"No—no!" yelled Griffin.
"If ye don't tell us to onct, ye'll be the sorriest-lookin' Injun what ever hit this part o' the state!" Tom Smull shook his fist. "I asks ye ag'in, will ye tell us whar that gold mine is?"
"No!"
Wanatoma's stern voice vibrated with decision.
"Ye won't, hey?" snarled Tom Smull. "Ye'll be changin' yer mind purty quick, I'm a-thinkin', Injun!"
"An' that's whar ye're right, Tom!" yelled Griffin. "We'll see! If soft chatter don't bring him, somethin' else will!"
Forgetting caution, in his rage and disappointment, and hoping to frighten the Indian by strenuous methods, the lumberman sprang forward. Wanatoma, calm and unflinching, faced him.
A great dusky form suddenly rose high from the ground, while a deep-toned bay sent the astonished men falling back in a panic. Alf Griffin had a glimpse of a pair of savage eyes and an open mouth, but his wild howl of terror was stifled, as a crushing weight thudded against his chest.
He went flying over backward, rolled into a mass of brush, and, next instant, the Great Dane, snarling savagely, was standing over his prostrate form. Griffin, too terrified to move, felt a hot breath fan his cheek, and gave a smothered yell for help. He was convinced that his last moment had come.
The lumbermen stood motionless, none daring to approach the infuriated dog. Smull flashed a weapon.