Bang! bang! bang! sounded several sharp explosions of firearms out in the street.

“There’s some, right now!” muttered Greg, jumping up.  “Come along!”

Bang! bang! bang!

As they ran forward toward the door of the ice cream place the young men saw people fleeing in frantic haste along Main Street.

Five or six of these fugitives darted into the ice cream place.  As they did so, Chief of Police Simmons backed into the same doorway.  He had his revolver in his right hand, while he called back over his shoulder to the owner of the store: 

“Granby, telephone the station for my reserves.  The Indians and cowboys of the Wild West Show are on a rampage, and shooting up Gridley.  Tell Sergeant Cluny, from me, to bring the reserves on the run!”

Bang! bang! bang!

Up the street came a picturesque, dangerous looking group.  Three men in cowboy hats, flannel shirts and “chaps,” with revolver holsters dangling from their belts, and each with a pair of automatic revolvers in his hands, came along.  Just behind this trio were two indians, painted and wearing gaudy blankets.  The Indian were armed like the cowboys.  It was evident that all the members of the wild band were partially intoxicated.

Bang! bang! bang!

“Get back into the store, you young men!” ordered Chief Simmons crisply.  “These heathen are pie-eyed and they’ll shoot you up quicker than a flash!”

“Who, That lot of freaks?” demanded Tom contemptuously.  “Dick!  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 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.