Frank Merriwell's brother

“Take your dog away, sir! Take him away, or I’ll shoot him!”

A clear, boyish voice rang through the lobby of the hotel.

“Black” Ben Elrich, one of the best known sporting men and gamblers of the State, had just passed along the corridor, accompanied by two companions of his ilk and a huge, fierce-looking mastiff.

Dick Merriwell, running lightly into the corridor, had been stopped by the dog, which suddenly whirled on him and drove him back several steps, seeming on the point of leaping at the lad’s throat.

For some unknown reason the dog seemed to have taken a sudden dislike to the boy, and, as he growled and showed his teeth, he looked dangerous, indeed.

Immediately on being driven back by the dog, Dick had drawn a revolver, which he held ready for use. Elrich uttered an exclamation of astonishment and anger.

“Stop Rex, Dan!” he exclaimed. “Get hold of him, Tom! He’ll chew up the kid!”

“He won’t do that,” returned the boy instantly, “for I shall shoot him in his tracks if you don’t take care of him.”

The men accompanying Elrich leaped forward, one on either side of the dog, and grasped the huge animal by the collar. Barely had they seized him thus when the animal tried to make a spring at the throat of the boy, and it took their combined strength to hold him in check. “It’s a good thing for him that you grabbed him just when you did,” exclaimed the cool youngster. “I knew he was going to jump, and I’d sure shot him.”

“Why, confound you, kid!” growled Elrich, as the men pulled the dog back; “how dare you pull a revolver on my dog?”

“I’d pull a gun on your dog just as quick as I would on you,” returned Dick. “I don’t consider your dog much better than you, sir, though it’s right likely he is some.”

“That is my brother!” said Frank Merriwell to Berlin Carson.

“Well, he’s a hummer!” exclaimed the rancher’s son, in deep admiration.

“Let’s sift in and take part in that,” breathed Hodge eagerly.

“Wait,” advised Frank. “I want to see what that black-whiskered fellow will try to do, and I also wish to see how Dick handles himself.”

The big sporting man was angered by the words of the ready-tongued youngster, and he growled:

“You’re an insolent brat, and you need to be taught a lesson!”

“I scarcely think it would be to my advantage to have you for an instructor,” returned the lad. “Anything I’d learn of you would be an injury to me.”

Now, “Black” Elrich had killed his man, and was generally respected and feared by the dangerous element of the town, and it was a novel experience for him to have anybody fearlessly face him and talk to him in such a manner.

“I’d begin by wringing your neck!” he asserted. “It’s just what you deserve!”

“And I’d shoot you so full of holes that you’d make a first-class sieve, which would be just what you deserve,” retorted Dick Merriwell, his cheeks burning.

“If you were a man——”

“Don’t let that bother you, mister. I can take care of myself. Keep your hands out of sight, or I may think you’re reaching for a shooting-iron, in which case I shall not hesitate to break your elbow with a bullet.”

“Why, you don’t know how to handle such a toy as that!”

“Don’t I? Perhaps not, but I’ve had a few lessons from a man who is your master with any kind of a weapon.”

“Meaning you?” asked Carson of Merriwell.

“Meaning an old Indian by the name of Joe Crowfoot,” explained Frank, in a low tone. “Crowfoot taught him to shoot rifle, revolver, and bow and arrow, and he’s a credit to his tutor.”

“Well, you’re a mere kid, and you have no right to carry concealed weapons,” said Elrich.

“And you’re a mere ruffian, who has less right to carry concealed weapons,” flung back Dick. “I know you’ve got a gun on your hip, and I shall ask to have you searched if you make complaint against me.”

“That’s the stuff!” muttered Carson. “He’s sized up Black Elrich in a minute, and he’s bluffing the most dangerous man in Denver.”

The eyes of Bart Hodge glowed with satisfaction. Bart had never spoken a word of praise to Dick, but there was about the boy much that awakened his admiration.

“Where’s your father?” demanded the gambler, furiously. “I’ll call on him and see if he——”

“You’ll never call on him,” Dick declared, “for you’re not going in his direction. He’s up there.”

The boy pointed upward, and Black Ben thought he meant that his father was above in the hotel.

“What’s his name?” demanded the man. “I’ll go up to him at once.”

“Spare yourself the trouble, for it’s higher than you’ll ever get. He is dead.”

For a moment the man was taken aback, and then his fiery temper flamed up.

“You’re some runaway brat who thinks——”

“Stop!” exclaimed the lad. “That is the second time you have called me a brat, and I warn you not to do so again! I am not a brat, and I——”

At this point one of the men who had pulled the dog away stepped in by a side door and clutched the wrist of the boy, giving it a wrench and twisting the revolver away with his other hand.

It was done in a twinkling, and Black Elrich sprang forward. At the same moment Merriwell advanced, with his two companions at his heels.

But, before one of them could interfere, out through the same door strode a tall form that caught the man who had clutched Dick, grasped him by the neck, gave him a swing and a throw that flung him fifteen feet away, sprawling on the tiled floor of the corridor.

Behind this tall figure came another, about the shoulders of which was a dirty red blanket, perchance the most remarkable figure ever seen in the Hotel Metropole.

Both were Indians, but the first, almost six feet tall and straight as an arrow, was dressed in the garments of civilization. The other, however, must have attracted attention anywhere in Denver from his half-savage attire. The first was young and handsome; the second was old and wrinkled.

“Joe!” cried the boy, as he saw the old Indian.

“Ugh!” said Old Joe Crowfoot.

With a furious exclamation, Black Elrich started to whip out a revolver; but his wrist was clutched from behind by fingers that seemed like bands of steel, and he was held fast, while a quiet voice spoke in his ear:

“I wouldn’t try that trick, sir! You have been monkeying with my brother, and I shall have to call you to account if he is molested further.”

Elrich was trembling with the intensity of his rage.

“Let go!” he panted, as he looked round.

A pair of calm brown eyes looked into his with utter fearlessness, and Frank Merriwell spoke again:

“I shall not let go until you realize the folly of trying to do any shooting here. Two friends are with me, besides the two who have just interfered to protect my brother, and we can do some shooting when it is necessary.”

Elrich became cool at once.

“I see that you have the advantage, sir,” he said; “and I will not be foolish enough to draw. I give you the word of Ben Elrich, and my word is good, whatever else may be said about me.”

Instantly Frank released the wrist of the man.

“I accept your word of honor,” he said.

“But let me tell you,” said the baffled gambler, “that I’ll not forget what has happened here. You say that boy is your brother? Well, you had better take care of him.”

“I have an idea that, given a fair show, he can take care of himself. He proved quite able to do so until one of your friends caught him at a disadvantage by a trick. It took two men to get the best of a boy of thirteen, which is something I feel certain you will not be proud of.”

“Who are you?” demanded Elrich. “I may wish to see you again.”

“My name is Frank Merriwell, and you will find me right here at this hotel, for a day or two, at least.”

“Frank Merriwell!” muttered Black Ben, starting a trifle, and looking at Merry with added interest. “And this is your brother?”

“Exactly.”

Then the gambler turned and looked at Dick, as if fixing the features of the boy upon his memory, so that he would know the lad again, anywhere and under any circumstances.