Instantly there were several puffs of white smoke from beyond the distant rocks and Frank pitched forward upon his face.
At the same moment Macklyn Morgan made a spring and dropped behind a little pile of bowlders, where he was fully protected from the defenders of the valley.
Apparently Frank had been treacherously shot down in cold blood while under the flag of truce.
The watchers of the defense were horrified as they saw Frank fall. Dick uttered a savage cry and would have rushed out from behind the rocks had he not been seized by Brad Buckhart.
“Steady, pard—steady!” warned the Texan, finding it difficult to detain young Merriwell.
“Let go!” panted Dick. “Don’t you see! My brother! The dastardly wretches have shot him!”
“And do you propose to prance out there and let them shoot you up, too? Do you propose to let these measly galoots wipe out the Merriwell family in a bunch? Cool down, pard, and have some sense.”
Bart Hodge had been no less excited than Dick, and nothing could have prevented him from rushing forth to Frank had he not suddenly made a discovery as he sprang up. His eyes were on his chum of school and college days, and he saw Frank quickly roll over and over until he lay close against a bowlder, where he would be protected in case the enemy fired again. Then, as he lay thus, Merry lifted the hand that still clutched the white handkerchief and waved it in a signal to his friends.
Hodge was shaking in every limb.
“He is not killed!” he exclaimed.