A slender ribbon of dust unrolling across the plain far to the northward marked the receding trail of Juan and his lazy burro. They had given him a week's extra pay and sent him on his way.
The burro was making for home, aided by the busy feet of its master, while Stacy Brown, shading his eyes with one hand, was watching the progress of the guide, whom he had just sent adrift.
"Well, he's gone," grinned Stacy, turning to his companions, who were busy striking camp.
"And a good riddance," nodded Tad.
"He'll probably join the Indians and tell them where we are," suggested Walter.
"I hadn't thought of that," replied Tad. "Still, if they wish to find us they know how without Juan's telling them."
"How?"
"They can follow a trail with their eyes shut," said Ned.
"That's right. They do not need to be told," muttered Tad.
Everything being in readiness, the boys started with their outfit for the dug-out, where they were to be joined by Kris Kringle. They felt a real relief to know that they were to have with them a strong man on whom they were sure they could rely to do the right thing under all circumstances. Tad, however, believed that Mr. Kringle had decided to join them, fearing they would be attacked by the Apaches and come to serious harm. Yet he hardly thought the redskins would dare to follow them, after the latter had once gotten over the frenzy of their fire dance. By that time the Indian agents would have rounded them all up on the reservations, where the Indians would be able to do no more harm for a while.
After picking up the new guide the start was made. The party had water in plenty in the water-bags, so that no effort was made to pick up a water hole when they made camp late in the afternoon. The guide had brought in his pack a tough old sage hen, at which the lads were inclined to jeer when he announced his intention of cooking it for their supper.
"You'll change your mind when you taste it, young gentlemen. It depends upon the cooking entirely. A sage hen may be a delicious morsel, or it may not," answered Mr. Kringle, with a grin.
They were encamped near a succession of low-lying buttes, and to while away the time until the supper hour, the boys strolled away singly to stretch their legs on the plain after the long day's ride in the hot sun.
When they returned an hour or so later, Stacy, they observed, was swinging a curious forked stick that he had picked up somewhere a few moments ago.
"What you got there?" questioned Ned.
"Don't know. Picked it up on the plain. Such a funny looking thing, that I brought it along."
"Let me see it," asked Mr. Kringle.
Stacy handed it to him.
"This," said the guide, turning the stick over in his hand, "is a divining rod."
"Divining rod?" demanded Stacy, pressing forward.
"Yes."
"Never heard of it. Is it good to eat?"
"Looks to me like a wish bone," interjected Ned. "Do you eat wish bones, Chunky?"
"Might, if I were hungry enough."
"A divining rod is used to locate springs. Some users of it have been very successful. I couldn't find a lake with it, even if I fell in first."
"Indeed," marveled the Professor. "I have heard of the remarkable work of divining rods. What Rind of wood is it?"
"This is hazel wood. Oak, elm, ash or privet also are used, but hazel is preferred in this country."
"Then—then we won't have to go dry any more—I can find water with this when I'm dry?" questioned Stacy.
"You might; then again you might not."
"Better take it away from him," suggested Ned. "He might find a spring. If he did he'd be sure to fall in and drown."
The stick, which was shaped like the letter Y, was an object of great interest to the Pony Rider Boys. One by one they took it out on the plain, in an effort to locate some water. The guide instructed them to hold the Y with the bottom up, one prong in each hand and to walk slowly.
But, try as they would, they were able to get no results.
"The thing's a fraud!" exclaimed Ned disgustedly, throwing the divining rod away.
Stacy picked it up.
"I know why it doesn't work," he said.
"Why?" demanded the other boys.
"'Cause—'cause there isn't any water to make it work," he replied wisely.
The boys groaned.
Shortly after returning to camp, they found the fat boy standing over a pail of water holding the stick above it.
He was talking to the stick confidentially, urging it to "do something," to the intense amusement of the whole outfit.
"Now, where's your theory?" questioned the Professor.
"Why, it doesn't have to work, does it? Don't we know there's water here? If we didn't the stick would tell us, maybe. Take my word for it, this outfit won't have to go dry after this. Stacy Brown and his magic wand will find all the water needed," continued the fat boy proudly.
"Your logic is good, at any rate, even if the rod doesn't work at command," laughed the Professor.
Supper was a jolly affair, for everyone was in high spirits. The sage hen, contrary to general expectation, was found to be delicious. Chunky begged for the wish bone and got it. He said he'd use it for a divining rod when he wanted to find a little spring.
"Mr. Kringle, I am commissioned by the fellows to ask you a question," announced Tad, after the meal had been in progress for a time.
"Ask it," smiled the guide.
"We thought we'd like to call you Santa Claus, seeing you've brought us so much cheer. Then again, it's your name you know. Kris Kringle is Santa Claus."
"Oh, well, call me what you please, young men."
From that moment on, Kris Kringle was Santa Claus to the Pony Rider Boys.
They had now come to a rolling country, with here and there high buttes, followed by large areas of bottom lands which were covered with rank growths of bunch grass. Traveling was more difficult than it had been, and water more scarce.
It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky.
"There goes the trouble maker," cried Ned. "He's at it again."
The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky's wail had been heard. The others were not far behind.
They saw the red, perspiring face of the fat boy above a clump of grass, his yells for help continuing, unabated.
"What is it?" shouted the guide.
"I've got it, Santa Claus! I've got it!"
"Got what?" roared the Professor.
"The stick!—I mean it's got me. Help! Help!"
Stacy was wrestling about as if engaged in combat with some enemy. They could not imagine what had gone wrong—what had caused his sudden cries of alarm.
"It's the divining rod!" called the guide.
"He's found water!" shouted the boys.
"I've got it! I've got it! Come help me hold it. The thing's jerking my arms off."
To the amazement of the Pony Rider Boys, the forked stick in the hands of the fat boy was performing some strange antics. Breathing hard, he would force it up until it was nearly upright, when all at once the point of the triangle would suddenly swerve downward, bending the rod almost to the breaking point.
"See it? See it?"
"Most remarkable," breathed Professor Zepplin.
"Yes, there can be no doubt about it," nodded the guide.
"He's bluffing," disagreed Ned.
"Doesn't look to me as if he were," returned Tad.
"Take hold with me here, if you don't believe me," cried Stacy. "No, not on the stick, take hold of my wrists."
Ned promptly accepted the invitation.
Instantly the tug of the divining rod was felt by the new hands.
Ned let go quickly.
"Ugh! The thing gives me the creeps."
"Let me try it, Master Stacy," said Professor Zepplin.
"I can't let go of it," wailed Chunky.
"Step off a piece," directed the guide.
Stacy did so, whereupon the divining rod immediately ceased its peculiar actions.
The Professor took hold of it, but the rod refused to work for him.
"Let Santa Claus try it," suggested Ned.
The guide did so, but with no more success than the Professor had had.
"I told you it wouldn't work for me," Mr. Kringle grinned. "Here, Master Tad, you try it."
Tad, with the rod grasped firmly in his hands, walked back and forth three times without result. On the fourth attempt, however, the stick suddenly bent nearly double.
All were amazed.
"Why were we unable to get results, Mr. Kringle?" questioned the Professor.
"According to some French writers as much depends upon the man as on the divining rod. Where one succeeds another fails absolutely. Supposing the others take a try?"
Walter and Ned did so, but neither could get the rod to move for him.
"I guess Chunky is the champion water-finder," laughed Ned.
"Would it not be a good idea to find out whether or not thereiswater here?" asked the Professor.
"Yes," agreed the guide. "It may be so far down that we cannot reach it, however. You know in some parts of this region they are locating water with the rod and sinking artesian wells."
"Why—why didn't we think to bring some down with us?" demanded Chunky. "Can't we get any in some of the towns down here?"
"Some what?" questioned the guide.
"Artesian wells."
A roar greeted the fat boy's question.
"Bring down a load of artesian wells!" jeered Ned.
"An artesian well, my boy, is nothing more than a hole in the ground," the guide informed him, much to Chunky's chagrin.
The spot where the divining rod had so suddenly gotten busy was about midway of an old water course, covered with a thick growth of bunch grass.
"Get some tools, boys," directed the Professor.
Tad ran back to camp, which lay some distance to the east of where they were gathered. Searching out a pick and two shovels, he leaped on his pony, dashing back to the arroyo.
"That was quickly done," smiled Santa Claus. "Are all of you lads as quick on an errand as that?"
"Only Chunky," answered Ned solemnly.
The guide began to dig, in which effort he was joined by Stacy Brown, who, with a shovel, caved in about as much dirt as he threw out.
"Here, give me that shovel," commanded Ned. "You'll fill up the bole before we get it dug."
Tad, having tethered his pony, took the extra shovel and went to work.
"Guess it's a false alarm," decided Ned, after they were up to their shoulders in the hole.
"Don't be too sure. The ground is quite damp here. Try your rod, young man."
"Chunky held the divining rod over the excavation, whereupon it drew down with even greater force than before.
"Dig," directed the guide.
They did so with a will.
"Here's water!" shouted Kris Kringle.
They crowded about the hole, amazement written on every face.
A fresh, cool stream bubbled up into the hole, causing those in the pit to scramble out hastily.
"Some of you boys run back to camp and fetch pails and water-bags," directed the guide.
"I'll go. I've got the pony here," spoke up Tad.
"No; I want you to do something else for me."
"We'll all go," offered Walter. The three lads started on a run, Chunky holding his precious divining rod tightly clasped in both hands.
"What is it you wish?" questioned Tad.
"I wish you would ride over toward that small butte and cut a load of brush. Want to rip-rap the outer edge of this water hole, so the bank will not cave in and undo all our work! Have you a hatchet?"
"Yes, in my saddlebags."
"Good. Hurry, please."
Tad leaped into the saddle, and putting spurs to his broncho, tore through the high bunch grass, above which only his head was now observable. In a short time he was back with the green stuff piled high on the saddle in front of him, with a large bundle tied to the cantle of the saddle behind.
Unloading this, Butler started back at a gallop for more. When there was work to be done, Tad Butler was happy. Activity to him was a tonic that spurred him on to ever greater efforts.
This time he found himself obliged to climb higher up the butte in order to get branches of available size. These he cut and threw down. After having procured what he thought would be all he could carry the lad scrambled down, and, dropping on his knees began tying them into bundles. The heat was sweltering, and occasionally be paused to wipe away the perspiration.
"I smell smoke," sniffed Tad. "I wonder where it comes from?"
The odor grew stronger, but so interested was he in his labor that he did not at once understand the significance of his discovery.
"W-h-o-o-e-e!"
It was a long-drawn, warning shout.
"It's a signal!" exclaimed the lad, straightening up. "I wonder what's the matter?"
As he looked toward the camp a great wall of flame seemed to leap from the ground between him and his companions. There it poised for one brief instant, then, with a roar swooped down into the tall bunch grass, rushing roaring and crackling toward him.
For an instant he stood unbelieving, then the truth dawned upon him.
"The prairie's on fire!" cried Tad.
The shouts of the Pony Rider Boys and of the guide were swallowed up in the roar of the flames.
"They'll be burned alive!" whispered the lad.
Then, all at once he realized that he himself was in dire peril.
"I'll have to go the other way and be quick about it at that," he decided, making a dash for the pony, that already was whinnying with fear and tugging at its tether.
Tad did not wait to untie the stake rope. With a sweep of his knife he severed it and vaulted into the saddle.
Whirling the animal about he headed to the west. To his alarm he suddenly discovered that the prairie fire was rapidly encircling him, the flames running around the outer edge of the bottoms with express train speed, threatening to head him off and envelop him. Had it not been for the long grass, which, tangling the feet of the pony, made full speed impossible, the race with the flames would have been an easy one to win. As it was, Tad knew that the chances were against him.
But the dire peril in which he found himself did not daunt the Pony Rider Boy. Perhaps his face had grown a shade paler underneath the tan, but that was all. His senses were on the alert, his lips met in a firm pressure and the hand gripped the bridle rein a little more firmly, perhaps, than usual.
Uttering a shrill cry to inform his companions that he was alive to his peril, and at the same time to encourage the broncho, Tad dug in the rowels of his spurs.
The frightened pony cleared the ground with all four feet, uttering a squeal, and launching itself at the rapidly narrowing clear space ahead of him; and urged to greater and greater endeavor at every leap by the short, sharp "yips" of his rider.
For all the concern that showed in his face, Tad Butler might have been running a horse race for a prize rather than fleeing for his life.
"If I make it I'm lucky,"—commented Tad grimly. He found himself wondering, at the same time, how the fire had started. He knew that the flames first showed themselves midway between where he was at work and the place where his companions were engaged at the water hole.
He could not understand it. Fire was necessary to use to start fire, and he knew that none of them had been foolish enough even to light a match in the dry bunch grass of the prairie.
The flames were reaching mountain high by this time, great clouds of smoke rolling in on the breeze and nearly suffocating him.
At times Tad was unable to see the opening ahead of him. When, however, the smoke lifted, giving him a momentary view, he saw that the gap was rapidly closing.
All at once his attention was drawn from the closing gap.
"Yeow! Yeow! Yeow! Y-e-o-w!"
A series of shrill, blood curdling yells from out the pall of smoke and flame at the rear, bombarded his ears.
At first he thought it was Indians; then the improbability of this being the case came to him.
"Yeow! Yeow! Yeow!" persisted the voice behind, and it was coming nearer every second.
Tad slackened the speed of his pony ever so little, despite the peril of his position.
"There's somebody in there behind me, and, he'll never get out alive if he loses his way."
The moment this thought occurred to him, Tad began to yell at the top of his voice.
Suddenly from out the thick veil of smoke burst a pony with a mighty snort, coming on in bounds, each one of which cleared many feet of ground. On the pony's back was Stacy Brown, hatless, coatless, his hair standing up in the breeze, his face as red as if it had come in actual contact with the flames.
"Yeow!" he roared, as his pony shot past Tad as if the latter's mount were standing still. Where Stacy had come from, how he had passed through that wall of flame, Tad had not the slightest idea.
As a matter of fact the explanation was simple enough. The guide had sent Chunky out to assist Tad in bringing in the rip-rapping material. Stacy had made a detour from the camp, having gotten just inside the danger zone when the fire broke out. Guided by the butte where he knew his companion must be, Stacy headed for that point. There he came upon Tad's trail, and began yelling to attract his attention. He had heard Tad's answering cry, and this inspired the fat boy to renewed efforts.
Stacy, now that he had passed Tad, slowed up ever so little. He had passed his companion so swiftly that he was unable to determine whether or not Tad were in distress.
The latter came up, overhauling Stacy in a few moments. Both ponies were steaming from the terrific gruelling they were giving themselves.
"What you doing here?" exploded Tad.
"Same thing you are."
"What do you mean?"
"Trying to save myself from being burned alive—"
"Don't slow up! Don't slow up!" shouted Tad. "Keep going!"
"I am. Wat's matter with you?"
"I don't see what you had to come tumbling into this mess for," objected Tad.
"Didn't tumble in. Rode in. Came to help you—"
"Precious lot of help you'll be to me. Lucky if we're not both burned with our boots on. See! The flame's narrowing in on us. More steam, Chunky! More steam!" urged Tad.
"Can't. Blow up the boiler if I do," Stacy could not be other than humorous, even under their present trying situation.
"That's better than burning out your fires, and it's quicker too—"
All at once, Chunky uttered a terrible howl. His pony had stepped into a hole and gone down floundering in the long grass, Chunky himself having been hurled over the animal's head, landing several feet in advance.
"Help! Help!"
The rest was lost as the fat boy's face plowed the earth filling mouth, eyes and nostrils.
Tad did not lose his presence of mind, though events had been following each other in such quick succession.
Changing the reins to his right hand and bunching them there, he grasped the pommel of the saddle, driving his own pony straight at the kicking, floundering Chunky.
The pony swerved ever so little, Tad's body swept down, and when it rose, his fingers were fastened in the shirt collar of his companion, with Chunky yelling and choking, as he was being dragged over the ground at almost a killing pace.
Tad had no time to do more than hold on to his friend. He dared not stop to lift him to the saddle just then. The flames were roaring behind them and on either side, leaving a long, narrow lane ahead, through which lay their only hope of safety.
"Buck up! Buck up, Chunky!" shouted Tad, himself taking a fresh brace in the stirrups, for the weight of the fat boy's dragging body was slowly pulling Tad from the saddle.
Stacy was howling like an Indian, not from fear, but from anger at the rough usage to which he was being subjected. He did not stop to think that it was the only way his life might be saved—nor that his own pony lay back there in the bunch grass amid the flame and smoke.
Tad knew it.
Now, by a mighty effort Tad righted himself again, and, leaning forward, threw one arm about the pony's neck, trusting to the animal to follow the outward trail to safety of its own accord.
Tad felt a sudden jolt that nearly caused him to slide from his pony on the side opposite Chunky. At the same time, the strain on the lad's arm was suddenly released.
Tad was up on his saddle like a flash. His right hand held the fat boy's shirt, while a series of howls to the rear told him where the owner of the shirt lay.
Tad groaned. Pulling his pony fairly back on its haunches, he dashed back where Stacy lay kicking, entangling himself deeper and deeper in the bunch grass.
Had Tad not had presence of mind they both might have perished right there. He was off like a flash. With supreme strength, he grasped the body of his fallen companion, raising him into the saddle.
"Hold on!" he shouted. "Don't you dare fall off!"
Stacy clung like a monkey to a pony in a circus race.
"Y-i-i-p!" trilled Tad. He had no time to mount. Already he could feel the hot breath of the flames on his cheek.
The broncho was off with a bound.
"Tad! Tad!" cried Chunky in sudden alarm, now realizing that he was alone. "Whe—where are you?"
"H-h-h-h-e-r-e!"
"W-w-where?"
"H-h-h-holding to the b-r-r-oncho's t-tail."
"Wow!" howled Stacy, as, turning in the saddle, he discovered his companion being fairly jerked through the air, holding fast to the pony's tail, the lad's feet hardly touching the ground at all. The broncho, that ordinarily would have resented such treatment, too fully occupied in saving his own life from the flames, gave no heed to the weight he was dragging, and it is doubtful if he even realized there was any additional weight there.
With a final, desperate leap, the broncho shot out ahead of the narrowing lane. Like the jaws of some great monster, the two lapping lines of fire closed in behind them, roaring as if with deadly rage.
The pony dashed out into a broad, open water course, whose dry, glistening sands would prove an effectual barrier to the prairie fire.
Tad, though everything was swimming before his eyes, realized quickly that they were now well out of danger.
"St-t-t-top him. I c-c-c-an't let go if you d-d-don't."
"Whoa! Whoa! Don't you know enough to quit when you're through?" chided Chunky, tugging at the reins. The broncho carried them some distance before the lad was able to pull him down. Finally he did so.
"Leggo!" he shouted, at the same time whirling the pony sharply about, fairly "cracking the whip" with Tad Butler.
Chunky's clever foresight probably saved Tad Butler's life, for, instantly the pony found itself free, it began bucking and kicking in a circle, kicking a ring all round the compass before it finally decided to settle down on all fours. Finishing, it meekly lowered its nose to the ground and now, as docile as a kitten after having supped on warm milk, began dozing, the steam rising in a cloud from its sides.
"Well, of all the fool fools, you're the champion fool!" growled Stacy, slipping from the saddle and surveying the broncho with disapproving eyes. "Hah! I guess we'd been done to a turn by this if it hadn't been for you, just the same. Hello, Tad!"
Tad had doubled up in a heap where the tail of the broncho had flung him. He was well-nigh spent, but he smiled back at his companion, who stood on a slight rise of ground, almost a heroic figure.
Chunky's shirt was entirely missing, his skin red from the heat, ridged with scratches where he had come in violent contact with cactus plants, his hair tousled and gray with dust.
"Well you are a sight," grinned Tad.
"You wouldn't take a prize at a baby show yourself," retorted Stacy, spicily.
Tad's clothes were torn, and his limbs were black and blue all the way down where the hoofs of the broncho had raked them again and again.
"My arms feel a foot longer than they did. What are you looking at?"
Stacy's eyes grew large and luminous as he gazed off over the plains.
"Look! Look, Tad!" he whispered.
"Fire! Fire!" cried Professor Zepplin, leaping up from where he had been leaning over, watching the water bubbling in the bottom of the excavation they had made.
The guide had been hanging over the hole, dipping water to Ned, who was turning it into the water-bags.
"Where, where?" demanded Mr. Kringle explosively. He also sprang to his feet. "It's a prairie fire!"
"The boys are caught. They'll perish!" exclaimed Professor Zepplin, with blanching face. "Go to them, go to them, Mr. Kringle!" he begged.
"No living thing could get through that wall of fire, Professor," announced the guide impressively. "We'll shout and perhaps, if alive, they'll bear us."
They did so, with the result already known.
"Which direction did Master Stacy take?" Mr. Kringle asked.
"I saw him riding down that way," replied Walter, pointing excitedly.
"Then, perhaps he is safe outside of the fire zone. Some of you hurry back to the camp, The stock may take fright and stampede. No, we'll all go. The wind may shift at any moment, and while I do not think the flames could reach the camp, all our animals might be suffocated, even if they did not succeed in getting away."
"But you're not going to desert Tad and Chunky, are you?" demanded Walter indignantly.
"Certainly not. What can we do here? We must get the ponies first; then we'll hurry to them. I'm afraid they've been caught," answered the guide.
"If there's any way of escape you may depend upon it that Master Tad has discovered that way," answered the Professor. "He is a resourceful boy, and—"
But the rest were already dashing madly toward the camp and Professor Zepplin began to do so with all speed to catch up with them. The hot breath of the prairie fire had brought the color to his blanched cheeks.
"How—how do you think the fire started?" stammered the Professor, when he at last came up with the guide.
"It was set afire," answered Kris Kringle grimly.
"Set!" shouted the Professor and the two boys all in one breath.
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"That remains to be seen."
"Do you mean that one of the boys was imprudent enough to build a fire in that grass? Surely they would not have been so foolish as to do a thing like that."
"As I said, that remains to be seen. The first thing to be done is to get to them as quickly as possible, though I don't know that we can do any good. They're either out of it, by this time, or else they're not," added Mr. Kringle suggestively. "Professor, I wish you and one of the boys would get out your rifles, mount your ponies and watch the camp, while two of us go in search of the lost ones."
"Watch the camp?"
"Yes."
"For what reason?"
"Merely as a precaution."
"I'll attend to that. I want all of you to get after Tad and Stacy. We don't care about the camp particularly, when compared with two human lives."
The smoke was rolling over them in such dense clouds that the camp was wholly obscured from view until they were upon it.
"Quick! Get the horses before they break away!" commanded the guide.
"I can't find them!" shouted Ned, who had bounded on ahead and disappeared in the great suffocating cloud.
Walter was only a few steps behind him, both boys groping, blinking and coughing as the smoke got into eyes and lungs.
"Lie down when it gets stronger than you can stand. There's always a current of fresh air near the ground," called the guide.
Both lads adopted his suggestion instantly, and they were none too soon, for already they were getting dizzy. After a few long breaths, they were up, groping about once more in search of the stock.
"Over to you right," called the Professor.
"We've been there. They're not there at all," answered Ned.
By this time the guide had dived into the cloud.
"The stock has gone," they heard him shoat.
"Have they stampeded?" roared the Professor.
"I don't know. I'll find out in a minute."
"Queer that this smoke blows two ways at once," said Walter.
"There is a slight breeze blowing this way," explained Ned. "Not enough, however, to turn the fire back. It has got too good a start."
Suddenly a weird "c-o-o-e-e" sounded to the right of them.
"What's that?"
"It's the guide, Walt. He's trying to call the boys, to see if they are alive," explained Ned.
"I don't think so. That cry is for some other purpose. I'm going over where he is to find out what it does mean. Come on."
Together the lads ran as fast as they could in the direction from which the guide's voice had come.
They found him with hands shaped into a megaphone, uttering his shrill cries. He made no answer to their questions as to what he was trying to do.
All at once off in the cloud they heard rapid hoofbeats. The boys glanced at each other in surprise.
"It's the ponies returning," breathed Walter Perkins.
Ned shook his head.
The cries now took on a more insistent tone, and a moment later two ponies came whinnying into the camp, snorting with fear. Kris Kringle spoke to them sharply, whereupon they came trotting up to him with every evidence of pleasure.
The lads were amazed.
"Can you boys shoot a rope?"
"Yes," they answered together.
"Which one is the better at it?"
"Ned is more expert than I am."
"Take one of my ponies. We've got to go after the stock. Rope and bring them in as fast as possible. It's getting late, and it will be dark before we know it. There's not more than two hours of daylight left."
"I can take my pony and help," began Walter.
"You haven't any pony. They're all gone."
Ned and the guide dashed from the camp at break-neck speed. Emerging from the dust cloud they saw some of the stock far off on the plain.
"There they are!" cried Ned
"Thank goodness, they're all together. And they are not running. We've got them bunched."
"Were they afraid of the smoke? What made them break away?"
"They didn't break away."
"What?"
"Their tethers were cut and they were sent adrift," answered the guide grimly.
Ned was speechless with surprise.
Some of the ponies, objecting to being roped, ran away, necessitating a lively chase. Kris Kringle worked with the precision of an automatic gun and with proportionate speed. In half an hour they had roped all the ponies, and, with the burros trailing along behind, started back to camp as rapidly as possible.
A heavy pall of smoke still hung over the camp and all the surrounding country.
Once more they staked down the ponies and pack animals, and urging vigilance on the part of Professor Zepplin, Ned and the guide dashed away at full gallop in search of the two missing lads.
"Are we going through the fire?" questioned Ned apprehensively.
"We're going to try it. The worst of it must have passed before this, but we may have to turn back or turn out for spots. It's the shortest way, and the only course to follow if we want to know what has become of them."
Spreading out a little they continued on their way, the ponies snorting, threatening to whirl about and race back into the open plain. The ground was like a furnace and the grass smouldered beneath them, heating their feet and singeing their fetlocks.
Suddenly Ned's pony reared into the air, bucked and hurled its rider far over into the smouldering bunch grass.
Ned uttered a yell of warning as he felt himself going.
The guide wheeled like a flash. Ned's mount had whirled and was away like a shot. But the guide was after him with even greater speed. The chase came to an abrupt ending some few rods farther on, when Kris Kringle's lariat squirmed out, bringing the fleeing pony to the ground with its nose in the hot dust.
Without dismounting, the guide turned his own mount, and fairly dragging the unwilling pony behind him, pounded back to the place where Ned had been unhorsed.
"Grab him!" commanded the guide to Ned, who had quickly scrambled to his feet. "What was it that he saw?"
"I don't know. Guess he made up his mind to go back."
"No; he saw something. Hang on to him and cover the ground all about you till you find it."
"Wha—what do you—"
"Never mind. Look!"
"Here! Here it is!" cried Ned aghast.
The guide was at his side instantly.
"It's a pony," gasped the Pony Rider boy.
Kris Kringle was off his own mount instantly, and bidding Ned hold the animal, he made a brief examination of the fallen horse, after which he darted here and there, unheeding the fact that the still burning grass was blistering his feet through the heavy soles of his boots.
For several rods Kringle ran along the faint trail that Tad and Stacy had left, or rather, that the fire had left after passing over it.
"They beat their way out here. We may find them later. Come on!"
Again Ned and the guide dashed away, both keeping their gaze on the smoking prairie about them. The smoke now was almost more than they could bear.
"Do—do you think they are alive?" asked Ned unsteadily.
"So far. If they are not, it's not their fault. The Professor is right. Those boys have pluck enough to pull them through, but sometimes pluck alone will not do it. A prairie fire is no respecter of pluck."
They burst out into an open space. There were no signs of either of the missing boys.
"Something has happened to them. We must have missed them," announced the guide.
"What is it, Chunky?"
"There!"
Tad jerked his companion flat on the ground, flattening himself beside Stacy at the same instant.
What had caused their sudden alarm was the sight of two Indians, sitting on their ponies without saddles, some distance out on the open plain. The redskins were wrapped in their brightly colored blankets, which enveloped them from head to knees. Even the hands were invisible beneath the folds of the blankets.
"D-d-do you think they saw us, Tad?"
"I don't know. It's safe to say they did. Indian eyes don't miss very much. You ought to know that, by this time. I wish we could make that pony lie down."
"Why don't you?"
"He's too afraid of the ground—thinks it's still hot, and I don't blame him. The fire has singed him pretty well as it is."
The Indians sat their mounts as motionless as statues, the ponies headed directly toward where the two lads were lying.
"I'll bet they're got guns under those blankets," decided Tad. "You can't trust an Indian even while you are looking at him."
"Anybody'd think you'd been hunting Indians all your life," growled Stacy.
"They've been hunting me mostly," grinned Tad.
"And usually caught you," added Chunky.
"I don't like this lying here as if we were scared of them."
"But, what else can we do, Tad?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I. Wish I had a shirt. I'll spoil my complexion clear down to my waist. Resides, I'm not fit to be seen."
"You're lucky to be alive," growled Tad. "I'm going to get out of this."
"How?"
"Listen, and you'll know. I'm going to get on the pony; then, as soon as I'm in the saddle, you jump up behind me and we'll start back to camp."
"Not—not through that fire?" protested Stacy.
"No; I don't dare try it. I'm afraid we'd get lost in the smoke and perhaps get burned as well. We'll ride out some distance, then turn to the left and try to go around the burned district."
"What if the Indians chase us?"
"I don't believe they will. They'll hardly dare do that. And, besides, these may be friendly Indians."
"Huh!" grunted Stacy. "They look it."
Tad got up boldly, and without even looking toward the silent red men, began fussing about his saddle, cinching the girths, and straightening the saddle. His last act before mounting was to see that the coils of his lariat were in order.
"All right," announced the lad, vaulting into the saddle.
Stacy scrambled up behind him without loss of time, and they rode out into the open, the fat boy peering apprehensively over his companion's shoulder.
"You keep watch of them, Chunky, but don't let them see you doing it. I won't look at them at all. We don't want them to think we're afraid."
Stacy fidgeted.
"You bet I'll watch 'em. Wish I had my rifle."
"I don't."
"Huh!"
"You have distinguished yourself quite enough with that rifle as it is. We don't want any more of your fancy shooting."
"There they go," warned Stacy.
"I see them." Tad had been cautiously observing the horsemen out of the corners of his eyes. "Moving in the same direction we are. I don't like the looks of it. Still, if they don't get any nearer we may be thankful."
The pony carrying the boys was walking easily, and the mounts of the Indians were doing the same.
"Jog a little," suggested Stacy.
"That's a good idea. It will tell us quickly whether they are trying to keep up with us."
He touched the pony lightly with his spurs. The little animal switched its tail, for its sides were tender, and started off.
"There they go, Tad! Jogging the same gait as ours!"
Tad's face took on the stubborn look it always wore when he had determined upon a certain course of action.
"I'll beat them yet, even if there are only two of them. I wish there weren't two of us on this nag."
"I'll get off and walk," suggested. Stacy.
"You'll do nothing of the sort. That would be a nice thing to do, wouldn't it? They'd round you up quicker'n they could a lame burro."
"Say, Tad."
"What?"
"I've got an idea."
"What is it?"
"You know that sage hen we had?"
"Yes, what's that got to do with our present predicament?"
"I was wondering why there aren't any sage roosters?"
"You'll be a sage rooster, with your head off, first thing you know," snapped Tad in disgust. "Can't you be serious for a minute? Don't you see we are in a fix?"
"Uh-huh!"
"There, that fellow is trying to head us off."
One of the Indians had shot away from his companion, running obliquely toward the point to which Tad was headed.
The red man had gotten quite a start before the boys caught the significance of his manoeuvre.
Tad dug in the spurs.
At that instant the fat boy's hands had been removed from Tad, to whose body they had been clinging.
The pony leaped forward, and Stacy slid over its rump, hitting the ground with a jolt that jarred him.
"Wow!" howled Stacy.
Tad, instantly divining what had happened, pulled up sharply; wheeled and raced back to where his companion was still complaining loudly and rubbing his body.
"Get up!" roared Tad, leaning over and grasping Stacy by the hair of his head.
The fat boy was jerked sharply to his feet.
"Quick! Quick, climb up here!"
With the help of his companion, the lad scrambled up behind Tad again, muttering and rubbing himself.
By this time the leading horseman had wholly outdistanced them, and his pony was now loping along easily, while the second Indian appeared to be riding directly toward them, at right angles to the direction in which they were traveling.
All at once the two Indians began riding about the boys in a circle, uttering short little "yips," intended to terrify the lads, but not loud enough to be heard any great distance away.
"Hang on! We're going to ride for keeps now!" warned Tad.
The fat boy threw both arms about his companion's waist as the pony let out into a swift run. At first Tad thought he had gotten safely out of the circle, only to discover that they had headed him again.
The circle was narrowing, and the Indians were gradually drawing in on them.
Stacy's eyes were growing larger every minute, perhaps more from astonishment than from fear. Then, too, he could not but admire the riding of their pursuers. Even the blankets of the Indians appeared not to be disturbed in the least by their rapid riding, the horsemen sitting a little sideways on the ponies' backs, the reins bunched loosely in their left bands.
"They've got us, Tad."
"They shan't get us!" retorted Tad stubbornly. "If they don't use their guns—and I don't believe they will—we'll beat them yet."
If Stacy was doubtful he did not say so.
"If they get close to us, you be ready to let go of me when I give the word," cautioned Tad.
"What for? What you going to do?"
"I don't know yet. That depends upon circumstances. I'm not going to let them have it all their own way while I've got a pony under me. We may get help any minute, too, so the longer we can put off a clash the better it will be for us."
"Who you mean—Santa Claus?"
"Yes."
"They're closing in now," said Stacy.
"Take your hands away from my waist."
"But I'll fall off, Tad."
"Slip one hand through under my belt and take hold of the cantle with the other. Sit as low as you can so as not to get in my way."
Stacy obeyed his companion's directions without further comment, but he was all curiosity to know what was going to happen next.
The Indians were drawing nearer every second now. The boys could see the expressions on their evil faces, intensified by the streaks of yellow and red paint.
"They look as though they'd stuck their heads in a paint pail," was Chunky's muttered comment.
The blankets fell away from the racing savages, flapped on the rumps of the bobbing ponies for a few seconds and then slipped to the ground.
A rifle was reposing in each man's holster, as Tad observed instantly. He was thankful to note that the guns were not in the hands of the Indians.
The lad's right hand had dropped carelessly to the saddle horn, the fingers cautiously gathering in the coils of the lariat that hung there. The red men did not appear to have observed his act.
"Lie low!" commanded Tad, scarcely above a whisper.
Stacy settled down slowly so as not to attract attention.
One horseman shot directly across Tad's course, striking the lad's pony full in the face as he did so, and causing the animal to brace himself so suddenly as to nearly unseat both boys.
Tad's rope was in the air in a twinkling.
A warning shout from the second Indian, who was just to the rear of them, came too late. The rope shot true to its mark and the first savage, with back half-turned, had failed to observe it coming.
The great loop dropped over his head. The pony braced itself and Tad took a quick turn of the rope about the pommel of his saddle.
The result was instantaneous. The Indian was catapulted from his saddle with arms pinioned to his aide.
"Ye-ow!" howled Chunky; unable to restrain his enthusiasm.
Tad did not even hear him.
"Look out! Here comes the other one!" warned the fat boy.
But Tad was too busily engaged in keeping the line taut about the roped Indian. The fellow was struggling on the ground, fighting to free himself, while the boy with the rope was manoeuvring his pony in a series of lightning-like movements that made the fat boy's head swim.
"Take care of him, Chunky!! I can't," gasped Tad.
Stacy's eyes took on a belligerent expression as the second savage bore down upon them, with knees gripped tightly against the side of his pony, half raising himself above the animal's back, reins dropped on the pony's neck. The Indian was guiding his mount by the pressure of legs and knees alone.
The angry redskin was making futile attempts to get into a position where he might grab the active Tad. He did not seem to take into account the cringing figure behind the boy who had roped the other Indian.
All at once, at the opportune moment, his pony forging ahead, the Indian's hand shot out. The red, bony fingers were closing upon Tad Butler's right shoulder, when all at once something happened.
The cringing fat boy rose. The right hand that had been clinging to the cantle was launched out. His body, thrown forward at the same time, lent the blow added force.
Chunky's fist came into violent contact with the Indian's jaw. Mr. Redman disappeared from the back of his pony so quickly that, for a second, Stacy could scarcely believe his eyes.
"Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!" howled the fat boy. "Beat it for the tall grass, Tad!"
A quick glance behind him, revealed the true state of affairs to Tad Butler. He dug in the spurs, clinging to the lariat for a few feet, then suddenly releasing it, as the pony leaped away under the stinging pressure of the spurs.
"Duck! Duck! They're going to shoot!" shouted Tad.
"There it goes! Lower, Chunky!"
A rifle had crashed somewhere to the left of them.
Stacy's curiosity getting the better of him, he had twisted his body around, and was peering back; but he was bobbing up and down so fast that he found it difficult to fix his eyes on any one point long enough to distinguish what that object was.
"Look! Look!" he cried, when in a long rise of the pony his eyes had caught something definite.
The roped Indian was running for his pony, which he caught, leaping to its back and dashing away madly.
"Hold up! Hold up! There's something doing," shouted the fat, boy.
Tad swerved a little, turning to his left. Rifles were banging, and the dust was spurting up under the feet of the savage's racing pony.
By this time, the second Indian had recovered from the blow that Stacy had landed on his jaw, and he too was in his saddle in a twinkling, tearing madly cross the plain.
Stacy Brown uttered a series of wild whoops and yells. He knew their assailants were running and that some one was shooting at the Indians, but who it was the fat boy could only guess.
Two ponies suddenly dashed out from the low-lying smoke cloud. One of their riders was swinging his sombrero and cheering; the other was firing his rifle after the fleeing savages.
"Hooray, it's Santa Claus," howled Stacy, fairly beside himself with excitement. Even Tad caught something of his companion's spirit of enthusiasm. He swung his hand and started galloping toward the two horsemen.
"Shoot 'em! Kill 'em!" howled Chunky.
But Santa Claus merely shook his head, and after refilling the magazine of his rifle slipped it into the holster.
"It would only make trouble and probably cause an uprising if I did. They know I could have winged them both had I wanted to," he grinned. "Well, you boys are a sight."
"I—I lost my shirt," interjected Stacy.
"And I suppose you fell in," chuckled Ned.
"No; I fell off."
"We're lucky to be alive," laughed Tad.
"You are that. I see now that Professor Zepplin was right when he said you could take care of yourself. Never saw anything quite so slick as the way you roped that redskin—"
"And—and I punched the other one," glowed Chunky.
"Did you see us?" questioned Tad.
"Yes, we saw the whole proceeding. But you were so mixed up that we couldn't fire without danger of hitting one of you boys. Wonder what those Apaches think struck them," laughed the guide. "How did you get through the fire?"
Tad explained briefly; at the same time accounting for the loss of Stacy's shirt.
"I bet that the fellow with the canary-wing face has a sore jaw," bubbled Stacy.
"No doubt of it, Master Stacy. I didn't suppose you had such a punch as that. You're a good Indian fighter."
"Always was," answered the fat boy, swelling with importance.
"Come, we'll have to hurry back It will be dark before we reach camp, as it is, and the Professor will be worrying about you."
They turned about, and, heading across the burned area, started for camp. Fitful blazes were springing up here and there, but all danger had, by this time, passed, though the smoke still hung heavy and the odor of burned vegetation smote the nostrils unpleasantly.
Stacy sniffed the air suspiciously.
"Tastes like a drug store fire I smelled once in Chillicothe," he averred.
"I haven't made up my mind, yet, how that fire started, Mr. Kringle," wondered Tad.
"I have," replied the guide tersely.
"How?"
"It was set afire!"
"By whom?"
"By one of those savages, or by somebody who was with them. They must have been watching you all the time. Did you recognize either of them as the fellow you knocked down the other might?"
"No; I don't think I would know the Indian. The light was too uncertain at the fire dance, and then again, all Indians look alike to me."
"It was a narrow escape."
"Do you think they'll come back again?" questioned Ned.
"I doubt it. They won't if they recognized me. They know me. They've done business with me before."
Professor Zepplin and Walter were overjoyed when at last the party rode into camp and they learned that both boys were safe. The lads were obliged to go all over their experiences again for the benefit of the Professor and Walter.
"It's getting worse and worse," decided the Professor helplessly. "I don't know where all this is going to end. I thought when we got a new guide—but what's the use? Do you think we had better start to-night, Mr. Kringle?"
"No. There is no necessity."
"What am I going to do for a pony?" asked Chunky.
"You can ride one of mine. I always take two when on a long journey," replied the guide.
Chunky's first act after reaching camp, was to provide himself with a shirt. After donning it, he announced that he had an appetite and wanted to know when they were going to have supper.
"Why, you had supper hours ago," scoffed Ned. "Want another one already?"
"That wasn't supper, that was four o'clock tea. Indian fighters must have real food."
"Stop teasing. We'll give the 'ittle baby his milk," returned Ned.
That night, Kris Kringle remained on guard himself. He would not trust the guardianship of the camp to any of the boys, for he fully expected that they would receive a visit from one or more of the Indians, though he did not tell the others so. But nothing occurred to disturb the camp, and the boys, despite their trying experiences, slept soundly, awakening in the morning fresh and active, ready and anxious for any further adventures.
The party set out shortly after sunrise, and traveled all day across the uneven plains, across short mountain ranges, through deep gorges and rugged foothills.
Crossing an open space the guide espied a bottle glistening in the sunlight.
"There's a bottle," pointed the guide. "Want it?"
Stacy glanced at it indifferently;
"What do I want of a bottle?"
"Then I'll take it," decided the guide, dismounting and stowing the abandoned piece of glass in his saddle bags.
"Bottles are good for only two things."
"And what are they, Master Stacy?" questioned the Professor.
"To keep things in and to shoot at," replied the fat boy wisely.
Everybody laughed at that.
"I guess that embodies everything you can say about bottles," smiled the Professor. "Your logic, at times, young man, is unassailable."
Chunky nodded. He had a faint idea of what Professor Zepplin meant.
Late that afternoon the travelers came upon a shack in the foothills, where an old rancher, a hermit, lived when not tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, Kris Kringle said, the old man had stolen from droves that came up over the trail going north.
He was an interesting old character, this hermit, and the boys decided that they would like to make camp and have him take supper with them. This the Professor and the guide readily agreed to, for everyone was hot and dusty and the bronchos were nervous and ill-natured.
The boys found the old rancher talkative enough on all subjects save himself. When Chunky asked him where he came from, and what for, the old man's face flushed angrily.
At the first opportunity the guide took the fat boy aside for some fatherly advice.
"In this country it isn't good policy to be too curious about a man's family affairs. He's likely to resent it in a way you won't like. Most fellows out here have reasons for being out of the world, beyond what's apparent on the surface."
Chunky heeded the advice and asked no more personal questions for the next hour, though he did forget himself before the evening was ended.
"You seem to be having pretty dry weather down here," said the Professor, by way of starting the old man to talking.
"Yep. Haven't had any rain in this belt fer the last two years."
"Two years!" exclaimed the boys.
"Yep. Had a few light dews, but that's all," replied the hermit.
"Looks to me as if you were going to get some to-night," announced Tad.
"Reckon not."
"Then I'm no judge of weather."
Even as Tad spoke there was a low muttering of thunder, and the far lightning flashed pale and green, and rose on the long horizon to the southwest.
Kris Kringle heard the far away growl. Springing up, he began staking down the tents.
"That's a good idea. We lost our whole outfit on our last trip. Think they'll stand a blow?"
"I guess they will when I get through with them. Have we any more stakes in camp?"
"There should be some in the kit."
Tad searched until he found several more stakes, and with these and the emergency ropes, they made the tents secure.
By the time they had done so, the heavens had grown black and menacing. They could see the storm sweeping down on them. It was a magnificent sight, and the lads were so lost in observing its grandeur that they forgot to feel any alarm.
A cloud of dust accompanied the advance guard of the storm.
"Reckon there ain't any rain in them clouds," commented the old man. "There's plenty of the other thing, though."
"What's the other thing?" questioned Chunky.
"Lightning."
Even as he spoke a bolt descended right in the center of the camp, tearing a hole in the earth and hurling a cloud of dirt and dust many feet up into the air.
The force of the explosion knocked some of the party flat.
Chunky picked himself up and carefully brushed his clothes; then, solemnly walked out and sat down on the spot where the lightning had struck.
"Here, here! What are you doing out there?" demanded the guide.
"Sitting on the lightning."
"You come in here! And quick, at that!"
"Huh! Guess I know what I'm doing. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. I'm—"
By this time Kris Kringle had the fat boy by the collar, hustling him to the protection of one of the tents.
No sooner had they reached it than a crash that seemed as if it had split the earth wide open descended upon them. Balls of fire shot off in every direction. One went right through the tent where they were huddled, hurling the Pony Rider Boys in a heap.
They scrambled up calling to each other nervously.
The shock had extinguished the lantern that hung in the tent. The guide relighted it, and, stepping outside to see what had happened, pointed to the place where Chunky had been sitting but a few minutes before.
The bolt had struck in the identical spot where the previous one had landed.
"Now, young man, there's an object lesson for you," Mr. Kringle said, with a grim smile.
"And there's another!" replied Chunky, pointing to the outside of the tent.
There lay the old rancher, whose absence they had not noted. He had been in the tent with them when they last saw him and how he had gotten out there none knew. The rancher had been stripped of every vestige of clothing by the freaky lightning.
"He's dead," crooned Stacy solemnly.
"Get water, quick! He's been struck by lightning!" commanded the guide, making systematic efforts to bring the old man back to consciousness.
Stacy ran for the water-bags.
"I am afraid it is useless, Mr. Kringle," warned, the Professor, failing to find a pulse. The boys were standing about fanning the victim, having one by one dumped the contents of their canteens in his face.
Stacy returned with a water-bag after a little.
"I—I—I've got an idea," he exploded, as with eyes wide open he attempted to tell them something.
"Keep still. We've got something else to do besides listening to your foolishness," chided Ned.
"Chunky, we're trying to save this man's life. Give me that bag," commanded Tad.
The two older men were working desperately on the patient. Stacy stood around, fidgeting a little, but making no further attempt to enlighten them as to what his new idea was.
After a time the rancher began to show signs of recovering. He gasped a few times then opened his eyes.
"What kicked me?" he asked, with a half-grin.
They could all afford to laugh now, and they did. The rancher refused their offer of clothes, saying he had another suit in his shack.
"That's twice the stuff has knocked me out. Next time it'll git me for keeps," he said.
"Does it strike here very often?" questioned the Professor.
"Allus."
"Then, there must be some mineral substance in the soil."
"No, ain't nothing like that. Jest contrariness that's all. Hit my shack once, and 'cause 'twas raining, bored holes in the roof so the place got all wet inside."
"But it isn't raining now. Doesn't it usually rain when you have a thunder storm here?" asked the Professor.
"No. Ain't had no rain in nigh onto two year," the hermit reiterated.
"You'd better go and put on some clothes," suggested Kris Kringle.
"Guess that's right."
The old man seemed to have forgotten his condition. The others had wrapped a blanket around him, which seemed to satisfy his demand for clothes. Gathering up the blanket he strolled leisurely toward his cabin, undisturbed by his recent experience.
"Nothing like getting used to it," chuckled Stacy.
"Hello, now we'll hear what your new idea is, Chunky?" jeered Ned.
"Yes, what is it?" urged Tad.
"Nothing much."
"Never is," cut in Walter Perkins, a little maliciously.
"I—I got an idea the ponies tried to kick holes in the lightning."
Everybody laughed loudly. They could well afford to laugh, now that the danger had passed.
"What makes you think that?" asked the guide, eyeing him sharply.
"'Cause they're dead!"
"What!" shouted the boys.
All hands dashed from the tent, Stacy regarding them with soulful eyes, after which he surreptitiously slipped a biscuit into his pocket and strolled out after them.