Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Support; Or, A Triple Play онлайн

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Hazen was frothing. Derring struggled up and reached for his hip.

“Look out!” cried Hodge.

Frank was on the alert. He leaped on Derring, twisted his hand from his hip, jerked out the revolver himself, and sent the weapon flying across the street.

“Some of you Western people are extremely careless with your shooting-irons,” he observed. “Come on, fellows.”

Then, accompanied by his friends, he walked away.

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Dick Merriwell did arrive in Omaha the following morning, and he brought Old Joe Crowfoot with him. The old redskin was looking thin and weak, and the expression of his wrinkled face was as inscrutable as ever.

“How!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand to Merriwell, as Frank met them at the station.

“How are you, Crowfoot?” exclaimed Merry.

“Heap better,” was the answer.

“That is good. Has the wound healed?”

“Some.”

“Are you strong?”

“Not yet; get so heap soon.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you. I took pains to have everything done for your comfort and to aid in bringing you round as soon as possible.”