“Waugh!” ejaculated Curry, in disgust. “There never was a red whelp as could be trusted.”
“But you don’t know Crowfoot.”
“I know ’em all. Here is this yere Crowfoot a-whooping her up with your enemies, Mr. Merriwell. What do you think of that?”
“It’s mighty singular,” confessed Merry. “Look! look! they are drinking!”
It was true. The dance had stopped and one of the three had flung himself on the ground. Crowfoot bent over this fellow and offered him a bottle, which he eagerly seized. The Indian snatched it from the man’s lips, refusing to let him drink all he seemed to desire. It was then given to the other men, and afterward the old redskin passed from one to another of the reclining men, rousing those he could and offering them the bottle. Some drank, but others seemed too nerveless to hold the bottle in their hands.
“Well, this yere is lucky for us,” declared Curry. “The whole bunch is paralyzed drunk. We oughter be able to scoop ’em in without any great trouble.”
“I wonder where Hodge is,” speculated Merry. “I wonder if they have killed him.”
This possibility so aroused Frank that he was determined to seek Bart without delay. Curry was opposed to this; but Frank had his way, and they stole off leaving Crowfoot and his newly chosen companions to continue their carousal. As they approached Bart’s cabin, there came from the window a sharp command for them to halt. Merry recognized the voice and uttered a cry of satisfaction.
“Hodge!” he called. “It is I—Frank.”
From within the cabin there was another cry of joy, and a moment later the door flew open and Hodge came running toward them.