow looked up and whimpered: