Mr. Lewis was soon joined by Mr. Holton and Karl Sutman. Like a flash the three grasped the meaning of the scuffle and rushed to the aid of the chums.
They dived headlong into the furious mob, using their fists to great advantage. One big fellow Mr. Lewis knocked flat on his back in a daze.
“Here, take my camera,” directed Bob, speaking to Karl. “Run as fast as you can back to camp. I want to take a lick at some of these beggars.”
Karl did as asked and dashed out of the mob for the tents. The last Bob saw of him he was rounding a bend and heading toward the monoplane.
Then Bob faced the man who had grabbed his camera.
“Take that!” the youth snarled, sending the Indian crashing to the ground.
The other natives, seeing that they were unable to hold their own against these whites, took to their heels and disappeared in the distance, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
“Well, we licked them.” Mr. Lewis was panting for breath. His face was red from fatigue, his clothes torn and wrinkled.
And the others were no better off. They had put up a game fight, determined to drive away their enemies.
“What was their motive for attacking you?” inquired Mr. Holton, wiping his face with his handkerchief.