Pom! pom! pom!

“Pwhat’s that?” grunted Barney Mulloy, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Pom! pom! pom!

“Come in, und stop dot knockin’ der door on!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust from beneath an Indian blanket.

“That ain’t nobody knockin’,” declared Ephraim Gallup, with a yawn. “It saounds like——”

Pom-per-pom! pom-per-pom! pom-per-pom!

“Thunder!” snorted the Vermonter, sitting up and giving his blanket a fling. “Where be we, anyhaow?”

“I don’d told you!” exclaimed Hans, in sudden alarm. “You explain dot to mineself!”

“Here!” came from beneath another blanket that was spread on the floor; “what are you chaps raking such a mow about—I mean making such a row about?”

Then Harry lifted his head and peered around in the semi-darkness.

In all directions heads were lifted, and the voice of Bruce Browning growled:

“Talk about your hard beds! I have stopped in all sorts of hotels, but I never struck a bed like this before! What sort of a ranch is this, anyhow?”

Pom-pom! pom-pom! pom-pom!

“Heavens!” gurgled Diamond, popping bolt upright and holding his hands over his ears. “What infernal noise is that?”

Then all the boys sat up, staring at each other questioningly.

“Where is Frank?”

“He’s not here!”

Merriwell was gone, but his blanket was rolled in the corner where he had been sleeping.

By this time the boys began to realize where they were.

“We are at the Pueblo,” said Hodge. “We arrived here last night, and it must be morning. That sound is the beating of a drum, which means the exercises of the day have begun.”

Then there was a hustling, and every one, with the exception of Browning, moved in a hurry. Browning would not have hurried if the adobe hut had been falling down about his ears.

The blanket which served as a door was flung back, and it was seen that the sun was just peeping over the eastern mountains, shooting lances of golden light toward the zenith.

Already the world at the Pueblo of Taos was astir and mass was being said in the little whitewashed chapel, at the door of which stood an idiot boy, who, now and then, pounded spasmodically on a drum. This drumming was answered in a similar manner by another drummer, who stood on the highest terrace of the higher of the two community buildings.

These buildings were made of sundried mud, from a distance looking like two great pyramids. On a nearer approach, it could be seen they were built in terraces, like steps for a mountain-tall giant, each terrace being a story. One was six stories in height, and the other was four.

There were no doors, and the entrances were through the tops of the terraces, which were reached by ladders.

In those two buildings three hundred Pueblo Indians lived.

On the plain near the buildings spectators were already gathering, and the boys were surprised to see they were nearly all white men.

“Merry has stolen a march on us!” cried Hodge. “There he is with Inza now! He got up without awakening us, the rascal!”

“I’m glad he did,” yawned Browning. “I could sleep ten hours longer.”

“Well, you’d better do it!” came from Diamond. “Pretty soon you’ll want to sleep all the time.”

Indeed, Frank had arisen at the first hint of coming day and gone forth from the hut.

A little later, as day was breaking, Inza arose and saw him, whereupon she lost little time in preparing to come out and join him.

Frank and Inza had walked out toward a distant encampment, the picturesque tepees being of great interest to them. On their way they met a man who was strolling about with his hands in his pockets, seemingly enjoying the morning air. A silk hat was set upon the back of his head.

It was Dan Carver.

“Good-morning,” said Carver, lifting his hat. “We meet again.”

Inza was impulsive.

“Oh, Mr. Carver!” she exclaimed; “I want to thank you.”

The man looked surprised.

“What for?” he asked.

“Frank—er—Mr. Merriwell says you would have protected me from that horrid Indian at the station yesterday, and he says you were determined to shoot the Indian afterward, but refrained because you did not care to shock ladies.”

“Mr. Merriwell is very kind to put it that way,” said Dan Carver.

“I was so agitated that I could not tell what was taking place. I am sure you were very kind.”

“In not shooting the Injun? Yes, I reckon I was. Ordinarily I’d filled him full of lead. That’s the only way to let the devilment out of them dogs.”

“Oh, but it is awful!” exclaimed the girl. “I suppose there are some real bad Indians.”

“Some! Well, I should warble! Excuse me, miss. They are all bad—every one of them!”

Inza shook her head.

“No! no!” she cried. “I know you are mistaken! There are some good Indians.”

“They’re all dead ones.”

“I can’t think so, sir.”

“That’s because you don’t know ’em, miss. If you had seen the things I have—— Well, you wouldn’t think there could be such a thing as a good Injun alive.”

Still the girl could not be convinced.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “you saw the one who saved me from the drunken fellow. He was an Indian.”

“Yes.”

“Surely he is a good Indian.”

“You may think so.”

“I know it!” she cried, her cheeks beginning to glow, as she warmed to the defense of her red champion. “He showed it in his face. Mr. Merriwell knows him. He has been East to the Indian school at Carlisle, and he is educated. He had the manners of a gentleman, and I believe he has a true and good heart.”

“That shows how little you Eastern people know of Indians. All the education they may have will not make them anything but what they are—and that is bad all the way through.”

“I will not believe that, sir!”

Carver smiled.

“I do not expect you to believe it. Eastern people seldom do.”

“John Swiftwing has the making of a splendid man in him. He plays on the Carlisle football team, and Frank says he is one of their best players. He is like a tiger in a game.”

“I don’t doubt it. Football is a savage’s game at best, and it allows him to work off some of his savage traits. He goes into the struggle as he would go into a battle, and he rejoices in beating down and trampling on all who oppose him. His heart at such a time is a perfect inferno of fury, and, give him a deadly weapon, he would not hesitate to murder. With his bare hands he has little chance to kill. Oh, yes, football is a splendid game for savages!”

It was Merriwell’s turn to smile.

“Mr. Carver,” he said, quite calmly, “you are showing how very ignorant you are about football. It’s a man’s game, and only men of nerve, as well as skill and strength, can play it.”

Carver’s brow darkened for a moment and then cleared.

“It is natural you should think so,” he nodded. “You are a college football player. Never mind that; we’ll not discuss it. But it is certain that all the education John Swiftwing may receive will not change him from a savage. It may seem to make a change in his exterior, but inwardly he will remain the same. All efforts to educate and change him are wasted, as such efforts are wasted on all Indians.”

By this time Inza was so aroused that she was growing angry, and she could not hold herself in check.

“You couldn’t make me believe that if you were to talk forever!” she cried. “I am sure there is as much difference between Indians as there is between white men. John Swiftwing is a noble fellow, and I know it—so there!”

Carver bowed, again lifting his silk hat.

“‘A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still’,” he said.

“But I’m not convinced.”

“Then I shall not try to convince you, miss; but I do wish to warn you to keep away from that gang out there.”

He motioned toward the distant tepees, where figures could be seen moving about and blue smoke was rising.

“Those are Apaches,” he said; “the worst Indians on the face of God’s footstool. They are utterly without conscience or anything else that is not vile, and it might not be safe for you to approach too near them, even though they are supposed to be quite peaceable just now.”

“How do they happen to be here?” asked Frank.

“They have come to trade baskets, buckskin shirts, moccasins, almost anything, for liquor. It is probable there will be two thousand visitors there to-day, and the Apaches will get all the rum they want. To-morrow they may start out murdering and torturing.”

Inza shuddered.

“It seems to me that the white men are to blame for letting them have liquor,” she said.

“Perhaps so, but you know there are fools and rascals among the white men. Remember my warning; keep away from the Apache camp. Good-morning.”

Again lifting his hat, he walked onward.