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 smell of sulphur." "Get back! I'm bad, I tell ye!" "You, bad; you cheap Piute from Rhode Island!" sniffed Tom contemptuously.
Reaching forward, quick as a flash, Reade twisted a revolver from the fellow's left hand.
"Now, pass me the other," continued Tom.

"If you don't I'll wring that wooden head of yours from your neck! I'm coming, now!" Having tossed the captured revolver in the street behind him, Reade made a sudden leap at the "bad wolf." "Hold on!" cried the fellow sheepishly.

"Don't get excited.
Here it is; take it!" Seeing how readily their companion had surrendered, the other two headed Hazelton's demand for their weapons.
From the doorway Chief Simmons had looked on at this brief, bloodless battle like one dazed.
From up and down Main street at respectful distances, crowds of Gridleyites gazed in stupefied wonder.
"Come on out, Chief, and talk to these naughty boys!" called Tom good-humoredly.