The Indians made a sudden move to pursue the lad who had done so daring a thing. One of their number restrained them, pointing to the fallen brave, as much as to say, "Revenge is forhim!"
With a shrug of their shoulders the Indians sank down and resumed their game as stoically as before. They gave no further heed to the unconscious Apache, who still lay just outside the circle where he had been knocked out by Tad's blow.
"Hurry! Hurry!" commanded the lad, fairly dragging his companion along. "They'll be after us in a minute."
Yet before the minute had elapsed Tad had halted suddenly, his wondering eyes fixed upon the scene that was being enacted before him.
About a pit of red hot coals, naked save for the breech clouts they wore, swayed the bodies of half-a-dozen powerful braves.
They were the fire dancers and Tad was gazing upon a scene that probably never will be seen again in this country—the last of the fire dances—a secret dance of which it was to be supposed the Government agents knew nothing.
Back and forth waved the copper-colored line, right up to the edge of the pit of glowing coals, uttering a weird chant, which was taken up by others who were not in the dance.
The voices of the chanters grew louder, their excitement waxed higher, as the thrill of song and dance pulsed through their veins.
All at once, Tad was horrified to see one of the dancers leap into the air, uttering a mighty shriek. While still clear of the ground the dancer's body turned, then he dove head first into the bed of hot coals. He was out in an instant.
The chant rose higher as the remaining dancers followed the leader into the burning pit and out of it. So quickly did they move that they seemed not to feel the heat, and from Tad's point of vantage, he was sure that none was burned in the slightest.
Juan tried to pull away. But Tad held him in a firm grip.
Now that the dancers had passed through the fire unscathed, others followed them, some no more than touching the live coals, then bounding out on the other side of the pit; others remaining long enough to roll swiftly across the glowing bed.
Excitement was rapidly waxing higher and higher. The red men were in a dangerous mood. It boded ill for the paleface who sought to interfere with their carnival at this moment.
"Come!" whispered Tad in a low, tense voice. "We've got to get out of this mighty quick! Chunky's probably half scared to death, too."
Tad did not go far. He had scarcely taken half a dozen steps when a frenzied yell, a series of shrill shrieks sounded in the air. The sounds seemed to come from all directions at once.
"What's that?"
"Me not know."
"Somebody's running a pony. I hear it coming. It's headed right for that bunch of crazy savages. Probably an Indian gone mad."
It was not an Indian who was the cause of this new disturbance, as the lad discovered almost immediately afterward.
"Yip, yip! Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!"
The yells were uttered in the shrill voice of Stacy Brown.
"It's Chunky!" groaned Tad. "Here's trouble in earnest!"
They never knew just how it happened, and Chunky could not tell them, but in all probability the excitement had been too much for the fat boy!
He had moved closer when the dancing began, and the fever of it got into his veins until his excitement had reached a pitch beyond his control.
With a series of howls and yells, the fat boy drove the rowels of the spurs deep into his pony's aides.
The animal dashed forward at a break-neck pace.
Stacy headed straight for the glowing pit, yelling with every leap of the pony.
Tad gazed spellbound. He seemed powerless to move. He had been deeply affected by the scenes he had seen; but this was different. The lad held his breath.
Reaching the edge of the pit, Stacy's pony rose in the air, clearing the bed of coals in a long, curving leap.
Two red men had just risen from their fiery bath. The hind hoofs of the pony caught and bowled them over.
"Run to the camp and get help! Take my pony! Ride for your life! Don't lose a second!" gasped Tad, giving the lazy Mexican a shove that sent him stumbling until he had measured his length upon the ground.
Juan picked himself up slowly; and, crawling away into the bushes, lay down to rest or hide.
Stacy's pony landed fairly in the center of a bunch of half-clothed savages; some of whom went down under the pony when it landed on them so unexpectedly.
The next instant the fat boy had been jerked from the animal's back, to which he was clinging desperately.
With a yell the redskins hurled him toward the fire. But the force of the throw had not been quite strong enough. Stacy landed on the edge of the pit, rolling half into it, the upper part of his body being on the ground to which he was hanging, yelling lustily. His shod feet were in the fire, however, but as yet he did not realize that his clothes were burning.
Tad Butler sprang quickly from his hiding place.
"Crawl out!" he roared. "You'll be burned alive!"
"I—I can't. I fell in," piped Stacy, all his bravery gone now.
Tad leaped across the intervening space and bounded to the side of his companion.
"Ouch! I'm on fire!" shrieked Stacy.
Tad grabbed and hauled him from his dangerous position. One of Tad's feet slipped in while he was doing so. By this time the clothes of both lads had begun to smoulder.
"Run for it! Better be burned than scalped!" shouted Tad.
Holding to Chunky's arm the Pony Rider Boy started to run. He was tripped by a moccasined foot before they had gone ten feet. Both boys fell headlong. Ere they could rise half a dozen mad savages were upon them.
The lads were jerked roughly to their feet, Chunky shivering, Tad pale but resolute. There was nothing that he could say or do to repair the damage that his companion had done.
One whom the lad took to be a chief, from his head-dress and commanding appearance, pushed his way into the crowd about the two boys, hurling the red men aside with reckless sweeps of his powerful arms.
"Ugh!" he grunted, folding his arms and gazing sternly at the two prisoners.
"Who you?"
Tad explained as best he could.
"Why you do this?"
"My friend here got excited," Tad declared.
"Huh! Lie!"
Tad's face burned. He could scarcely resist the impulse to resent the imputation that the savage had cast upon him. He conquered the inclination with an effort.
"Sir, we had no wish to interfere with you. We came here to get one of our men who had come here to gamble. If you will release us we will return to our camp and give you no further trouble. I promise you that."
"T-h-h-h-at's so," chattered Chunky.
"Keep still," whispered Tad. "You'll get us into more trouble."
The chief appeared to be debating the question in his own mind, when one of the men, whom Tad recognized as a member of the gambling circle, whispered something to the chief.
The chief's eyes blazed. Uttering a succession of gutteral sounds, he gave some quick directions to the red men near him.
"He makes a noise like a litter of pigs," muttered Chunky.
Acting upon the chief's direction two braves grabbed the lads, and hurried them away, Tad meanwhile watching for an opportunity to break away. Had he been alone, he felt sure he could do so safely. But he would not leave his companion, of course.
The Apaches took the boys a short distance from the camp, planked them down roughly with their backs to a rock.
"Now, I wonder what next?" muttered Tad.
While one of the braves stood guard over them, the second trotted back to the camp, returning after a few minutes with a third savage who carried a rifle.
The boys were sure then that they were to be shot.
"Huh! You run, brave shoot um!" warned one of the first pair, after which parting injunction the two captors strode away, leaving their companion to guard the boys.
For a few moments the Indian walked up and down in front of them, keeping his eyes fixed on the lads. Tad noted that he walked rather unsteadily. Finally, the guard sat down facing them, some ten feet away.
"Well, you've certainly gone and done it this time, Chunky," said Tad in a low voice. "What on earth made you do a crazy thing like that?"
"I—I don't know."
"Well, it's too late for regrets. All we can do will be to make the best of our situation and watch for an opportunity to get away."
For several minutes the boys sat gazing at the stolid figure before them. Tad's mind was working, though his body was not.
"Make believe you're going to sleep, but don't overdo it," whispered Tad.
This was something that Stacy could do, and he did it with such naturalness that Tad could not repress a smile.
"That Indian is dazed from his excitement, and if we make him think we're asleep he's likely to relax his vigilance," mused Tad, as the two boys gradually leaned closer together, soon to all appearances being wrapped in sleep. Little by little the Indian's head nodded.
Finally he toppled over to one side, the rifle lying across his feet.
Tad and Chunky remained motionless.
The Indian snored.
The boys waited. Soon the snores became regular. The moment for action had arrived.
Tad pinched Chunky.
"Huh! Wat'cher want?"
The fat boy had in reality been asleep.
"For goodness sake, keep quiet!" begged Tad in a whisper. "Don't you know there's an Indian with a gun guarding us? He's asleep. Come, but be quiet if you value your life at all. Anyway; remember that I want to save mine."
Stacy was wide awake now. Together the lads crawled cautiously away, every nerve on the alert. Over by the pit of live coals the uproar was, if any thing, louder than before.
The boys gave that part of the camp a wide berth.
"Now get up and run!" commanded Tad. "Raise your feet off the ground, so that you won't fall over every pebble you come to."
Tad and Chunky clasped hands and scurried through the bushes, making as little noise as possible, and rapidly putting considerable distance between them and the sleeping red man who had been set to watch them.
"Having lots of fun, ain't we, Tad?"
"Fun! You're lucky if you get off with a whole scalp—"
"Wow!" exclaimed Stacy.
The lads brought up suddenly.
At first they were not sure what had disturbed them, that is, Tad was not. This time Stacy had seen more clearly than his companion.
"Ugh!" grunted a voice right in front of them, and there before their amazed eyes stood an Indian. To their imaginations, he was magnified until he appeared nearly as tall as the moonlit mountains in the background.
For one hesitating instant the lads stood staring at the figure looming over them.
With an angry growl the red man bounded toward them. He had recognized the boys and was determined that they should not escape him.
It was Stacy Brown's wits that saved the situation this time. As the Indian came at them the fat boy dived between the savage's naked legs, uttering a short, sharp yelp, for all the world just like that of a small dog attempting to frighten off a bigger antagonist.
There could be only one result following Chunky's unexpected tactics. Mr. Redskin flattened himself on the ground prone upon his face. Somehow the fellow was slightly stunned by the fall, not having had time to save himself from a violent bump on the head.
"Run for it, Chunky! He'll be after us in a second."
The lads made a lively sprint for the open. In a moment, observing that they were not being followed, they halted, still in the shadows of the bushes. All at once Tad stumbled over an object in the dark. At first he thought it was another Indian, and both boys were about to run again, when the voice of the prostrate man caused them to laugh instead.
"Si, si, señor," muttered the fellow.
"Juan? It's Juan! Get up! You here yet?"
They pulled the lazy guide to his feet, starting off with him, when all at once Tad happened to think that one of the ponies was back there somewhere among the Indians.
"You stay here, and don't make a fool of yourself this time!" commanded Tad.
"Where are you going?"
"After your pony. You hang on to Juan. I'll hold you responsible for him, Chunky."
"Guess I can take care of a lazy Mexican if I can floor a redskin," answered Stacy proudly.
But Tad was off. He had not heard the last remark of his companion. In picking his way carefully around the camp to where he had seen a lot of ponies tethered, Tad found a Navajo blanket. He quickly possessed himself of it, throwing it over his head, wrapping himself in its folds.
He was now in plain sight of the wild antics of the dancers, who, still mad with the excitement of the hour, were performing all manner of weird movements. For a moment, the lad squatted down to watch them. He had been there but a short time when a voice at his side startled him, and Tad was about to take a fresh sprint when he realized that it was not the voice of a savage.
"Young man, you'd better light out of here while you've got the chance," said the stranger.
Turning sharply, Tad discovered a man, who, like himself, was wrapped in a gaudy blanket. He was unable to see the man's face, which was hidden under the Navajo.
"Who are you?" demanded the lad sharply.
"I'm an Indian agent. I only got wind of this proposed fire dance late this afternoon. These men will all be punished unless they return to their reservations peaceably. If they do, they will be let go with a warning."
"Do they know you're here?"
"They? Not much," laughed the agent.
"But supposing they ask you a question?"
"I can talk all the different tribal languages represented here. You'd better go now. Where are you from?"
Tad explained briefly.
"Well, you have had a narrow escape tonight. If they catch you again they'll make short work of you."
"They won't catch me. Thank you and good-bye."
"Don't go that way. Strike straight back; then you will have an open course."
"I'm going after my companion's pony. I think I know where to find it," answered Tad, wrapping the blanket about himself and stealing across an open moonlit space without attracting attention.
The Indian agent watched him curiously for a moment; then he rose and followed quickly after Tad.
"That boy is either a fool—which I don't think—or else he doesn't know the meaning of the word 'fear.'"
Tad did not find Stacy's pony where he had expected. Indian ponies were tethered all about, singly and in groups, while here and there one was left to graze where it would.
"What sort of a looking pony is yours?" questioned the agent, coming up to him.
"A roan."
"Then I think I know where he is. He was not like the horses in this vicinity, which attracted my attention to him."
The agent led the way, in a roundabout course, to the south side of the camp, where they began looking over the animals. Occasionally a redskin would pass them, but no one gave either the slightest heed.
"Here he is," whispered Tad.
"Lead him off. Don't mount just yet."
Tad did as the agent had suggested. But all at once something happened. Tad's blanket had dropped from his shoulders, revealing him in his true colors. An Indian uttered a yell. Tad sprang into his saddle and put spurs to the pony. In a moment more than a dozen redskins had mounted and started yelling after him, believing he was stealing a pony.
Tad headed away to the south to give his companions a chance to get out of the way, and the savages came in full cry after him.
A shrill cry was wafted to the boy.
After a few moments Tad realized that they were no longer on his trail. He knew the cry had been a signal, warning them to halt. What he did not know, however, was that the Indian agent had been responsible for the signal; that he in all probability had saved the boy's life.
The lad, after satisfying himself that the Indians had abandoned the chase, at once circled about, coming back to the point where he had left Chunky and the Mexican. They were both there waiting for him.
"What was all that row?" demanded the fat boy. "We were having a little horse race, that's all," grinned Tad grimly; "Hurry along, now."
They reached their own camp in safety an hour later. The two boys had much to relate, and as the narration proceeded, Professor Zepplin shook his head disapprovingly.
"Young gentlemen, much as I have enjoyed this summer's outing, it's a wonder I haven't had nervous prostration long before this. It'll be a load off my mind if I get you all back in Chillicothe without anything serious happening to you."
"I think," suggested Tad, "that we had better strike camp at once and move on. The moon is shining brightly, and Juan ought to have no trouble in leading the way."
"Yes; that will be an excellent idea. You think they may give as further trouble?" questioned the Professor.
"They may before morning. They're getting more ugly every minute."
"Everything worth while seems to happen when I am not around," protested Ned.
"Good thing you weren't along," replied Stacy. "You'd been scared stiff. It was no place for tenderfeet."
"You—you call me a tenderfoot?" snapped Ned, starting for him.
"Stop quarreling, you two!" commanded Tad. "We've had all the fighting we want for one night. Get busy and help strike this camp. Guess none of this outfit could truthfully be called a tenderfoot. We've all had our share of hard knocks, and we'll have enough to look back to and think about when we get home and have time to go over our experiences together this winter."
The thought, that at any minute the half-crazed savages might sweep down on them hastened the preparations for departure. The Pony Rider Boys never struck camp more quickly than they did in the soft southern moonlight that night.
All at once Juan set up a wail.
"What is it—what's the trouble now?" demanded Tad.
"My burro. I go for him."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You'll walk, or ride a pack animal," answered Stacy. "You don't deserve to have a burro."
"Here's his old burro now," called Walter, as a shambling object, much the worse for wear, came stumbling sleepily into camp.
The boys set up a shout that was quickly checked by Tad.
"If the burro can find the way what do you think an Indian could do, fellows?"
"That's right," agreed Professor Zepplin. "We had better keep quiet—"
"And hit the trail as fast as possible," added Tad. "Daylight must find us a long ways from here."
"And ride all night—is that what you mean?" complained Stacy.
"Yes; it'll give you an appetite for breakfast."
"I've got one already."
"That goes without saying," agreed Ned.
"Come, come, Juan!" urged Tad, observing that the guide was doing nothing more in the way of work than rubbing the nose of his prodigal burro. "Aren't you going to help us?"
"Yes; what do you think we're paying you good American dollars for?" demanded Ned.
"I think some of the Professor's hot drops would be good for what ails him," observed Stacy Brown. "I'll get the Professor to give him a dose right now."
"No, no, no! Juan no want fire drops."
"All right; get busy, then."
He did. Not since the last dose of the Professor's medicine had he shown such activity. Very soon after that the camp had been struck and the party was ready to take up its journey.
Tad took a last look about, to make sure that nothing had been left.
"I think I'll put out the fire," he said, tossing the bridle reins to Stacy, while he ran over to the dying camp-fire, whose embers he kicked apart, stamping them out one by one. "No use leaving a trail like that for any prowling redskin."
They were quickly under way after that, Juan leading the way without the least hesitancy. He and the burro worked together like a piece of automatic machinery.
"He might better walk and lead the burro," said Stacy, who had been observing their peculiar method of locomotion. "Should think it would be easier."
The moon was dropping slowly westward, and the party was using it for a guide, keeping the silver ball sharply to their right. Juan on the other hand had hitched his lazy chariot to a star.
By this star he was laying his course to the southward. The Pony Rider Boys enjoyed their moonlight trip immensely; and a gentle breeze from the desert drifting over them relieved the scorching heat of the late afternoon and early evening.
"Guess the Indians are not going to bother us," said Walter, riding up to Tad just before daylight.
"Probably not. They will be in too much trouble with the Government, after last night's performances, to give much thought to chasing us. And besides, I don't see why they should wish to do so. Had they been very anxious to be revenged on us, most likely they would not have allowed us to get away as they did."
"Was it very terrible, Tad?" asked Walter Perkins.
"What, the dance, or what happened afterwards?" laughed the lad.
"Both?"
"Well, I'm free to confess that neither was exactly pleasant. When they caught Chunky I thought it was all up with us. Hello. There's Mr. Daylight."
Glancing to the left the boys saw the sky turning to gray. A buzzard screamed overhead, laying its course for the mountains where it was journeying in search of food.
"What's that?" demanded Stacy, awakening from a doze in his saddle.
"Friend of yours with an appetite," grinned Ned.
"I thought it sounded like breakfast call," muttered Stacy, relapsing into sleep again, his head drooping forward until, a few minutes later, he was lying over the saddle pommel with arms thrown loosely about the pony's neck.
Ned, observing the lad's position, suddenly conceived a mischievous plan. Unnoticed by the others, he permitted his own pony to fall back until he was a short distance behind Stacy. The others were a little way ahead.
Ned rode slowly alongside his companion, as he passed, bringing the rowel of his spur sharply against the withers of Chunky's mount.
The effect was instantaneous.
The fat boy's mount, itself half asleep, suddenly humped its back, and with bunching feet leaped clear of the ground.
"Hello, what's the matter back there?" called Ned, who by this time was a full rod in advance of his companion.
Stacy did not answer. He was at that moment turning an undignified somersault in the air, his pony standing meekly, awaiting the next act in the little drama.
The fat boy landed on the plain in a heap.
"Are you hurt, Chunky?" cried Tad anxiously, slipping from his saddle and running to his companion.
"I—I dunno, I—I fell off, didn't I?"
"You're off, at least," grinned Ned. "What was the matter?"
"I—I dunno; do you?"
"How should I know? If you will go to sleep an a bucking broncho, you must expect things to happen."
Stacy, by this time, had scrambled to his feet; after which, he began a careful inventory of himself to make sure that he was all there. He grinned sheepishly.
Satisfying himself on this point, Stacy shrugged his shoulders and walked over to his pony with a suggestion of a limp.
"Now that we have halted we might as well make camp for a few hours, get breakfast and take a nap," suggested the Professor.
The boys welcomed this proposition gratefully, for they were beginning to feel the effects of their long night ride, added to which, two of them had had a series of trying experiences before starting out.
In the meantime, Stacy Brown had been examining his pony with more than usual care.
Tad observed his action, and wondered at it. A moment later, the fat boy having moved away; Tad thought he would take a look at the animal. He was curious to know what Stacy had in mind.
"So that's it, is it?" muttered Tad.
He found the mark of a spur on the pony's withers. While it had not punctured the skin, the spur had raked the coat, showing that the rowel had been applied with considerable force.
Tad, with a covert glance about, saw Ned Rector watching him.
"You're the guilty one, eh?" he demanded, walking up to Ned.
"S-h-h-h," cautioned Ned. "He'll be redheaded if he knows I am to blame for his coming a cropper."
"Chunky's not so slow as you might think. But that wasn't a nice thing to do. It's all right to play tricks, but I hope you won't be so cruel as to use a spur on a dumb animal, the way you did, even if he is an ill-tempered broncho. You might have broken Chunky's neck, too."
Ned's face flushed.
"It was a mean trick, I'll admit. Didn't strike me so at the time. Shall I ask Chunky's pardon?"
"Do as you think best. I should, were I in your place."
"Then, I will after breakfast."
Ned got busy at once, assisting to cook the morning meal, while Juan led the ponies out to a patch of grass and staked them down. While the Pony Rider cook was thus engaged, he felt a tug at his coat sleeve.
Turning sharply, Ned found Stacy at his side. Stacy's face was flushed and his eyes were snapping.
"What is it, Chunky?"
"Come over here, I want to talk with you."
They stepped off a few paces out of hearing of the others, Tad smiling to himself as he observed Stacy's act.
"Well, what's the matter, Chunky?"
"I can lick you, Ned Rector!"
"Wha—what?"
"Said I could lick you. Didn't say I was going to, understand. Just said I could—"
"Like to see you try it."
"All right; it's a go."
Ere Ned could recover from his surprise, Stacy Brown had launched himself upon his companion. One of Stacy's arms went about Ned's neck, one foot kicked a leg from under Ned, and the two lads went down in the dust together.
It had happened in a twinkling.
"Here, here! What's going on over there?" shouted the Professor, starting on a run, while the other lads were laughing.
Chunky was sitting on the chest of his fallen adversary, Ned struggling desperately to throw the lad off.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Chunky, in imitation of a rooster, flapping his hands on his thighs, in great good humor with himself.
Professor Zepplin grabbed him by the collar, jerking Stacy Brown from the fallen Pony Rider Boy.
Ned scrambled to his feet, and, with a sheepish grin on his face, proceeded to brush the dust from his clothes.
"Downed you, did he?" questioned Tad.
"It wasn't fair. I didn't know he was going to try."
"Neither did the Russians when the Japs sailed into them at Port Arthur," laughed Walter. "And they got what was coming to them."
"So did I. Chunky, I deserve more than you gave me. If you want to, beat me up some more."
"Now, isn't that sweet of him?" chortled Stacy. "I fell off my pony, then I fell on you, and we'll call it quits, eh, Ned?"
Ned put out a hand, which Stacy grasped with mock enthusiasm.
"We sure will."
"I'd like to know what this is all about?" questioned Walter. "Something's been going on."
"I made his pony throw him over," admitted Ned.
Stacy nodded with emphasis.
"He found it out and jumped on me."
"I'll turn you both over my knee if you try to repeat these performances," warned the Professor.
Linking arms, Stacy and Ned started for the breakfast table, humming,
"For he's a jolly good fellow,"
and a moment later all four of the lads were standing about the breakfast table, singing the chorus at the top of their voices.
The slanting rays of the sun got into the eyes of the Pony Rider Boys. Four arms were thrown over as many pairs of eyes to shut out the blinding light.
"Ho-ho-hum!" yawned Chunky.
Cocking an impish eye at his companions, he observed that each had fallen into a deep sleep again.
The fat boy cautiously gathered up a handful of dry sand and hurled it into the air. A shower of it sprinkled over them, into their eyes and half-opened mouths.
Three pairs of eyes were opened, then closed again.
Encouraged by his success, Stacy chuckled softly to himself, then dumped another handful of sand over his companions.
But he was not prepared for what followed.
Three muscular boys hurled themselves upon him. Instantly the peaceful scene was changed into a pandemonium of yells. Down came the tent poles, the canvas rising and falling as if imbued with sudden life.
Professor Zepplin, startled by the racket, roused himself and sprang from his own tent. Observing the erratic actions of the tent in which the boys had been sleeping, he instantly concluded that something serious had happened.
"Boys! boys!" he cried, running to the spot, frantically hauling away the canvas. "What has happened? What has happened?"
They were too busy to answer him. When finally he had uncovered what lay below, he found his charges literally tied up in a knot, rolling and tumbling, with Stacy Brown lying flat on his back, each of his three companions vigorously rubbing handfuls of sand over his face, down his neck and in the hair of his head.
"I think I'll take a hand in this myself," smiled the Professor. He ran to his tent, returning quickly. In his hands he carried two pails of water.
Unluckily for the boys, they had failed to observe what he was doing. Nor did they understand that they were in danger until the contents of the two pails had been dashed over them.
There were yells in earnest this time. The water turned the dirt into mud at once, and their faces were "sights." Stacy's face had been protected, in a measure, by the other boys who were bending over him rubbing in the sand.
The unexpected bath put a sudden end to their sport, and they staggered out shouting for vengeance. They did not even know who had been the cause of their undoing.
The Professor, as he walked away smiling, had handed the pails to the grinning Juan with instructions to refill them.
The unfortunate Juan, bearing the pails away, was the first person to catch the eyes of the lads, as they rubbed the sticky mud out of them.
With a howl they projected themselves upon him. Juan's grin changed instantly to an expression of great concern. He went down under their charge, with four boys, instead of three, on top of him.
"Duck him!" shouted some one.
"Yes! Douse him in the spring!" chorused the boys.
Juan cried out for the Professor, but his appeals were in vain.
Shouting in high glee the lads bore him to the spring from which they got their water. They plumped him in, not any too gently, again and again.
"Now roll him in the sand," suggested Ned.
They did so.
The wet clothing and body made the sand stick to him until the lazy Mexican was scarcely recognizable.
At this point Professor Zepplin took a hand. He came bounding to the scene and began throwing the boys roughly from their unhappy victim. Perhaps he was not greatly disturbed over the shaking up the guide had sustained, but of course he confided nothing of this to the boys.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves—for four of you to pitch on to one weak Mexican! I'm surprised, young gentlemen."
"But—but—he ducked us," protested Ned.
"He did nothing of the sort."
"What—didn't duck us? Guess I know water when I feel it," objected Walter.
"You were ducked, all right, but it is I, not Juan, who am responsible for that."
"You?" questioned the lads all at once.
The Professor nodded, a broad grin on his face.
"But he had the pails."
"I gave them to him, after pouring the water over you. That's what is known as circumstantial evidence, young gentlemen. Let it be a lesson to you to be careful how you convict anyone on that kind of evidence."
"Fellows," glowed Chunky, "we've made a mistake. Let's make it right by ducking the Professor."
The boys looked over Professor Zepplin critically.
"I guess we'd better defer that job till we grow some more," they decided, with a laugh.
The next fifteen minutes were fully occupied in cleaning up and putting on their clothes. They were all thoroughly awake now, with cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling after their violent exercise. The guide had rather sullenly washed off the wet dust that clung to his face and hands.
"Never mind the clothes, Juan," advised Ned. "It'll brush off as soon as it gets dry. We'll take up a contribution to buy you a clothes brush. Ever see one?"
Juan grinned.
"You promise not to gamble the money away if we give it to you?"
"Si."
"Shell out, fellows. Ten cents apiece. That ought to salve his injured feelings."
Ned passed the hat, all contributing.
"That makes forty cents. Here, Professor, you haven't put in your ten yet. It'll take just fifty cents to paste up Juan's injuries."
"That reminds me of a fellow I heard about once," announced Stacy.
"Are you going to tell a story?" questioned Ned.
"If you will keep still long enough," replied Stacy.
"Then me for the bunch grass. It's like going to a funeral to hear Chunky try to tell a story."
"Let him tell it," shouted the lads.
"Go on, Chunky. Never mind Ned. He'll laugh when he gets back to Chillicothe," jibed Walter.
"I heard of a fellow once—"
"Yes; you told us that before," jeered Ned.
"Not the one we ducked in the spring, was it?" grinned Tad.
"Who's telling this story?" demanded Stacy belligerently.
"You are, I guess. I won't interrupt again."
"Well, did I say this fellow was a boy?"
"No."
"Well, he was—he's grown up now. He rushed into a drug store—"
"Was anything chasing him?" asked Ned innocently.
Stacy gave no heed to the interruption.
"And he said to the man in the store, 'Please, sir, some liniment and some cement?'"
"'What?' asked the clerk all in a muddle. You see, he'd never had a prescription like that to fill before. It made him tired, 'cause he thought the kid was making fun of him."
"'What—what's the trouble? What do you want liniment and cement for?'
"'Cause,' said the boy to the pill man, ''cause mom hit pop on the head with a plate.'"
For a moment there was silence, then the boys roared. But Ned never smiled.
"Laugh, laugh! Why don't you laugh?" urged Walter.
"Laugh? Huh! I laughed myself almost sick over that a long time ago. Read it in an almanac when I was in short trousers."
"The ponies! The ponies!" cried Juan, rushing up to them, waving his arms, then running his fingers through his long black hair until it stood up like the quills of a porcupine.
"What!" queried the Pony Rider Boys in sudden alarm. "What's the matter with the ponies?"
Juan pointed to the place where the stock had been tethered after they arrived at the camp.
There was not an animal to be seen anywhere on the plain.
"Gone!" gasped the lads, with sinking hearts.
"No, no, no. There!" stammered the guide.
With one accord the boys ran at top speed to the spot indicated by Juan.
There, stretched out in the long grass lay bronchos and burros.
"They're dead, the ponies are dead, every one of them!" cried the lads aghast.
"What's this, what's this?" demanded the Professor, striding up.
"Look! Look! The ponies are dead!" exclaimed Ned excitedly.
"What do you suppose could have happened to them?" stammered Walter.
"Is it possible? What's the meaning of this, guide?"
Juan shrugged his shoulders and showed his white teeth.
In the meantime Tad had hurried to his own pony, and was down on his knees examining it. Placing his hands on the animal's side, he remained in that position for an instant, then sprang up.
"They're not dead, fellows! They're alive!"
"Asleep," grumbled Ned disgustedly.
"But there's something the matter with them. Something has happened to the stock," added Tad.
"Only a false alarm," nodded Stacy.
"Think so? Try to wake your pony up," advised Tad.
Stacy had already hurried to his own broncho, and now began tugging at the bridle rein, with sundry pokes in the animal's ribs.
"I can't. He's in a trance," wailed Stacy, considerably startled.
That expression came nearer to describing the condition of the stock than any other words could have done.
"Guide, what do you know about this?" questioned the Professor. "Has some one been tampering with our animals?"
Juan shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference.
"No bother bronchs."
"Then will you please tell us what is the matter with them?"
"Sleepy grass!"
"Sleepy grass?" chorused the lads.
"Of course they're asleep all right," added Ned. "But whoever heard of sleepy grass?"
"He means they're sleeping on the grass," Stacy informed them.
"Ah! I begin to understand," nodded the Professor. "I think I know what the trouble is now. The guide is no doubt right."
The boys gathered around him, all curiosity.
"Tell us about it, Professor. We are very much mystified?" said the Pony Riders.
"A long time ago I remember to have read, somewhere, of a certain grass in this region that possessed peculiar narcotic properties—"
"What's narcotic?" interrupted Stacy.
"Something that makes you go to sleep when you can't," explained Tad Butler, rather ambiguously.
"When eaten by horses or cattle it is said to put them into deep sleep. The Rockefeller Institute, I believe, is already making an analytical test of the grass."
"Please talk so I can understand it," begged Stacy.
"Yes; those words make my head ache," scowled Ned. "Even the guide is making up faces in his effort to understand."
"He does understand. He understands only too well. For many years this grass has been known. Cows turned out for the day would fail to return at night—"
"To be milked," interjected Stacy.
"And an investigation would disclose them sleeping in some region, where the sleepy grass grew
And the fat boy hummed:
"Down where the sleepy grass is growing."
"Travelers who have tied out their horses in patches of the grass for the night have been unable to continue their journey until the animals recovered from their strange sleep. Thus the properties of the grass became known."
"Indians use 'em to tame bad bronchos," the guide informed them.
"Just so."
"But, when will they wake up?" questioned Tad.
"Mebby sun-up to-morrow," answered Juan, glancing up at the sky.
"What, sleep twenty-four hours?" demanded Ned.
"Si."
"Preposterous."
"Then, then, we've got to remain here all the rest of the afternoon and night—is that it?" demanded Tad.
"It looks that way."
"And you knew about this stuff, Juan?" questioned Tad.
"Si."
"Well, you're a nice sort of a guide, I must say."
"You ought to be put off the reservation," threatened Stacy, shaking a menacing fist in front of the white teeth.
In the meantime, Tad had gone over to the animals again, and, taking them in turn, sought to stir them up. He found he could not do so. The ponies' heads would drop to the ground after he had lifted and let go of them, just as if the animals were dead.
"Gives you a creepy feeling, doesn't it?" shivered Walter.
"I should say it does," answered Ned.
"Well, what is it, Chunky?" asked Tad, who observed that Stacy had something on his mind that he was trying to formulate into words.
"I've got an idea, fellows," he exploded.
"Hold on to it, then. You may never get another," jeered Ned.
"What is it, Master Stacy?" asked the Professor.
"Then—then—then—that's what Juan and his burro have been eating all the time. I knew there was something the matter with them."
A loud laugh greeted the fat boy's suggestion.
"Guess he's about right, at that," grinned Tad.
"A brilliant thought," agreed the Professor. "Boys, I must have some of that grass. I shall make some experiments with it."
"Experiment on Chunky," they shouted.
"No; he sleeps quite well enough as it is," smiled the Professor.
"I want some of it too—no, not to eat," corrected the fat boy. "I'll feed it to my aunt's cat when I get back; then he won't be running away from home every night."
"Better unload the rest of the equipment, boys," advised the Professor. "If we must remain here all night we might as well make the best of it."
Without their ponies, the lads spent rather a restless afternoon. They had not fully realized before how much a part of them their horses had become until they were suddenly deprived of them.
In the meantime, the bronchos slept on undisturbed.
"I've got another idea," shouted Stacy.
"Keep it to yourself," growled Ned. "Your ideas, like your jokes, graduated a long time ago."
"Is there sleepy grass in the Catskill Mountains!" persisted Stacy.
"We don't know, and we don't—"
"I know there is, and that's what put Rip Van Winkle to sleep for twenty years," shouted the fat boy in high glee. "See, I know more than—"
"Yes; you're the original boy wonder. We'll take that for granted," nodded Ned Rector.
Tad, however, was not inclined to look upon their enforced delay with anything like amusement. To him it had its serious side. He had not forgotten that they had been fleeing from the Indians. When he got an opportunity to do so, without his companions overhearing, he approached the Professor.
"I think it would be a good plan for us to have a guard over our camp to-night."
"On account of?"
"Yes."
"Very well; I think myself that it would be a prudent move. Have Juan sit up, then."
"No, he's a sleepy bead. Suppose we boys take turns?"
"Very well; arrange it to suit yourselves. I presume we ought to do something of the sort every night. It might have saved us some trouble on our Ozark journey had we been that prudent. Arrange it to suit you. I'll take my turn."
"No; we can do it, Professor. You go to bed as usual. We'll draw lots to see who takes the different watches. With the four of us we'll have to take only two hours apiece. That won't be bad at all."
The other boys, after the plan had been explained to them, entered into it enthusiastically. Walter was to take the first trick, Ned the next, Chunky the third and Tad the fourth.
And they were to take their guns out with them. The Professor agreed to this, now that they had become more familiar with firearms. As a matter of fact, all the boys had developed into excellent marksmen, though Tad was recognized as the best shot of the party.
Professor Zepplin, during the afternoon, gave each of them a lesson in revolver shooting, using for the purpose, his heavy army revolver. They did pretty well with this weapon, but, of course, were not nearly as expert with it as with the rifle.
Evening came and the stock was still sleeping soundly. There was nothing the boys could do but let them sleep, though the fact of all the ponies and burros lying about as if dead began to make the Pony Riders nervous. Night came, and with it semi-darkness, the moon being overcast with a veil of fleecy white clouds, which cast a grayish film over the landscape. The lads joked each other about having the "creeps," but none would admit the charge.
Walter, with rifle slung over his right shoulder, went out on the first watch with instructions to go at least two hundred yards from camp and keep walking around the camp in a circle. This would protect them from surprises on all sides. Ned decided not to retire until he had taken his guard trick, in view of the fact that he was to go on at eleven o'clock. But Stacy, proposing to get all the sleep he was entitled to, turned in early. The rest did not disturb him. The boys were unusually quiet that evening, perhaps feeling that the responsibility of the safety of the camp rested wholly upon their youthful shoulders.
Ned came in at one o'clock, after having taken his turn, unslung his rifle, drew the cartridges then put them back in the magazine again.
"I might need them before morning," he told himself.
Chunky being sound asleep, Ned grabbed him by a foot giving him a violent pull.
"Wat'cher want? Get out!" growled the fat boy sleepily.
"Get up and take your watch!" commanded Ned.
"Who's afraid of Indians?" mumbled Stacy.
This time Ned took the lad by the collar, jerked him to his feet and shook him until Stacy yelled "Ouch!" so loudly as to awaken the entire camp.
It took some time, however, to get Stacy himself awake sufficiently to make him understand that he had a duty to perform. Finally, however, he shouldered his rifle, after surreptitiously helping himself to a sandwich from the cook tent. Then he marched off, munching the bread and meat.
"See here," snapped Ned, running after him. "You're not measuring off your distance. Come back and pace it off."
"How many?"
"Two hundred yards. Stretch your fat legs as far as they'll go, then you'll have a yard, more or less."
Stacy started all over again, forgot the count, came back, then tried it again. Even at that he was not sure whether he had gone one hundred yards or five.
He was awake enough, now, to observe his surroundings. The cool breezes of the night were tossing the leaves of the cottonwoods near the water course to the west of them, while here and there in the foliage might be heard the exultant notes of a mocking bird.
Stacy shivered.
"Guess it's going to freeze to-night," he decided, beginning his steady tramp about the camp of the Pony Rider Boys.
Muttering to himself, as was his habit when alone, Stacy kept on until finding himself opposite the ponies, he decided to go over and look at them. All were asleep. Not one had awakened since going down under the powerful influence of the "sleepy grass."
"I'd like to eat some of that stuff myself, right now," Chunky decided out loud. "I'd have a good excuse for going to sleep then. Now I can't without getting jumped on by the fellows. Wonder what time it is—only half-past one. Must be something the matter with my watch. I know I've been out more'n two hours."
This trip he circled out further from the camp, growing a little more confident because nothing had happened to disturb him.
In the meantime the camp slept in peace—that is, the lads did until nearly time for the change of guard. Then the whole party was aroused with the sudden, startling conviction that something serious had happened.
All at once the crack of a rifle sounded on the still night air. It was followed by another shot, and another, until four distinct reports had rolled across the plains.
In wild disorder the Pony Rider Boys tumbled from their cots, and, grasping their weapons, leaped from the tents.
"What's the row?" inquired the Professor.
"Wow! Wow! Wow! Yeow!" shrieked a shrill voice to the northward.
"It's Chunky. He's giving the alarm! We're attacked!" cried the lads.
Bang! Bang!
They saw the flash of the fat boy's weapon before the report reached their ears.
A moment later the other boys caught sight of Stacy dashing into camp, hatless, waving his rifle and yelling as if bereft of his senses.
"What is it? What is it?" cried the boys with one voice.
"Indians! Indians! The prairie's full of them!"
Instantly the camp was thrown into confusion. The lads ran here and there, not knowing what to do.
"Get behind the ponies! That's the only cover we can find here. Run for it!"
And run they did, the Professor outdistancing all the rest in his attempt to secrete himself where the enemy's weapons would not be likely to reach him.
In a moment more, the camp of the Pony Rider Boys was deserted, and behind each sleeping pony lay a boy, with rifle barrel poked over the animal's back, ready to shoot at the first sign of the redskins. Stacy, in his excitement, had forgotten that not a cartridge was left in his magazine, and the others were too fully occupied to remember to tell him.
For all of half an hour did the party lie protected. The boys began to grow restive. Tad's suspicions were being slowly aroused.
"I'm going to do a little scouting," he told them, slipping from behind the pony and skulking along back of the tents. The moon was shining brightly now. He could see a long distance. Not a human being was in sight.
"I thought so," he muttered, retracing his steps. "See here, Stacy Brown, what did you see—what did you shoot at?" he demanded sternly.
"I—I shot the chute—I—I mean I chuted the shot—I mean—"
"Say, what do you mean?"
"I—I mean—say, leggo my neck, will you?" roared Chunky.
"Fellows, he doesn't know what he means."
"Guess he's been feeding on crazy grass out on the prairie," was Ned's conclusion.
"There isn't an Indian anywhere around here. I know it. They would have been after us long before this, if there had been."
One by one the boys came from their hiding places, the lazy Mexican last. Disapproving eyes were turned on Stacy.
"Chunky, you come along and show us where you were when you shot—did you shoot at an Indian?" asked Tad.
"Yes, and I—I—I shot him."
"Show us. We're all from Chillicothe," demanded Ned.
Stacy, with a show of importance, led the way, keeping a wary eye out for the enemy. It was noticed, however, that each of the lads held his rifle ready for business in case there should be an enemy about.
"There! I was standing right over there—I guess."
"You guess! Don't you know?" questioned the Professor.
"Yes; that's the place."
The lad walked over to the identical spot from which he had first fired his rifle.
"He was over there and I shot at him, so," said Stacy, leveling the weapon. "Ye-ow! There he is, now!" shrieked the boy.
Every weapon flashed up to a level with the eyes.
"There is something over there on the ground," decided the Professor.
"Put down your guns so you don't shoot me," said Tad. "I'm going to find out what it is."
Keeping his own weapon held at "ready," the lad walked boldly over to where a heap of some sort lay on the plain. It surely had not been there during the afternoon—Tad knew that.
He reached it, stooped, peered, then uttered a yell.
"What is it?" they cried, hurrying up.
"You've done it now, Chunky Brown. You certainly have gone and done it."
"What—what is it?" cried the others in alarm.
"You've shot the lazy Mexican's burro. That's your Indian, Stacy Brown."
Juan, who had followed them out on the plain, uttered a wail and threw himself upon the body of his prostrate burro. The animal, it seemed, had recovered consciousness during the night, and in a half-dazed condition had wandered out on the plain. Stacy, while crouching down on the ground, had seen the head and long ears of the burro. He thought the ears were part of the head dress of a savage and let fly a volley of bullets at it.
"He—he isn't dead," shouted the fat boy. "See, I just pinked him in the ears."
And, surely enough, an examination revealed a hole through each ear. The holes were so close to the animal's head that it was reasonable to suppose the shot had stunned him, being already in a weakened condition from the sleepy grass.
The boys set to work to rouse the burro, which they succeeded in doing in a short time. Juan, with arm around the lazy beast's neck, led it back to camp, petting and soothing it with a chattering that they could not understand.
There was no more sleep in camp that night, though the boys turned in at the Professor's suggestion. Every little while, laughter would sound in one of the tents, as the others fell to discussing Stacy's Indian attack.
The next morning they were overjoyed to find that the ponies had awakened and were trying to get up.
"Lead them out of that grass, fellows," shouted Tad, the moment he saw the ponies were coming around. "We don't want them to make another meal of that stuff."
"Nor take another of Chunky's Rip Van Winkle sleeps," added Ned.
Never having had a like experience, none of the lads knew what to do with their mounts after getting them sufficiently awake to lead them to a place of safety. They appealed to Juan for advice, but the lazy Mexican appeared to know even less than they.
Tad, after studying the question a few moments, decided to give them water, though sparingly. This they appeared to relish and braced up quite a little. But the boy would not allow them to graze until nearly noon, when each one took his pony out, making sure that there was none of the sleepy grass around. The animals were then permitted to graze.
About the middle of the afternoon Tad decided that all were fit to continue the journey, and that it would be safe to travel until sunset. Everyone was glad to get away from the spot where they had had such unpleasant experiences, and the boys set off, moving slowly, the stock not yet being in the best of condition.
Late in the afternoon, when they had about decided to make camp, one of the boys espied an object, something like a quarter of a mile away, that looked like the roof of a house.
Ned said it couldn't be that, as it appeared to be resting on the ground. They asked Juan if he knew what it was, and for a wonder he did. He said it was a dug-out—a place where a man lived.
"Is he a hermit?" asked Stacy apprehensively, at which there was a laugh. Stacy had not forgotten his experiences in the cave of the hermit of the Nevada Desert.
For the next hour, the lads were too busy, pitching tents and unloading the pack animals, to give further thought to the dug-out or its occupant; but when, after they had prepared their evening meal, they saw some one approaching on horseback, they were instantly curious again.
The newcomer proved to be the owner of the dug-out. He was a tall, square-jawed man, with a short, cropped iron-gray beard and small blue, twinkling eyes.
"Will you join us and have some supper?" asked Tad politely, walking out to greet the stranger.
"Thank you; I will, young man," smiled the stranger.
Tad introduced himself and companions.
"You probably have heard my name before, young men. It is Kris Kringle; I'm living out here for my health and doing a little ranching on the side."
Stacy looked his amazement.
"Is—is he Santa Claus?" he whispered, tugging at Tad's coat sleeve.
"No, young man. I am not related to the gentleman you refer to," grinned Mr. Kringle.
There was a general laugh at Stacy's expense.
After supper, the visitor invited all hands to ride over to his dug-out and spend the evening with him. The boys accepted gladly, never having seen the inside of a dug-out, and not knowing what one looked like. Professor Zepplin had taken a sudden liking to the man with the Christmas name, and soon the two were engaged in earnest conversation.
The distance being so short, Tad decided that they had better walk, leaving the ponies in charge of Juan so they might get a full night's rest. Then all hands set out for the dug-out.
A short flight of steps led down into the place, the roof of which was raised just far enough above the ground to permit of two narrow windows on each side and at the rear end.
The room in which they found themselves, proved to be a combination kitchen and dining room. Its neatness and orderliness impressed them at once.
"And here," said Kris Kringle, "is what I call my den," throwing open a door leading into a rear room and lighting a hanging oil lamp.
The Pony Rider Boys uttered an exclamation of surprised delight.
On a hardwood floor lay a profusion of brightly colored Navajo rugs, the walls being hung with others of exquisite workmanship and coloring, interspersed with weapons and trophies of the chase, while in other parts of the room were rare specimens of pottery from ancient adobe houses of the Pueblos.
At the far end of the room was a great fire-place. Book cases, home-made, stood about the room, full of books. The Professor realized, at once, that they were in the home of a student and a collector.
"This is indeed an oasis in the desert," he glowed. "I shall be loath to leave here."
"Then don't," smiled Mr. Kringle. "I'm sure I am glad enough to have company. Seldom ever see anyone here, except now and then a roving band of Indians."
"Indians!" exclaimed Tad. "Do you have any trouble with them?"
"Well, they know better than to bother with me much. We have had an occasional argument," said their host, his jaws setting almost stubbornly for the instant. "Most of the tribes in the state are peaceful, though the Apaches are as bad as ever. They behave themselves because they have to, not because they wish to do so."
"I saw their fire dance the other night," began Tad.
"What?" demanded Mr. Kringle.
"Fire dance."
"Tell me about it?"
Tad did so, the host listening with grave face until the recital was ended.
He shook his head disapprovingly.
"And this—this Indian that you knocked down—was he an Apache?"
"I don't know. I think so, though. He had on a peculiar head dress
"That was one of them," interrupted Mr. Kringle, with emphasis. "And I'll wager you haven't heard the last of him yet. That's an insult which the Apache brave will harbor under his copper skin forever. He'll wait for years, but he'll get even if he can."
The faces of the Pony Rider Boys were grave.
"Have you a reliable guide?"
"Far from it," answered the Professor. "If I knew where I could get another, I'd pack him off without ceremony."
Kris Kringle was silent for a moment.
"I need a little change of scene," he smiled. "How would you like to have me take the trail with you for a week or so?"
"Would you?" glowed the Professor, half rising from his chair.
"I think I might."
"Hurrah!" cried the Pony Riders enthusiastically. "That will be fine."
"Of course, you understand that I expect no pay. I am going because I happen to take a notion to do so. Perhaps I'll be able to serve you at the same time."
The Professor grasped Mr. Kringle by the hand impulsively.
"I'll send that lazy Juan on his way this very night—"
"Let me do it," interposed Stacy, with flushing face. "I'll do it right, Professor. But I'll put on my pair of heavy boots first, so it'll hurt him more."
The boys shouted with laughter, while the new guide's eyes twinkled merrily.
"I think, perhaps, the young man might do it even more effectively than you or I," he said. "Have you weapons, Professor?"
"Rifles."
"That's good. We may need them."
"Then you think?"
"One can never tell."