Before the Indian could guess it, Prescott had leaped in, had grabbed the redskin by a famous old Gridley football tackle and had sent the rampaging Indian to the ground Greg, equally reckless, floored the other Indian and sat on his chest.
Tom Reade made a bolt for the fiercest-looking cowboy.
"Stop spoiling the pure air on a hot day, and give me those guns!" commanded Reade, going straight at the fellow.
The big cowboy wheeled, aiming both weapons at Reade.
"Get back!" ordered the shooter. "If ye don't I'll pump ye full of hole-makers! I'm bad! I'm a wolf, and this is my day to howl. I'm a wolf—-d'ye catch that, partners?"
"Then back to the menagerie for yours!" muttered Reade dryly. "And first of all fork those guns over. You're making the air smell of sulphur."
"Get back! I'm bad, I tell ye!"
"You, bad; you cheap Piute from Rhode Island!" sniffed Tom contemptuously.
Reaching forward, quick as a flash, Reade twisted a revolver from the fellow's left hand.
"Now, pass me the other," continued Tom. "If you don't I'll wring that wooden head of yours from your neck! I'm coming, now!"