“Zey will not hurry one leetle bit. Zey are veree slow, veree slow, monsieur.”
Henderson flung himself away with a torrent of oaths.
“Make ’em work!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “If there ain’t more done when I come back next time—look out! I’m holdin’ yuh responsible, La Lond. Get busy!”
Baptiste proceeded to get busy with a vengeance. Smarting under the rebuke, he advanced savagely upon his unsuspecting workmen, brandishing his gun. Before his furious advance, three of the Indians scrambled back to their buckets in alarm. The fourth, Dick observed, was not so easily frightened. He stood his ground calmly, drew himself to his full height and folded his arms. Dick’s heart beat with admiration—but only for a moment; for La Lond’s hand went back, revolver clubbed, then forward with a sickening thud.
The blow had caught the Indian squarely on the side of the head, knocking him flat. At sight of such inexcusable brutality, something within Dick seemed to snap. Leaping across the space that separated him from the outlaw, he struck out with all the force of his right arm. Baptiste sat down with a grunt.
He was still sitting there when Henderson, drawn by the commotion and the loud screech from Sandy, came hurrying up.
“What’s wrong here?” he thundered.
Baptiste was too dazed just then to make a very satisfactory reply. Holding his chin in his hands, he mumbled incoherently. Dick looked up squarely into the eyes of Henderson.
“I struck Baptiste myself,” he acknowledged.
“What fer?”