The herd of cattle which Ted and the broncho boys were herding in No Man's Land he had branded Circle S, named after Stella.
There were more than two thousand head of them, which Ted was feeding on the rich range grasses of the Southwest to drive to the Moon Valley Ranch to winter, for it was well known to cowmen that a Southern or Southwestern beef animal will do better for a winter on the Northern range.
After Stella's disappearance Ted and the boys searched every nook and cranny of the town of Snyder, but were unable to get the slightest trace of her. Dividing into bands, they scoured the country roundabout, being assisted by the cow-punchers and the ranchers in the neighborhood.
But Stella had disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. With all his ingenuity, backed by the strong desire he had to find her, Ted was making no headway, and he hardly slept or ate during the long days and nights, but was in the saddle almost continuously.
Naturally, he suspected Shan Rhue of knowing something about Stella's absence, if, indeed, he was not actually responsible for it.
But he could not fasten anything on the man whom he had come to regard as his greatest enemy, and whom he knew hated him. Whenever he sought Shan Rhue, he was always to be found at his haunts.
Tired of the inaction, Ted met Shan Rhue on the street one day, and resolved to have it out with him.
"Shan Rhue, I want to speak with you," said Ted, stopping him.
"Well, what is it you want?" asked Shan Rhue.
"I want you to tell me where Stella is," said Ted.
Shan Rhue stared at him in apparent amazement.
"How should I know where she is?" asked Shan Rhue, with a wicked twinkling in his eye.
"I don't know," answered Ted; "but I think you do know."
"So I supposed, from the way in which you have had me followed. I suppose you miss her a good deal."
"Her aunt, Mrs. Graham, is distraught with grief and anxiety. Surely you have no fight on her, or on Miss Fosdick, either, that you should keep them apart."
"No. I have no fight with a woman. But why should I know where the young lady is?"
"There are several reasons why you should have had her taken away. But I think the principal reason is that you think you can get square with me by doing so."
"There might be something in that. Mind me, I am not confessing that I took her away, or that I know who did take her away, or where she is. You have seen me in town every day since the little trouble we had over that old thief Norris, haven't you?"
"Yes, but that tells me nothing. It might not be necessary for you to leave this town to have her hidden somewhere."
"But you and your friends searched the town from one end to the other, and you did not find her."
"True, but for all that I am satisfied that you know where she is. Suppose we call it off, and that you tell me where she is."
"If I knew, I would not tell you," said Shan Rhue, his voice intense with hatred.
"What do you mean? Are you such a coward that you will punish a woman for your spite against a man? I did not think that of you. I believe Stella Fosdick was carried off by you, of your men, acting under your instructions."
Shan Rhue's only reply was a sneering laugh.
"If I discover that what I say is true," said Ted, in a low voice so full of purpose that it was in itself a warning, "you will be the sorriest man in all this country. I will make you suffer by it even as you have caused suffering to others."
"So you have suffered, eh? That is good! Now I am a little better satisfied. But my debt to you is not yet paid. There are other things in store for you."
"What do you mean, you dog? By Heaven, I know now that you did cause her abduction, and I shall find her. You cannot keep me away from the place in which you have hidden her. I shall find her if she is at the end of the earth. When I do find her, if anything has harmed her, you, Shan Rhue, gambler, thief, and murderer, shall pay for it, and pay heavier than for any amusement you have had in all your miserable lying, thieving career."
As the epithets addressed to Shan Rhue left Ted's lips, the bully sprang back, and made a motion to draw his six-shooter.
But before he had his hand on his hip his eyes were looking into the bore of Ted's forty-four. Instead of drawing a gun, therefore, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his dry lips.
Shan Rhue feared Ted Strong.
"Remember," said Ted, before turning away, "I know that you have spirited Stella Fosdick away. But I shall find her, and when I am sure of it you better leave the country before I reach the place where you are, for as sure as I am standing here I will make my previous experience with you so tame that you will be glad to crawl in the dust on your face to be forgiven."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Shan Rhue. "So it hurts as bad as that, eh? Good!"
He went away laughing, and it was all Ted could do to control himself, and keep from leaping upon him and punching him. Instead, he jumped into his saddle and rode Sultan like the wind out to the cow camp.
For several days he had paid no attention to the herd, leaving it under the general direction of Bud, while he stayed in town trying to hear some news of Stella, or was riding all over the country with one or another of the boys, searching for her.
As he rode into camp with disappointment and dejection written on his face, he was met by Mrs. Graham, who had grown pale and wan with anxiety.
"Any news of her?" she asked Ted.
"None, but I haven't given up hope by any means. Don't worry so, Mrs. Graham. I think I am on the track at last, and that we shall soon have her with us again."
But Mrs. Graham only walked away with the tears coursing down her cheeks. The herd was grazing to the west of the camp, and Ted rode out to it, and to where Bud was sitting quietly in his saddle watching it.
There was an air of dejection about Bud, also. Indeed, every fellow in the outfit was secretly worrying and grieving for Stella.
"Say, Ted," said Bud, as Ted rode up, "I think thar's somethin' wrong with ther dogies."
Cow-punchers call the small Southwestern cattle "dogies."
"What do you mean?" asked Ted. "I was looking them over this morning. Rode through the bunch. They seemed to be all right then."
"Oh, they're eatin' well, an' aire as likely a lot o' beef ez ever I see," replied Bud.
"Well, what then?"
"Thar ain't so many o' them ez there wuz, er my eye hez gone back on me."
"Any of them get away?"
"I figger it so."
"What have you found out?"
"Some one is liftin' our cattle. That's what I mean."
"Great Scott! What makes you think so?"
"Ted, ther herd has shrunk."
"You judge by the eye, I suppose."
"Yes. That is the only way I have o' judgin'. We hev never had a count o' them since we drove them onto this range."
"How many do you think we are shy?"
"My eye tells me erbout five hundred."
"Great guns! How could five hundred head get away from us? And right under our noses, too."
"Easy enough. You must remember that since Stella has been gone we've paid no more attention to the herd than if we didn't own them."
"That's true. As for myself, I confess that I've given them no attention. And I've kept you fellows so busy that we've left the cattle to take care of themselves, almost."
"Well, it's time we woke up ter ther situation, er soon we won't hev no more cattle than a rabbit."
"That's so. We'll run a count of them in the morning."
"It's shore got me puzzled. I can't think whar they could hev gone."
"Strayed, possibly."
"P'r'aps. Ever hear o' there bein' any rustlers in this part o' ther country?"
"No, I never have. But there are some pretty bad citizens in this section, who, if they never have rustled cattle, certainly are capable of it."
"Alludin' to who?"
"Well, there's Shan Rhue and his gang, for instance."
"They're pretty bad actors, fer shore. But I ain't positive thet they're ther kind what would rustle. They're jest plain town thieves an' gamblers. They ain't cow-punchers. It gen'rally is fellers what has been in ther cow business at some time er another what rustles stock."
"Oh, it doesn't take much of a man to steal cattle. A thieving gambler could do it as well as another."
"But our brand and ear crop? They shore couldn't get away from them."
"They're not so hard, Bud. A good man could run our stock out of this part of the country and alter the brand without any trouble."
"Shore, ther brand is not so hard to alter."
"Let's ride back to camp and look at the brand book, and see if any one has a similar brand to ours, or one that they could alter without trouble. But, remember, I'm not going to give myself any uneasiness in the matter, and I think we will find the herd all there. I can't see how so many cattle as you think could get away from us."
"I do."
"In what manner could they?"
"Well, yer see, thar ain't ary o' us fellers been ridin' herd at night since Stella was taken away."
"Yes; go on."
"Ther fellers what hev been guardin' ther herd at night we picked up around here when we drove ther herd up from ther South."
"True. They were all local cow-punchers. I realize that we have made a mistake. One of us ought to have had charge of every night watch since we have been on this range."
"Shore. It's a cinch they wouldn't attempt to run 'em off in ther daytime."
"That's the idea. It would be as easy as shooting fish in a rain barrel for a crooked night foreman to drift a few cattle away from the herd in the dark, to be picked up by fellows waiting on the outside, and driven into the hills until the brands and marks could be changed."
They were at the camp now, and Ted got out the brand book and turned its leaves over in an attempt to find a brand similar to their own, the Circle S, which was a circle with the letter S in the center.
In every Western State or Territory in which cattle-raising is a business the law makes it imperative that every ranchman who uses the open range shall select a brand for his cattle which is registered. This brand is his own, and every head of cattle found with his brand on it belongs to him.
On the open range the cattle get mixed more or less, and in the spring there is a general round-up of the cattle, after the calves have been born and are following their mothers.
The cow-punchers go into the vast herds and drive out the calves. Of course, the mother follows the calf, lowing piteously for it.
When the cow is out with the calf, it can be plainly seen to whom she belongs by the brand on her. Her owner, or his men or representatives, promptly throw her and the calf into their own herd, and later put their brand on the calf.
Calves which are motherless and are unbranded are known as mavericks, and belong to whoever finds them. The cowman who finds a maverick promptly puts his own brand on it and it belongs to him.
The safety of the system is in choosing a brand that cannot be easily altered, and which will not be easily confounded with the brand of another.
When the boys had chosen the brand Circle S for this herd in honor of Stella, they had spoken of this, and Bud had remarked that it would be easily altered by making an eight of the S, but they had found no Circle 8 in the brand book, and took the chance, especially as Stella now insisted upon having no other brand for the herd than Circle S, her "own brand," as she called it.
Ted and Bud could find no brand in the Texas or Oklahoma brand books at all like theirs, and dismissed the matter from their minds.
The next morning early all hands turned out for a count of the herd. The herd was split, and the broncho boys took turns at the count, as the bunches of cattle were split and driven slowly past them on the point.
From the books, there should be two thousand three hundred cattle, or thereabouts, in the herd. A few cattle more or less would not have been surprising, for a great herd of cattle will, like a magnet, draw to it all the individual strays in the country roundabout.
It was well in the afternoon before the count was finished, and the boys rode into camp to count up and compare with the books. Ted totaled the figures, while the boys hung eagerly over him to learn the result.
"Well, what d'yer make it?" asked Bud, as Ted, with an expression of perplexity on his face, looked up from his work.
"The count is seventeen hundred and fifty," answered Ted slowly.
"Gee! And that's how many shy?"
"Five hundred and fifty. Bud, you have a good eye."
"Orter hev. I've been runnin' my eye over herds fer many a year. So, we've been done out o' more'n five hundred head, eh? Well, Stella comes fust, an' then ther man what thinks he kin rustle cattle from the broncho boys had better take a runnin' jump outer this man's country."
Little Dick Fosdick had been forgotten by Ted and the broncho boys in their anxiety over the absence of Stella.
They had seen him around the camp, but as it was impossible for him to accompany them on their hard rides, he had been left to his own devices.
He spent his days riding with one of the cowboys on the herd, and grieving in his own way for Stella.
He was a sensible little chap, and seldom complained at his loneliness. His life alone had made him patient, and he took it out in thinking.
He was now well able to take care of himself, although Stella insisted in "mothering" him when she was in camp.
Little Dick, as most of the boys called him, felt himself quite a man, for he could now catch his own pony and saddle it whenever he wanted to ride, and no one paid any attention to him as he came and went.
Ted had bought for him a little, wiry bay cayuse, and both he and Stella had taught him to ride, and Dick could now throw a rope with reasonable accuracy and speed.
Ted had given him a small revolver, and they had had great fun learning to shoot at a target, which was usually a bleached skull of a cow that had died long since on the prairie, and its bones picked clean by the coyotes.
Dick's revolver was only of thirty-two caliber, as befitted his strength, but the youngster had a good eye and the steady nerves of youth, and he soon got so that he could hit the skull with reasonable accuracy.
"Putting the shot through the eye" was one of the jokes of these shooting tournaments, in which Stella, and sometimes Bud, joined.
One day when they were shooting at a skull target, Bud missed—probably intentionally, for Bud was a crack shot.
Dick jumped up and down in glee, for he had just knocked a chip of bone from the skull himself.
"Bud missed! Bud missed!" he shouted, in glee. "Bud, you're an old tenderfoot. Couldn't hit a skull as big as the head of a barrel a hundred feet away."
"Didn't miss, neither," said Bud, in a tone of mock anger. "There's where you're fooled. That is what I call a good shot. See that left eye hole? Well, I aimed at that, and the bullet went through it. Ha! That's where the joke is on you." He grinned, and winked at Stella.
A few minutes later Dick shot and missed the skull.
"Yah!" shouted Bud. "Goody! You missed. You shoot like a hayseed. Couldn't hit a skull as big as the head of a barrel."
"That's where you're left," said the boy. "See that right eye hole? That's what I aimed at."
The laugh was on Bud.
"All right, kiddie," he laughed. "You're on. We'd be in a dickens of a fix if that ole cow hadn't left two eye holes when she died."
So it was that Dick had made great progress in the rudiments of a cow-puncher's life, and it exactly suited him, but, in the meanwhile, Stella was teaching him to read, and telling him the story of the rise and grandeur of his own country, and of the lands that lay beyond the seas.
So it was that Dick was unconsciously getting a better education than if he had gone to school, for he had a mind for the absorption of all sorts of knowledge like a sponge, and once a thing was told him he never forgot it.
The morning of the count he had started onto the range with the other boys, but as there would be great confusion, and perhaps danger of a stampede, Ted sent him back to camp.
"Run on back, Dick," Ted said kindly. "I'm afraid that pony of yours isn't quick enough to get out of the way if these dogies should take it into their heads to act ugly."
Dick never thought of rebelling when Ted spoke, for he knew that Ted was boss, and that he knew what was good for him.
"All right, Ted," he said. "Would it be any harm if I took a ride away from the camp?"
"Of course not, Dick," answered Ted kindly. He felt a little sore at himself for sending the boy away, but he knew that it was for the best. There would be plenty of time and many occasions for Dick to run into danger when he grew up.
Dick went back to camp, which was deserted save for Bill McCall, the cook, who was asleep under the chuck wagon, and Mrs. Graham, who was lying down in her tent.
Dick buckled on his belt and holster, and, mounting his pony Spraddle, set out for a long ride across the prairie.
In the boot of his saddle rested his little Remington, a present from Stella. He was going to look for an antelope, and he thought how proud Ted would be if he brought one back with him.
He knew how hard it was to get close enough to an antelope to shoot it, but he had just enough gameness to think that he could get one if he came within range of it.
Anyhow, there were coyotes and jack rabbits.
He rode across the prairie at a smart gallop, occasionally changing his course to chase a jack rabbit, which generally disappeared over a rise in the ground like a streak of gray dust, and was seen no more.
At noon he stopped for a few minutes to eat the biscuit and piece of bacon which he had taken from the rear of the chuck wagon before setting forth. He found a spring not far away, and, having given Spraddle a good, deep drink, and filling his small canteen, which was tied to the cantle of his saddle, he set forth again.
It was about two o'clock when he came in sight of the first real game of the day. On the top of the rise ahead of him he saw an animal about the size of a dog. As he rode toward it, it raised its head and gave a long, low, mournful howl.
"Coyote," exclaimed Dick to himself breathlessly. "I'll get that fellow, and take him back to camp. Won't Ted be surprised when he sees it?"
He took his Remington out of the boot, slipped in the necessary cartridges to fill the magazine, and rode forward slowly and cautiously.
The coyote watched him sharply, occasionally raising its head to utter its mournful cry. When Dick thought he had got within shooting distance, he stopped Spraddle, took a good, long aim at the coyote, and fired.
The ball kicked up the dust several feet in advance of the coyote, which, with another howl, this time one of derision, as it seemed to Dick, turned and trotted away.
"That was a bum shot," muttered Dick. "I'm glad Ted or Stella did not see it. Better luck next time."
The coyote ran a short distance, then stopped and looked over its shoulder to see if Dick was following, and, seeing that he was, took up its lope again.
It had got some distance from Dick, when, on the top of another rise, it stopped again, and Dick heard once more its luring cry.
It seemed to be an invitation to follow him. Dick had not paid any attention to the direction in which he was going, and had kept no track of time.
That he was following game, and that he intended to get it if it took all day, was all he thought of. Soon the coyote stopped again, and looked at Dick in a tantalizing sort of way, and again Dick approached it cautiously.
When he thought he was within range, he raised his Remington, and, taking a long, deliberate aim, fired. Again he missed. But he had the satisfaction of seeing that the ball had struck the earth several feet nearer the coyote than the first.
The coyote realized it, too, for he did not wait for another invitation, but started on his way in a hurry, with Dick riding pell-mell after him.
Dick for the first time realized that the day was going when he noticed the long shadow cast by himself and the pony on the prairie sod. He had not the slightest idea how far he had come, and there crept into his mind a sort of dread.
He pulled Spraddle down to a walk, and looked about him. Behind him there was no trace of the cow camp, nothing but the everlasting rise and fall of the prairie.
But ahead was the ragged line of the blue mountains. These he knew to be the Wichita Mountains, for, although he had never seen them before, he had heard the boys talking about them in camp.
Then he saw the coyote on a hill a little ways ahead, looking at him in the most aggravating way. The coyote's lips were curled back from his teeth in a contemptuous sort of a smile, it seemed to Dick, and as he started forward again the coyote threw up its head and actually laughed at him.
That settled it with Dick. No coyote that ever trotted the plains could laugh at him, but as this thought came to him he felt the dread of being lost on the prairie, or even having to stay alone in this waste all night.
Dick had heard the boys talk of the danger of being alone at night, for there were wolves and other animals that would daunt a man, to say nothing of a small boy.
He thought he would follow the coyote only long enough to get another shot at him, and then retrace his way back to the camp. By putting Spraddle through his paces he ought to be able to reach it before dark.
So he set forth again in the wake of the coyote, which was becoming more and more aggravating every minute. Suddenly the coyote disappeared altogether. It had done this before when it had gone down into the trough between two of the great, rolling swales of the prairie, but always it had come into sight again in a few minutes.
This time, however, it did not, and Dick wondered why.
In a few minutes he understood why, for he found himself at the edge of a coulee which had been washed deep by the storms of many winters.
Dick looked up and down the coulee for the wolf, and saw a form, gray and lithe, slinking among the bowlders with which it was filled. Dick forced Spraddle down the steep bank of the coulee, and was soon at the bottom.
Hastily he set after the coyote, but suddenly stopped, for a man stepped from behind a shoulder of rock and clay and caught his bridle.
Spraddle stopped so quickly that Dick was almost unseated. But he soon recovered himself, and stared in amazement at the man who had thus stopped him.
He was an Indian.
Dick had often seen Indians in the towns through which the broncho boys had passed, and occasionally they had come into the camps they had established on the drive of the herd up from Texas.
But this was the first time Dick had ever come in contact with an Indian when he was alone. For a moment his heart stopped beating, for he was afraid.
"How?" grunted the Indian.
It was all Dick could do to reply with a feeble, quavering "How?"
Many times around the camp fire, with the boys all about, when Bud was telling one of his tales of Indians, Dick had thought what he would do if he ever came in contact with a real, live, sure-enough redskin, and always he had thought how brave he would be. But now that he had actually met one, he felt his nerve ooze away.
However, the Indian was not aware of it, for Dick had a way of keeping his feelings to himself, and he seldom showed whether he was surprised or angry, although he never hesitated to let his friends know his pleasure at their kindness, or gratitude for what they did for him.
He was looking at the Indian steadily, taking stock of him, and this is what he saw: A broad, dirty face, in which burned two small, narrow eyes. The cheek bones were prominent, and on each one was a spot of red paint. The long, black, coarse hair was braided with pieces of otter fur, and covered with an old cavalry cap, in which was stuck a crow's wing feather, and around his neck hung a small, round pocket mirror attached to a red string, by way of ornament.
The Indian wore a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of brown overalls, and his feet were covered with green moccasins, decorated with small tubes of tin, which jingled every time he took a step.
A belt and holster hung at his hip, and the handle of a Colt forty-four was within easy reach.
"White papoose where go?" asked the Indian, showing a row of sharpened teeth.
"Hunt coyote," replied Dick, in a voice that trembled.
"Heap fool. No catch coyote," said the Indian, reaching over and lifting Dick's Remington from the saddle.
He sighted it, turned it around in his hand, and then coolly slung it over his shoulder.
"Here, give that to me," said Dick sturdily. With this act of theft all his courage came back to him. No dirty Indian should have the rifle Stella had given him.
But the Indian only grinned.
"Me heap brave," said the Indian. "Me Pokopokowo."
He looked at Dick as if he expected the boy to be deeply impressed.
"I don't care who you are. I want my rifle," cried Dick.
"Papoose heap fool. Get off pony." The Indian was scowling now, and looked very ferocious, and once more Dick's courage oozed. The Indian did not seem to be a bit frightened.
As Dick was slow in descending from the saddle, the Indian grasped him by the arm and jerked him to the ground.
Dick was as angry as he ever got, but was sensible enough to know that he could not fight the Indian, and that all he could do was to escape as rapidly as possible.
He turned and ran up the coulee.
But he had not gone far when he was overtaken, and knocked flat with a cuff on the side of the head. As he rose slowly with his head ringing, Pokopokowo grasped him by the shoulder, and bound his hands behind him.
In a moment he was back at the pony's side, and was thrown upon its back, but not in the saddle. This was occupied by the Indian, who directed it down the coulee, and in the direction of the mountains.
Dick Fosdick was a prisoner.
Dick had some difficulty in keeping his seat on the pony's back, for he could not hold on to the cantle of the saddle, and Spraddle wabbled dreadfully, as he stumbled among the bowlders in the coulee.
But before long they were out on the prairie again, and Dick observed that they were headed toward the mountains.
They had several miles to go to reach the mountains, and it was just getting dusk when they entered upon a broad and beautiful valley, which, as it ran east and west, was flooded with the light from the setting sun.
Here the Indian turned in the saddle and looked at Dick with a malevolent smile.
"Turn white boy loose," he grunted.
Dick twisted around, and the Indian untied the cord that bound his wrists.
"White boy try to run away, I kill um," said the Indian, showing his teeth in a horrible look of ferocity that chilled Dick to the bone.
"All right," he said; "I'll not try to run away again."
"Kill um if do," growled the Indian, hissing, at the pony, which is the Indian way of making a pony go forward, and means the same as a white man's "Get up!"
Dick was dreadfully hungry, but he said nothing, clinging to the cantle of the saddle with both hands, for the pony was now loping.
They had gone up the valley for several miles, when suddenly the Indian turned aside down a dark and narrow defile, still at a lope.
Even Dick realized the danger of this, for the floor of the defile was covered with large, loose stones, over which Spraddle was continually stumbling, for he had come a long way and was tired, besides the added weight of the Indian was more than he was accustomed to carry.
It had grown very dark, and Dick could not see the pony's ears when he twisted around to look past the Indian.
He knew that it was to be a moonlight night, but the moon was not up yet, and would not be for an hour or more. In fact, it was doubtful if the light of the moon would penetrate to the bottom of the defile until it was high in the heavens, so deep was the defile and so steep its walls.
Dick had given up wondering and worrying, and had forced himself to be content with his situation, as he knew that he could not better it any.
Suddenly he became aware that the Indian was asleep, for he was drooping in the saddle, and was breathing deeply and steadily.
Now, thought Dick, was the time to escape, if any. He tried to slip from the pony's back, but in an instant the Indian was awake, and, reaching around, grasped Dick's wrist, twisting it until the boy gave a sharp cry of pain.
The Indian slipped from the back of the pony, and again bound Dick's wrists behind him, and with a grunt climbed into the saddle and urged Spraddle on, slapping him across the face with the end of the rein.
"Don't you do that," cried Dick, who never abused Spraddle himself, and couldn't stand it to see any one else, particularly a dirty Indian, beat his pet.
"White boy shut up, or Pokopokowo beat him plenty," growled the Indian.
"If you dare beat me, Ted Strong will fix you when he gets you," said Dick hotly.
But the Indian only laughed, and continued to beat poor Spraddle over the face, to the pain and anger of Dick, who, however, realized that he was absolutely helpless.
But Pokopokowo was soon to be paid for his cruelty, and by poor Spraddle himself.
Spraddle, stung by the blows, was stumbling along at a good pace over the bowlders that lay in his way, with the Indian urging him faster all the time.
Suddenly there was a great heave. Spraddle went down, almost turning a somersault, as his tired feet struck a larger bowlder than he had encountered before.
The Indian, who was dozing again, shot over his head as if from a catapult, and Dick went sprawling forward over the saddle onto the neck of the pony.
Fortunately, the pony righted itself in time to save Dick from a hard fall, and he stayed on Spraddle's back, talking to him gently.
At the sound of Dick's voice the pony became quiet, and Dick half sprawled, half fell to the ground. The boy was in a pretty bad fix, for the Indian had tied his hands securely. He thought of ways by which he might cut the cord, but it seemed hopeless. He had heard somewhere of bound men releasing themselves by wearing their bonds asunder against the rough edge of a rock, and determined to try it for himself.
If he could only get his hands free, he might escape yet. Backing up to the wall of the cañon, he felt with his hands for a rock, and soon knew that he was against one. As he sawed his hands back and forth, he was listening for some sound from the Indian, but heard none.
Could it be that the fall had killed Pokopokowo?
To his joy, he felt the cord part, and his hands were free. At that moment there came a flood of light into the defile, for the moon had risen overhead.
Lying on the floor of the defile, lay the Indian, with a deep gash across his forehead, where it had struck a sharp rock. His ugly face was covered with blood, making it additionally hideous.
By the side of the Indian lay Dick's precious rifle, and he stooped to pick it up. As he did so, something glistened beside it, and Dick picked it up.
It was the little, round mirror that the Indian had worn around his neck. Dick pocketed it for proof of his adventure when he should again reach camp, and, picking up his rifle, climbed upon Spraddle's back, turned him around, and drove down the defile.
When he reached the open valley it was as bright as day, and under his coaxing and kind words the tired little pony, relieved of the Indian's weight, picked up his feet and set forth at a brisk pace into the west, in which direction Dick knew the cow camp lay.
It was almost daylight when Bill McCall, the cook, roused from his blankets to begin the preparations for breakfast. He leaped to his feet and listened.
Not far away he heard the sound of the pony's footsteps approaching. Bill was an old cow-puncher, and he knew instantly that the pony was tired, and that he was under saddle, and also that the saddle was occupied.
The footsteps came nearer, and just as they were close to the camp daylight came on with a rush, as it does on the plains, and Bill gave a great shout of joy which brought every puncher in camp scrambling out of his blankets, for there rode in a very tired little boy on a very tired little, pony.
The boy was pale and tired from hunger and his long hours in the saddle, and it was all the pony could do to stagger in.
"It's little Dick," shouted Bud. "Well, jumpin' sand hills, whar you-all been all night? Takin' a leetle pleasure pasear?"
"Oh, Bud, I'm so tired and hungry," said Dick, as Bud lifted him from the saddle.
"Here you, Bill, git busy in a hurry. This kid ain't hed nothin' ter eat in a week. He's 'most starved. Bile yer coffee double-quick, an' git up a mess o' bacon an' flapjacks pretty dern pronto, if yer don't want me ter git inter yer wool."
Bud was rubbing the cold and chafed wrists of the boy beside the fire, which one of the boys had replenished. The boys surrounded little Dick with many inquiries, but Bud shooed them away.
"Don't yer answer a bloomin' question until yer gits yer system packed with cooky's best grub. I reckon, now, yer could eat erbout eighteen o' them twelve-inch flapjacks what Bill makes, an' drink somethin' like a gallon o' ther fust coffee what comes out o' ther pot."
Little Dick smiled, as he watched with glistening eyes the rapid movements of Bill McCall as he hustled over his fire, the air redolent with the odors of coffee and bacon and griddle cakes, so that his mouth fairly watered.
When Bill shouted breakfast, Ted and Bud sat Dick down and loaded his plate with good things, which he caused to disappear in a hurry.
But after a while he was stuffed like a Christmas turkey, and put his tin plate away with a sigh, and absolutely cleaned.
"Now," said Ted, when he saw this good sign, "where have you been all day and all night? We've been scared about you. Thought we had lost you, too."
Dick went ahead with his story from the very beginning, and told of the downfall of Pokopokowo, and his escape, and of his all-night ride into the west, to accidentally stumble, at daylight, into camp.
The boys listened in amazement to this record of courage on the part of its youngest member, and some seemed to doubt the Indian part of it.
"Sho, yer dreamin', kid," said Sol Flatbush, the cow-puncher. "Thar ain't no Injuns like that in this yere part o' ther country. Why, an Injun wouldn't dare carry off a kid like that."
"You don't believe it, eh?" exclaimed Dick hotly.
"I believe yer," said Bud soothingly, for the boy was very nervous from being up all night and his hard ride, which would have taxed the energies of a grown man. "Don't yer mind what thet ole pelican says. He ain't got no more sense than a last year's bird's nest, nohow."
"The Indian had this around his neck," said Dick, "and when he fell it came loose from his neck, and I picked it up, for I thought some one might think I wasn't telling the truth. Now, I'm tired, and I can't keep my eyes open."
His head began to nod, and his eyes closed.
Bud picked him up and carried him to a pair of blankets which had been spread on the shady side of Mrs. Graham's tent, and laid him down and left him dead to the world.
Dick had placed the little, round looking-glass in Ted's hand.
As he took it, Ted uttered an exclamation.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I believe this is the little glass Stella used to carry in her pocket. Why, what is this?"
Ted was holding the little mirror up to the sky, apparently in an endeavor to look through it.
"What is it?" asked Bud, approaching the fire.
"Dick has brought back Stella's little pocket mirror," said Ted. "I'd know it anywhere. But the back has been torn off it."
"Tooken off ther neck o' an Injun?" said Bud, dropping his usual jolly manner. "I thought yer said thar wa'n't no bad Injuns eround yere, Sol Flatbush. What d'yer make o' that?"
Sol Flatbush got a little pale.
"Thar ain't none," he said. "All ther Injuns on the reservation is peaceable. They knows they couldn't do no monkey business with all them sojers at Fort Sill."
"Yet here's a kid run off with by an Injun, and he brings back a pocket mirror what belonged to Stella Fosdick. Sol Flatbush, ye've got ter give a better defense o' ther Injuns than that."
"What hev I got ter do with ther Injuns?" asked Flatbush defiantly.
"Search me. But ye've made a wrong diagnosis, an' I don't like yer brand o' talk none. I think myself thet yer too friendly ter ther redskins."
"What d'ye mean?" cried Flatbush, springing to his feet.
"I mean thet I don't trust yer none. I think ye're a skunk, an' I don't like ter see yer face eround this yere camp. How much do this outfit owe yer?"
"Three months' wage," answered the cow-puncher sourly.
Bud went down into his leather pouch and extracted a roll of bills, and skinned off several.
"Thar it is. Skidoo! An' don't try ter mingle with this outfit none hereafter. Thar'll be a new foreman o' ther night herd what ain't got so many friends in this yere locality."
"What d'yer mean by that?" Flatbush's hand sprang to his side.
But Bud was quicker, and in the flash of an eye had the muzzle of his six-shooter under the nose of the night foreman, who shrank from it.
"I mean thet yer a crook, an' I'll give yer jest three minutes ter rope yer hoss an' git."
Flatbush turned and hurried to the remuda, caught and saddled his horse, and rode out of camp.
"I've had my eye on that maverick fer quite some time," said Bud, turning to the boys after he had watched Flatbush fade into the distance. "I've suspected him o' turnin' off our cattle every night. I haven't caught him at it, or thar wouldn't've been no necessity o' chasin' him out. He'd've gone feet foremost."
"What do you think of it, Bud?" asked Ted, handing the little mirror over to the golden-haired puncher.
Bud took it in his hand, and looked at it a long time.
"It shore is Stella's," he said. "I reckernize it by this leetle dent on ther side o' it."
He was holding it in the palm of his hand, looking down at it intently.
"Hello, what's this?" Bud held the mirror against the sleeve of his blue shirt.
"Pipin' pelicans," he muttered, "if thar ain't some kind o' a pitcher on it."
Ted went to his side and looked at the mirror.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Let me look at it."
"What do you make of it?" asked Bud.
All the boys crowded around, watching Ted eagerly.
"This is evidently intended for the picture of a stone wall," said Ted, "and that wavy line behind it is meant for mountains."
"What's that?" asked Bud, pointing to the picture.
"I guess it is meant for a hole in the stone wall," said Ted.
"Wow!" said Bud. "That's as easy as livin' on a farm. Don't yer see? It is a message from the Hole in the Wall."
"By Jove, you're right. The Hole in the Wall in the Wichita Mountains."
"What is that right below it?"
"It looks like a star. It is a star."
"It is Stella's signature," said Ben. "Stella is the Latin for star. Don't you see, she has sent this message out from the Hole in the Wall, where she is a prisoner? It's as plain as day to me."
"You're right," shouted Ted. "Into your saddles, boys; we're off to the Hole in the Wall at once."