Frank saw a gleaming spirit of evil in the eyes of the savage.
Whirling Bear meant to injure, perhaps to kill, Barney.
He intended to cast the Irish youth down upon his head, and the prospect
was that Barney's neck would be broken instantly.
Immediately Frank leaped forward.
As the Indian dashed Barney to the ground, Frank caught him and kept him
from falling on his head.
The Irish lad went down heavily, but he was not severely injured.
Whirling Bear gave a cry of anger when he saw what Merriwell had done,
and then rushed at Frank.
Frank dodged and tripped the Indian with the greatest skill, so that the
redskin was pitched forward on his face and stunned for the moment.
"If you will try the copper-skin a whirl, I'll back you for any amount,"
said Dan Carver, quietly.
Whirling Bear sat up, savagely glaring at the white boys.
"No can wrastle with two!" he growled. "One at time is 'nough. Why other
white boy do something?"
"I simply kept you from murdering my friend," said Frank. "You were
trying to break his neck, and I saw it."
Whirling Bear got up, looking disgusted.
"Sometime may get 'nother chance," he said, and then walked away, paying
no heed to the spectators who were calling for him to remain and settle
the match by seeing who could get the third fall.
"Begorra! it's a roight nate thrick he did whin he lifted me inther th'
air," confessed Barney. "Sorry a bit do Oi know how he did it at all, at
all!"
"I do not think I ever saw a throw made in that manner," confessed
Frank. "He went under you like an eel, and brought you up across his
back and over his shoulder."
"He is the champion wrestler of the Pueblos," declared a spectator. "I
did not fancy you would be able to throw him at all."
"You should be proud to say you broke even with him," declared another.
Frank felt a hand on his arm, and a voice said in his ear:
"The sun priests are resting. While they rest there will be a footrace,
the same as white men run. Will you enter. Swiftwing says you are a
great runner."
The speaker was a young Indian of evident intelligence.
Frank was willing and ready to take part in the footrace, and he
immediately accepted the invitation.
"I know I shall be pitted against Swiftwing," he thought, "and it is
liable to be the race of my life, for he can run like the wind. I will
beat him--or die!"
A straight course of nearly a quarter of a mile was prepared, and the
spectators ranged up on either side near the finish.
There were five starters, four of whom were Indians. Merriwell was the
only white persons who had been invited to take part.
The Indians were stripped for the race, as they had been in taking part
in other sports.
Frank brought out a pair of running shoes, and these he put on. He
removed his sweater and stripped down to a light, sleeveless undershirt.
As they stood side by side, Swiftwing spoke to Frank.
"Much depends on this race," he said--"much more than you can know. Beat
me, Merriwell, if you can. You will be sorry if you fail."
All this was very mysterious, but Frank returned:
"You may be sure I shall do my best to beat you."
A moment later a great shout went up from the spectators.
The runners had started, darting off from the scratch like so many deer.
Swiftwing started in a most astonishing manner, seeming to leap off at
full speed in a second.
Frank was not slow in starting, but he found the Indian had gained a
slight advantage at the outset.
It was a beautiful sight to see the five runners come speeding along the
track, heads up, breasts thrown forward, nostrils dilated and eyes
flashing.
Of them all, two persons seemed to fly over the ground with very little
exertion.
They were John Swiftwing and Frank Merriwell.
At Frank's side ran a tall Indian who was making great speed, but did
not seem as graceful as the white boy or the Indian in advance.
Although Swiftwing had gained an advantage at the start, he was not able
to widen the distance between himself and the white boy. Close behind
him he could hear the feet of Frank Merriwell.
And Frank? He was preparing for one mighty spurt at the last of the
race, feeling that he would surprise Swiftwind then.
The spectators cheered wildly, and some enthusiastic cowboys fired shots
into the air, yelling for the white boy to run faster and not let a
"copper-skin" beat him.
Far ahead at the end of the course Frank saw Inza Burrage watching their
approach. Near her stood an Indian who had just dismounted from the back
of a magnificent horse, which he was holding.
Inza waved her handkerchief.
Was it a signal to Frank? or was it meant for John Swiftwing?
"In either case," thought the white boy, "it is enough. I will win!"
He set his teeth and gave a great spurt that must have carried him into
the lead; but, at that moment something happened.
The tall Indian who had been racing at Frank's side thrust out a foot
and neatly tripped Merriwell up. This happened at the very moment when
the white boy started to spurt, and Frank was flung into the air and
hurled forward upon his head. His hands were thrust out to break his
fall, and he saved himself in a measure, but he was stunned and lay
motionless for some seconds.
With a gasp he sat up.
"Beaten!" he hoarsely grated--"beaten by a foul trick! I did not think
John Swiftwing would have anything to do with a plot of this sort!"
Then he saw something that caused his heart to give one mad leap and
stand still.
Swiftwing reached the end of the course. As he rushed over the line,
without pausing, he caught Inza Burrage about the waist, swung her into
the air, tossed her over his shoulder, and----
How was it done? An instant later the Indian was astride the horse which
the other Indian had been holding ready for him. He still held fast to
Inza. Frank heard her scream with sudden terror, and the cry was drowned
by a hoarse sound from Swiftwing. Like an arrow leaving the bow, the
horse, bearing its double burden, shot away.