It made no difference what he hit; the fat boy was too blind with rage to see. He must hit something! If a tree had lain in his path he would have started in on that. As luck would have it, however, the thing that was nearest to him was a yearling—Baby Edwards.
Baby could have been no more frightened if he had seen an express train charging on him. He turned instantly and fled—where else would he flee but to his idol Bull? He hid behind that worthy; Bull put up his hands to defend himself; and the next instant Indian's flying arms reached the spot.
One savage blow on the nose sent Bull tumbling backward—over Baby. Indian, of course, could not stop and so did a somersault over the two.
There was a pretty mêlée after that. Baby was the first to emerge, covered with dirt and bruises. Indian got up second; he gazed about him, his rage still burning; he gave one snort, shook his head clear of the soil as an angry bull might; and then made another savage rush at Baby. Baby this time had no friend to hide behind; Harris was lying on the ground, face down, as a man might do to protect himself in a cyclone. And so Baby had no resource but flight; he took to his heels, the enraged plebe a few feet behind; and in half a minute more the pair were lost to sight and sound, far distant in the woods, Indian still pursuing.
It might be pleasant to follow them, for Indian in his rage was a sight to divert the gods. But there was plenty more happening at the scene of the fire, things that ought not be missed.
In the first place, who were the two new arrivals? It was evident that they were plebes—their faces were familiar to the cadets. But beyond that no one knew anything about them. They had freed their helpless classmate and saved him from serious injury, as has been told. They had done one thing more that has not been mentioned yet. One of them, the smaller, just after Indian had broken loose, had reached over and dealt the nearest yearling he could reach a ringing blow upon the cheek.
"Take that!" said he. "Bah Jove, you're a cur."
There was another mêlée after that.
Of course the setting fire to Indian had been a pure accident; but the two strangers did not know it. They saw in the whole thing a piece of diabolical cruelty. The yearling the wrath chanced to fall upon was Gus Murray—and his anger is left to the imagination. He sprang at the throat of the reckless plebe; and the rest of the crowd rushed to his aid, pausing just for an instant to size up the pair.
They did not seem "to be any great shucks." The taller was a big slouchy-looking chap in clothes that evidently bespoke the farmer, and possessing a drawl which quite as clearly indicated the situation of the farm—the prairies. Having cut Indian loose he was lounging lazily against the tree and regarding his more excitable companion with a good-natured grin.