Greg! Indians are the specialty of the Army. You go after the
redskins, while Harry and I tame these bad men!"

Like a flash, ere Chief Simmons could interfere, the four young
men were off. Straight up to the "raiders" dashed the former
High School boys.

One of the Indians wheeled, firing a fusillade just over Prescott's
head.

"Oh, stop that noise!" ordered Dick dryly.

Before the Indian could guess it, Prescott had leaped in, had
grabbed the redskin by a famous old Gridley football tackle and
had sent the rampaging Indian to the ground Greg, equally reckless,
floored the other Indian and sat on his chest.

Tom Reade made a bolt for the fiercest-looking cowboy.

"Stop spoiling the pure air on a hot day, and give me those guns!"
commanded Reade, going straight at the fellow.

The big cowboy wheeled, aiming both weapons at Reade.

"Get back!" ordered the shooter. "If ye don't I'll pump ye full
of hole-makers! I'm bad! I'm a wolf, and this is my day to howl.
I'm a wolf---d'ye catch that, partners?"

"Then back to the menagerie for yours!" muttered Reade dryly.
"And first of all fork those guns over. You're making the air