“Look out!” roared the voices of men, as they rose to their feet in the grand stand and on the bleachers. “The dog is mad!”
Then Dick threw the ball, swift as a bullet, straight into the open mouth of the dog.
The creature had been on the verge of leaping at the throat of the boy, but the speed of the ball checked him somewhat.
The ball seemed to become wedged in the dog’s jaws, and Dick easily stepped aside and avoided the creature.
Onto the diamond came Old Joe Crowfoot. Like a leaping panther he went at the dog, flung himself on the animal, and grasped it by the neck.
Old Joe’s hand rose with something bright in it. It fell with a swift movement, and a long knife was buried to the hilt in the side of the dog.
Old Joe did not need to strike again, for his eye had been accurate and his stroke sure. Pierced to the heart by the keen knife, the dog was flung aside by the Indian to fall in its death throes on the dirt of the diamond.
Crowfoot calmly wiped the blood-stained knife on his buckskin trousers.
The excitement was great at that moment. A number of the players, armed with bats, rushed out; but their aid was not needed, for the dog was dying.