Bud Stevens Landed on His Head in the Pool of Yellow WaterBud Stevens Landed on His Head in the Pool of Yellow Water
Bud Stevens Landed on His Head in the Pool of Yellow WaterBud Stevens Landed on His Head in the Pool of Yellow Water
"Grab hold of a foot, Chunky!" commanded Tad. "Quick! He'll drown in a minute in there."
"Oh, let 'im drown," drawled Stacy, blinking to get the sand out of his eyes.
"Get hold, I tell you! I'll thrash you, Stacy Brown, if you don't!"
Stacy reluctantly complied, Tad in the meantime having grasped the cowboy's foot and began pulling.
"Not that way, Chunky. Do you want to pull him apart?"
The fat boy was trying to get Bud's right leg out from the opposite side of the water hole.
The disturbance had by this time attracted the attention of the men over in the camp. They started on the run when they saw Bud turned head first into the water hole.
By the time they reached the scene Tad and Stacy had succeeded in hauling the victim from his perilous position. Bud was choking between roars of rage. His companions went off into shrieks of laughter when they understood what had happened. They rolled on the ground; they danced about their fallen companion, and then their revolvers began to add their vicious voices to the tumult.
Tad paid no attention to the uproar. He was too busy shaking the water out of his fallen antagonist, to whom he was giving first aid to the drowning.
Bud staggered to his feet, gasped for breath, while Tad stepped off a few paces, so as not to be within reach of those long, bony arms, should Bud decide to stretch them forth and take him in.
"Guess you got all that was coming to you that time, Bud Stevens," grinned Tom Parry. "Served you right. You'll let those boys alone after this or you'll have to reckon with me."
Stevens's face was streaked with wet sand, his hair was disheveled and his clothes stuck to him as if they had been pasted on.
The cowboy's sullen face slowly relaxed into a mirthless grin.
"Say, kiddie, you put it over me like a cactus plant. I owe you two."
"I'd cancel the debt if I were in your place," laughed the boy. "Come along and have a drink of coffee. It'll warm you up after your swim."
An appetizing meal had been spread for the visitors. But every time the men glanced at their companion they broke out into loud guffaws.
"You're a sight, Bud," jeered one.
"Next time better take a man of your size," said another.
"Guess that's right," grinned the vanquished one. "Ye can't most always tell what a kid's going to do."
"We know what this one did do to you, though," laughed another.
"Reckon I do myself," admitted Stevens. "Say, kiddie, you come along with us and try them tricks on the wild hosses we're going to catch. Mebby I'll forgit to take it out of you. I'll let the white stallion do that."
"Thank you; I'll accept that invitation, with Professor Zepplin's permission."
"We intended to drop in on your bunch, anyway," interposed Parry. "The boss has invited us to join a horse hunt with you."
"Better go along with us now, then," suggested Stevens. "We won't have no more rough house, leastwise till we get to the San Antone Range, eh?"
"No," replied Parry. "We have a pack train to drag along. Besides, you fellows travel too fast for us. We'll take our time and join you later."
The bath and the hot coffee had served to quiet Bud Stevens's bubbling spirits. He was by this time a more rational being.
After they had finished the meal Bud drew Tad Butler aside confidentially.
"Say, kiddie, I like you," he said, slapping the lad a violent blow between the shoulders.
"Glad of it," laughed Tad. "But you have a queer way of showing your affection."
"Say, can you ride?"
"Some," admitted Tad.
"As well as you can fight and throw a rope?"
"I was not aware that I did either one very well."
"Go away! Go away! You're a champeen. I've got a spavined, ring-boned cayuse over in the range that I'm going to put you up against when you join us. He'll give you all the exercise you want——"
"Hey, Bud, ain't it 'bout time we were moseying?" called one of Stevens's companions.
"I reckon. Can't be any hotter than 'tis now. When you going to join us, Parry?"
"We'll be there in a few days. But come here; I want to talk with you?"
"Sure thing."
"If we go on a hunt with you, remember there's to be no funny business. These boys, while they're no tenderfeet, are fine fellows and they must be treated well. I'm responsible for them. What I say goes. Understand?"
"We'll look out for the kids, don't you get in a hot stew 'bout that."
With a final whoop and a cheer for the members of Tom Parry's party, the turbulent cowboys put spurs to their ponies. Once more a cloud of dust rose from the desert, across which it slowly rolled. The boys watched it for half an hour, until the cloud had dwindled to a mere speck in the distance.
"Not such a bad lot, after all," was the Professor's conclusion.
"Rough diamonds," smiled the guide.
"Are we going on now, Mr. Parry?" asked Tad.
"No; I think we may as well unpack and make camp here until to-morrow morning. Then the stock will be fresh, and so shall we."
"The stock looks to be in pretty good shape already," answered Tad.
"Yes; but they will be much better to-morrow. A day's water and feed will do wonders for them. I guess the bunch of horse-hunters made quite a hole in our fodder, didn't they?"
"There was nothing the matter with their appetites that I observed," laughed Tad. "But we've got enough to last us for some time. How long before we shall strike the range where we are to join them?"
Parry glanced off over the desert meditatively.
"If we have no bad luck we ought to make it in three days. The cowboys will get there some time to-morrow."
"One of them won't," answered Tad, confidently.
"Why not?"
"His pony is wind-broken. Didn't you hear him breathe when they rode in?"
"What, with the bunch howling like a pack of coyotes? No, I didn't hear a horse breathe."
"I did," chimed in Stacy.
"Did what?" queried Ned, turning on him sharply. Rector had not heard the fat boy approach them.
"Heard the big cowboy breathe. He wheezed like a leaky steam engine."
Tad and the guide burst out laughing.
"Why, boy, we weren't talking about the cowboy. We were speaking of one of the bronchos. Tad says he is wind-broken."
"Huh!" grunted Stacy, strolling off with hands thrust in his pockets, chin on his breast. "When I'm not right I'm always wrong," he muttered. "Mostly wrong."
They did not see the lad again for more than an hour. The rest of the party gathered under the tent they had first erected, where they now fell to discussing their late visitors, next turning to their plans for the morrow.
"Do we follow the same course when we next start?" asked the Professor.
"Not quite. We veer a little more to the west, until we string the San Antonio Range. When we leave there, if you conclude to go on, we shall head southward toward Death Valley. I understand you are willing to penetrate it a little way."
"Yes, if you think it is safe to do so."
Parry shrugged his shoulders.
"Death Valley is no better than its name. If you wish merely to see it, I think I can gratify your desire."
"Yes, yes, we want to see Death Valley," chorused the boys. "Don't be afraid for us."
"I'll try to get some water bags from the horse-hunters when we join them; for the further south one goes on the desert the more scarce the water becomes."
The sun was lying low by this time and the advance guard of the evening coolness began crowding back the heat of the day.
"I wonder what has become of Chunky?" questioned Tad suddenly, rising from the ground where he had thrown himself in the shade of the tent.
The others glanced quickly about them.
"Probably find him asleep behind a bunch of sage somewhere," answered Ned lightly. "Don't trouble yourself about him."
"Perhaps over by the water hole," suggested the guide. "I'll stroll over that way."
Just then a figure topped the ridge beyond them.
It was yelling lustily, leaping into the air, rolling and groveling on the ground alternately.
"There he is! Something's happened to him," shouted Walter.
All hands started on a run. They could not imagine what had gone wrong with the fat boy.
As they drew nearer to him they discovered that he had taken off all his clothes. His body was as red as if it had been painted.
The Professor's long legs were covering the alkali at a pace that left the others behind, until Tad spurted and headed him.
"Chunky, Chunky! What's the matter?" he shouted.
Stacy yelled more lustily than ever.
"What is it? What is it?" shouted the others in chorus.
"I'm burned alive? I'm cremated! Oh, w-o-w!"
"Should think you would he. What on earth have you got your clothes off for?"
They discovered that something was the matter then, for an expression of real pain had taken the place of the complacent look they were wont to see on the face of Stacy Brown.
"He's been boiling himself!" exclaimed the guide, with quick intuition.
Grasping the fat boy, Parry threw him flat on the ground and began rolling him in the sand. Stacy yelled more lustily than before.
"Run to my saddlebags. Fetch the black bottle you will find there!" commanded the guide. "It's oil, yes. Hurry, before his skin all peels off."
Tad was back with the black bottle in no time. Tom Parry spread the oil over the blistered flesh of the fat boy, whose yells grew less and less explosive as he felt the soothing effects of the grease on his body.
"Wha—what happened?" stammered Walter.
"I—I fell in."
"In where?" questioned the Professor sharply.
"I don't know. It was hot."
"Put your clothes on. You'll be all right in a little while. Where did you leave them?"
Stacy pointed back on the desert some distance, whereat Parry laughingly said he would go in search of the clothing.
"Now if you will be good enough to tell me what all this uproar is about, I shall be obliged to you," requested the Professor.
"Why, the boy found a boiling spring——"
"And he fell in," added Ned solemnly.
"He did," agreed the guide, without the suspicion of a smile.
"Is that it, Master Stacy?"
Stacy nodded.
"Tell me about it."
"I—I was walking along with my hands in my pockets——"
"Thinking," interjected Ned.
"What'd you suppose I was doing! Ain't I always thinking when I'm not asleep?"
"Go on, go on," urged Ned unsympathetically.
"All at once something slipped. I went right through the ground. At first I thought I was a pond of ice water, it felt so cold. Next thing I knew I was burning up."
"But your clothes? What did you have them off for?" urged the Professor.
"I took them off when I thought I was burning up. Say, fellows, that was the hottest ice water I ever took a bath in my life."
The boys could barely resist their inclination to laugh.
"Why don't you laugh if you want to? Never mind me. I don't count," growled Chunky.
Parry explained that these boiling springs were not infrequent on the desert. They were found, generally, further north, he said. This one must have worked its way up through the alkali until only a thin crust covered it, and this crust the boy had had the misfortune to step on and break through.
"You wouldn't think there were so many pitfalls under this baked desert, would you?" questioned Ned.
"I look like a piece of human sandpaper, don't I?" muttered Stacy ruefully, as he carefully drew on his clothes. "Every time I sit down I'll remember that hot ice water."
"Thank goodness, we're in the foothills," sighed Tad, when three days later they came to a halt at the base of the San Antonio Range far down on the Nevada Desert.
"Yes, it is a relief to see some real rocks once more," agreed Walter. "Chunky, look out that you don't step into any more ice water. You'll miss the horse-hunt if you do."
"No danger of that up here," laughed the guide.
Behind them lay the desert maze, to the right and left, mountain ranges, high plateaux, mesas and buttes. Giant yucca trees, short, spreading piñon and spindling cedars clothed the higher peaks of the San Antonio Range.
Trees, too, were scattered about in the foothills, and though they gave little shade it was a relief to every sense of the Pony Riders to feel the hills and trees about them.
There, with what little shade they could get, the lads made camp. As yet they had found no water, though Parry said there would be springs in plenty further up in the mountains. The bags still held enough to last them until the following day, so no effort was made to locate fresh water that afternoon.
Stacy had thrown himself down under one of the yucca trees, but the late afternoon sun filtered through the branches, making his face look red and heated.
"You don't seem to be getting much shade from that tree," laughed the guide.
"'Bout as much as I would from a barbed wire fence," frowned Stacy.
"What do you know about barbed-wire fences?" demanded Ned.
"Me? Know all 'bout them. One night I had a falling out with one, when I was taking a short cut across the fields to get home."
"How about the apples? Did you get them?" asked Tad.
"Apples? What do you know 'bout it? Were you there, too?"
A laugh greeted the fat boy's reply.
"Come, come, young men. Are you going to make camp?" urged the Professor.
"Didn't know we were going to remain here to-night," replied Walter. "Of course we're going to make camp if that's the case. It'll be a good time to shake the alkali dust out of our belongings and from ourselves."
"I haven't got any dust," piped Stacy. "I—I had a bath—a hot bath."
"Are we anywhere near the horse-hunters, Mr. Parry?" inquired Tad, as the boys began unpacking the burros, some devoting their attention to the kitchen outfit, the rest spreading the canvas on the ground preparatory to erecting the tents.
"They are supposed to be further up the range. They will be down this way to-morrow, probably, to pick us up. They were not certain where they would make their permanent camp, Stevens said. All depends upon where the wild horses are grazing."
"I don't see any wild horses, nor any other wild anything," objected Ned.
The guide dropped the ridge pole that he was about to carry to the place where the cook tent had been laid out ready to be raised.
"Come with me," he said, taking Ned by the arm and leading him to the left of their camping place. "Do you see that?"
"What?"
"Use your eyes. If you're going to be a plainsman you'll have to depend on your sense of sight. Take the desert for instance. It's a desert maze if you are unable to read its signs; no maze at all if you do."
"What is it you were going to show Ned?" asked the rest of the boys, who had followed them out.
"See if you can tell, Master Tad."
But Master Tad had already been using his eyes. He nodded as he caught the guide's eye.
"There has been a bunch of unshod ponies along here, if that is what you mean," he said.
"How do you know?" demanded Stacy.
"I see their tracks there. Saw them the minute I got over here."
"Maybe that's the crowd that called at our camp the other day," suggested Walter.
The guide shook his head.
"There was no one on these horses," said Tad.
"Right," emphasized the guide. "That's observation, young men. You will notice, by examining these hoofprints carefully, that the weight of the animal is thrown more on the toe——"
"How do you know that?" cut in Stacy.
"Because the toe sinks into the soil more than it would if the animals were loaded. In the latter event, the heels would dig deeper. Now if you will follow along a little further I may be able to show you the hoofprints of the leader of the band of wild horses, for that is what they are——"
"Wild horses?" marveled the boys.
"Wish we could see them," said Tad.
"I'll wager they have seen us already, for they surely are in this neighborhood," replied Parry. "But a wild horse is as sharp as an old fox. The herd have been down in the foothills and, by the hoofprints, you will observe that they have returned to the mountain fastness."
"Perhaps they saw us coming," suggested Tad.
"More than likely," agreed the guide. "They were in a hurry and moving rapidly—there! There's the leader's trail. Look carefully and you will see where he leaped up to this little butte here. Reaching it, he turned about and took a quick, comprehensive look at the desert."
"And at us," added Stacy.
"Yes, I think so. Come up here. You see this little ridge gave him a very good view of the desert maze. See if you can tell how many wild horses there were in the bunch," suggested Tom Parry.
Instantly the boys went down on all fours, crawling along the trail seeking to read the story that it told.
"Well, how many?" queried the guide, after they had finished their inspection.
"Fifty!" shouted Stacy.
"Forty-five!" answered Ned and Walter at the same time.
"What do you say, Master Tad?"
"I am afraid I must have missed some, then. I only make out twenty-one old ones and a colt. I take it the old mare was with the colt, for the prints show that the little animal was hugging the other closely," was Tad's decision.
"Very good. Very good," nodded Parry. "There were twenty-two. You didn't get the trailer, probably an old mare. She traveled along off to the right yonder a little. But I should like to know how you made fifty, Master Stacy!" twinkled the guide.
"Counted 'em," answered the fat boy.
"Show me?"
Stacy did so, going over the hoofprints carefully, pointing to them with his index finger as he did so, the guide making mental calculations at the same time.
"And that makes fifty—fifty—fifty-four this time. There's more of them than I thought."
Parry laughed softly.
"I'm afraid you'd make a poor Indian, young man. You not only have counted the hoof-prints, but you have counted the foot marks of yourself and your companions as well. Master Tad, let me see if you can run the trail up the mountain side a little way. It will be good practice. I want you boys to be able to follow a trail as keenly as the best of them before you have finished this trip. You never know when it's going to be useful—when it's going to get you out of serious difficulties, even to the extent of saving your lives."
Tad was off on a trot, stooping well over, with eyes fixed on the foot marks.
"Tad could hunt jack rabbits without a dog, couldn't he?" questioned Stacy innocently. His companions laughed.
"Is that a joke?" asked Ned. "If it is, I'll cry. Your jokes would make a Texas steer weep."
Tad was picking his way up the rough mountain side, now losing the trail, then picking it up again. The marks left by the wild horses were almost indistinguishable after the animals had reached the rocks, but here and there a broken twig told the lad they had passed that way.
Once he appeared to leave the trail, moving sharply to the right, where on a shelving ridge, he straightened up and looked down into the valley.
Tom Parry nodded encouragingly.
"Know what you've found?"
"Yes, this is where the leader came to make another observation," answered Tad.
"That's right. He's a plainsman already, boys. Go on. Run the trail up to the top of this first ridge. It will not be a bad idea for us to know which way they've gone. If the hunters don't show up by to-morrow we can take a little run after the herd on our own hook."
Tad obeyed gladly. Every sense was on the alert. The rest of the boys were all impatience to take part in the hunt. But the guide said no. He feared that, if all were to start up the mountain side, their enthusiasm might lead them too far from camp, resulting in their losing their way. He knew how tricky the trail of a band of wild horses was, the clever animals leaving no ruse untried that would tend to mix up and lose their pursuers.
Tad's figure was growing smaller as he ascended higher and higher.
"You don't mean to say that horses climbed up the way he is going!" questioned Walter incredulously.
"That's the way they went, my boy. They 're regular goats when it comes to mountain climbing. They'll go where a man could not, oftentimes."
Tad crept, cautiously on, now finding little to guide him, save his own instinct. He finally disappeared behind the rocks and trees of the low-lying range.
The lad was moving almost noiselessly now. A sound a short distance beyond him caused him to prick up his ears sharply.
"I believe I am near them," he breathed, as he glanced about him. "Why did I not think to bring my rope?"
It was just as well for his own well-being, that he had not brought along that part of his saddle equipment. He was following the trail with the skill of a trained mountaineer. An Indian himself could have done it no better.
Perhaps the guide understood, better than did Tad himself, why he had started the lad on the trail, for a quiet smile hung about the lips of Tom Parry. All at once his twinkling eyes lit up with a new expression.
"Look! Look!" gasped Walter.
"Where? Where?" demanded Ned.
Walter pointed to a pyramid-shaped rock far above their heads.
At first they could scarcely believe their senses. There poised in the air, feet doubled into a bunch, stood a splendid specimen of horse-flesh, resting, it seemed, fairly on the sharp point of the rock, gazing down into and across the valley.
"The white stallion," breathed the lads all in the same breath.
The magnificent animal was a creamy white. Its head was held high, nostrils distended as if to catch the scent of those for whom it was looking. Beneath the rays of the low lying sun, its coat glistened and shone with a luster that no brush or comb could bring to it.
The lads gazed upon the beautiful statue almost in awe.
They were standing quite close up under the shadow of the mountain at that moment.
"Why doesn't he run?" whispered Walter.
"Do you think he sees us?" asked Ned.
"No. Stand perfectly still."
"Why doesn't he? All he would have to do would be to look down?" questioned Stacy.
"He scents us. He knows we are somewhere near. But, if you will observe him closely, you will notice that he is looking at the camp. He sees the Professor moving about," explained Parry.
"Do—do you think we could catch him?" asked Ned eagerly.
"The most skillful men in this part of the country have been trying to do that very thing for the last five years, my boy," answered the guide in a low tone. "No, you couldn't catch him. He's the finest animal to be found in the entire Nevada Desert district. Wouldn't mind owning him myself."
In the meantime Tad had been creeping nearer and nearer. He soon discovered that the leader of the band had swerved to the left. He concluded to follow, to see where the solitary animal had gone to. But so quietly did the lad move that the stallion neither heard nor scented him.
All at once the wonderful sight unfolded before the eyes of Tad Butler. He flattened himself on the ground, within thirty yards of the splendid animal.
Suddenly the stallion whirled. Tad rose to his feet, The two stood facing each other, Tad with head thrust forward, the stallion with nostrils held high in the air.
"Oh, my rope, my rope!" breathed the boy. "If I had my rope!"
Those down in the foothills saw the animal whirl and face the other way.
"He sees something," cried Walter, forgetting in his excitement that they were trying to keep quiet.
"Yes, he has probably scented Master Tad," explained the guide.
"Think he'll try to catch the horse?" asked Stacy.
"Hope not. Those wild horses are bad medicine. No, of course, he has no rope with him. But he'll be wise if he keeps out of the way of the beast."
Tad had no thought of doing either. He stood perfectly still, gazing in awe and wonder at the handsomest horse he had ever seen.
The stallion's eyes blazed. He uttered a loud snort, then rose right up into the air on his hind feet. One bound brought him many feet nearer the boy who was observing him. It was the only direction in which the stallion could go without plunging into a chasm.
"Whoa!" commanded Tad sharply.
The white horse never having been trained, failed to understand the word, but he halted just the same, gazing angrily at the bold boy standing there, who, it appeared, was defying him.
Uttering another snort, this time full of menace, the animal leaped straight toward the lad in long, graceful bounds.
Tad threw up his hands to frighten the stallion aside. The animal, however, refused to be swerved from its course.
"He's going to run over me," cried the boy, as he noted that the horse was rising for another leap.
Tad ducked just as the beast sprang clear of the ground. He felt the rush of air as the gleaming body was lifted over his head, the boy at the instant uttering a shrill yell to hasten the stallion's movements.
The front hoofs caught the rim of the Pony Rider Boy's sombrero, snipping it from his head. The hind feet came closer. They raked Tad's head, bowling him completely over, rolling him from the knoll on which he had been standing.
He brought up with a jolt some ten feet further down. Tad scrambled to his feet a little dizzy from the blow and the fall.
"Whew! That was a close call," he muttered, feeling his head to learn if it had been injured.
"No; the skin isn't broken, but I'm going to have a beautiful goose egg there," he concluded. "It's swelling already. If I'd had my rope I could have roped him easily when he rose at me that last time."
Scrambling up the bank, Tad found his hat. Then he picked his way to the pyramid-shaped rock on which he had first discovered the stallion.
Poising himself, he swung his sombrero to his companions down in the foothills.
"Hurrah!" he shouted. "I met the enemy. I've seen the white stallion, fellows!"
"Is the enemy yours?" jeered Ned Rector.
"No; I rather think I was his," laughed Tad, turning back and hurrying down the rocks to rejoin his companions.
He was met by a volley of questions the moment he reached the foothills. With his companions gathered about him, Tad told them how he had followed the trail, finally coming upon the handsome animal while the latter was taking an observation from the pyramid-shaped rock.
"It's a wonder he didn't attack you," said the guide after the lad had finished his narration. "Those wild stallions are very savage when aroused."
"I guess he tried to do so all right," laughed Tad.
"I knew he was up there somewhere, watching us, but I did not think for a minute that you would get close enough to him to be in any danger," announced Tom Parry, with a disapproving shake of his head.
"I could have roped him easily," said the lad.
"Lucky for you that you didn't try it. It's getting late now. I presume the Professor is beginning to think we are not going to finish pitching our camp. Come, we'll go back and get to work."
The work went rather slowly, however, for the lads were too full of the subject of the wild stallion to devote their whole attention to putting their camp to rights for the night. Then again, they had to go all over the story for the Professor's benefit.
"Do you think we could catch one of these wild ones to take back East with us?" asked Tad.
"You couldn't catch one yourself, but you might be able to buy one for a small sum from the horse-hunters," the guide informed him.
"How much?"
"Depends on the animal. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five dollars."
"Then, I'll do it. I could get him home for as much more, and he'd be worth at least two hundred dollars. Perhaps I might take two of them along, providing I can get what I want."
"You ought to be a horseman," laughed the guide. "You've got the horseman's instinct."
"He is a horseman," volunteered Stacy. "There aren't any better."
"Thank you," glowed Tad. "I'll pull you out next time you fall in, for that."
They were very jolly at supper that night. They had nothing to trouble them. Water was near by and they were soon to participate in the most exciting event in their lives, a wild-horse hunt.
"Do you think they will be able to find us!" questioned Walter.
"Who, the horses?" returned Ned.
"I hope they do," laughed the guide. "No; Master Walter means Bud Stevens and the gang. Find us? Why, those fellows could trail a cat across the Desert Maze if they happened to take a notion to do so."
There being plenty of dry stuff about, the boys built up a blazing camp-fire as soon as night came on. Gathering about it they told stories and sang songs.
"I move that Stacy Chunky Brown favor us with a selection," suggested Ned. "He has a very rare voice—an underdone voice some might call it."
"Yes, Chunky," urged Walter. "You haven't sung for us since we started."
"Me? I can't sing. Besides it might scare the wild horses," protested Stacy.
"I guess there's no doubt about that. But we'll take the chances."
"Yes, do sing, Chunky," added Walter. "It may soften Ned's hard heart."
Stacy cocked an impish eye at Ned Rector.
"All right, I'll sing," decided the fat boy, clearing his throat.
"Stand up," thundered Ned. "Have some respect for the audience."
Stacy stood up.
"What are you going to favor us with?" questioned Tad.
"It's a little thing of my own," grinned Stacy. "Hope you'll like it."
"Oh, we'll like it all right," chuckled Ned. "The audience will please refrain from applauding until the performer finishes."
"What's the name of the piece?" demanded Walter.
"Hasn't been named. You can name it if you wish."
"Go ahead, go ahead. Never mind the name," chorused the lads.
Stacy surveyed the upturned, laughing faces of his companions and then launched out in a shrill soprano:
It's all day long on the alka-li,Where the coyotes howl and the wells run dry,Where the badgers badge in the water holes,And the twisters twist the old tent poles—Right up from the alka-li.
"Yeow!" shrieked the Pony Rider Boys.
"It's a new poet. Hurrah for the poet lariat!" shouted Ned Rector, jumping up and down, slapping his thighs in his amusement.
"Go on, give us another verse," laughed the guide. "That's real po'try that is."
"Is there another verse?" cried Walter.
Chunky nodded solemnly.
"Hush! He is going to sing some more," cautioned Tad Butler, holding up his hand for silence.
"Ahem," began Stacy. Throwing back his head he began again:
When the wind blows high o'er the Desert Maze,And sand in your eyes interferes with your gaze,Then the Pony Rider Boys they lose their pants;Don't dare sit down for fear of the ants—That hide in the alka-li.
Stacy sat down blinking, solemn as an owl. But if he was solemn his companions were quite the opposite. The boys formed a ring about him, and between their yells of appreciation, began dancing around in a circle shouting out in chorus the last two lines of the second verse:
Don't dare sit down for fear of the ants—That hide in the alka-li.
Professor Zepplin and Tom Parry were laughing immoderately, but their voices could not be heard above the uproar made by the joyous Pony Riders. No such carnival of fun probably ever had disturbed the foothills of the San Antonio range, nor extended so far out over the maze of the great Nevada Desert.
"Sing it again! Sing it again!" commanded the boys.
They hauled the protesting Chunky to his feet, stood him on a box of pickled pigs' feet, compelling him to begin the song all over again.
"It's all day long on the alka-li.Where the coyotes howl and——"
"Ki-i-i-i-o-o-o! Ki-i-i-i-o-o-o-ki! K-i-i-i-o-o-ki!"
A long wailing sound—a dismal howl, suddenly cut short the joyous ditty.
"What's that!"
"Ki-i-i-i-o-o-o! Ki-i-i-i-o-o-ki!"
"Coyotes," laughed the guide.
There seemed to be hundreds of them. From every peak in the range their mournful voices were protesting.
All at once out in the black maze of the desert another bunch of them began their weird wailing.
"We're surrounded," announced the Professor.
"Shall we get the guns?" asked Walter.
"No, they're expressing their indignation at Chunky's song," jeered Ned.
"Let 'em howl. I don't care. If they don't stop I'll sing some more," threatened the fat boy.
The Professor found difficulty even in driving the lads to their beds that night. When they did finally tumble in and pull the blankets over them they were unable to sleep, between the howling of the coyotes and their laughter over Stacy Brown's new-found talent.
"They'll go away when the moon comes up," called the guide when the boys protested that the beasts kept them awake.
"Why can't we shoot at them?" asked Stacy.
"It will alarm the wild horses," said the guide. "We don't want to chase them off the range. Neither would the horse-hunters like it if we were to begin shooting."
"Go to sleep!" commanded the Professor.
Then the boys settled down. After a time the moon came up, but instead of quieting the coyotes it seemed to have urged them on to renewed efforts. They grew bolder. They approached the camp until a circle of them surrounded it.
Out of Stacy Brown's tent crept a figure in its night clothes. It was none other than Stacy himself. In one hand he held a can of condensed milk that he had smuggled from the commissary department that afternoon.
He wriggled along in the shadow of a slight rise of ground until he had approached quite near the beasts. He could see them plainly now and Stacy's eyes looked like two balls.
The animals would elevate their noses in the air, and, as if at a prearranged signal, all would strike the first note of their mournful wail at identically the same instant.
Suddenly the figure of the Pony Rider Boy rose up before them, right in the middle of one of the unearthly wails.
"Boo!" said Stacy explosively, at the same time hurling the can of condensed milk full in the face of the coyote nearest to him.
His aim was true. The can landed right between the eyes of the animal. The coyote uttered a grunt of surprise, hesitated an instant, then, with tail between his legs, bounded away with a howl of fear.
"Yeow! Scat!" shrieked the fat boy.
The whole pack turned tail and ran with Stacy after them in full flight, headed for the desert.
Tom Parry, aroused by this new note in the midnight medley, tumbled out just in time to see Stacy disappearing over the ridge. The guide was followed quickly by the other three boys of the party and Professor Zepplin.
"Hey, come back here!" shouted Parry.
The fat boy paid no attention to him. He was too busy chasing coyotes across the desert at that moment to give heed to anything else.
"Get after him, boys! If he falls they're liable to pile on him and chew him up before we can get to him!" commanded the guide.
Over the ridge bounded the pajama brigade. The coyotes, frightened beyond their power of reasoning, if such a faculty was possessed by them, were now no more than so many black streaks lengthening out across the desert.
The lads set up a whoop as they started on the chase after their companion.
"Rope him, somebody!" shouted Parry.
"Haven't any rope," answered Tad, with a muttered "Ouch!" as his big-toe came in contact with the can of condensed milk.
Laughing and shouting, they soon came up with Stacy, however, because he could not run as fast as the other boys. Tad caught up with him first, and the two lads went down together. In another minute the rest of the party had piled on the heap.
"Get up!" shouted Tad. "Somebody's standing on my neck."
"Yes, and—and you've pushed my face into the desert," came the muffled voice of Chunky Brown.
Laughing and all talking at once, the knot was slowly untied. Two of them grabbed the fat boy under the arms, while a third got between the lad's feet and picked them up, much as one would the handles of a wheelbarrow. In that manner they triumphantly carried Stacy back to the camp.
Reaching his tent, they threw the fat boy into his bed.
The tall, gaunt figure of the Professor appeared suddenly at the tent entrance. Some of the boys darted by him, the others crawling out under the sides of the tent, all making a lively sprint for their own quarters.
"Young men, the very next one who raises a disturbance in this camp to-night is going to get a real old-fashioned trouncing. Not having any slipper, I'll use my shoe. Do you hear?"
Not a voice answered him, but as he strode away the moon-like face of Stacy Brown might have been seen peering out at him. Quiet reigned in the camp of the Pony Rider Boys for several hours after that. Yet they were destined not to pass the night without a further disturbance, though the Professor did not use his shoe to chastise the noisy ones.
It lacked only a few hours to daylight when the second interruption occurred. And when it arrived it was even more startling than had been the fat boy's chase of the cowardly coyotes.
There was a sudden sound of hoof-beats.
"Ki-yi! Ki-yi!" shrieked a chorus of voices.
A volley of shots was fired as an accompaniment to the startling yells. A moment later and a body of horsemen dashed into camp, which they had easily located by the smouldering camp-fire.
The Pony Rider Boys were out of their tents in a twinkling.
"Wow!" piped Stacy.
Bang! Bang!
Two bullets flicked the dirt up into his face. Bud Stevens and his companions were in a playful mood again.
"Hey, you! Better look out where you're shooting to!" warned Stacy.
Bud let go another volley.
"The Professor'll take you over his knee and chastise you with his shoe, if you don't watch sharp," said Stacy.
"Come out of that. Where's the kiddie? I want to see my kiddie!" laughed Bud Stevens.
By this time, with his companions, he had dismounted, turning the ponies loose to roam where they would. The whole camp, aroused by the shouting and shooting, had turned out after pulling on their trousers and shoes. Tom Parry, piling fresh fuel on the embers of the camp-fire, soon had the scene brightly lighted. There was no more sleep in camp that night. Professor Zepplin accepted the new disturbance with good grace.
"We're going to eat breakfast with you," Bud Stevens informed them.
"That's right. What we have is free," answered the Professor hospitably.
"That's what I was telling the bunch," nodded Bud. "Our chuck wagon'll be along when it gets here. We've got a schooner with six lazy mules toting it down along the edge of the foothills. If it ever gets here we'll stock you up with enough fodder to last you the rest of your natural lives."
"A schooner, did you say?" questioned Stacy, edging closer to the cowboy.
"Yep; schooner."
"Where's the water?"
"Say, moon-face, didn't you ever hear tell of a prairie schooner!"
Chunky shook his head.
"Well, you've got something coming to you, then," replied Bud, turning to the others again.
"When do you start your horse-hunt? I presume that's the purpose of your visit here?" asked the Professor.
"Yep. Soon as the wagon gets here with the trappings. After breakfast we'll look around a bit. Been some of them through here to-day, I see."
"Yes, how did you know that!" questioned Tad.
"We crossed the trail just at the edge of the camp here when we came in. Didn't you see them?"
"We saw one of them and the tracks of the rest——"
"Yes, we—we—we saw the white horse——"
"The Angel?" demanded Bud, interested at once.
"I don't know whether you'd call it an angel or not. It struck me that it was quite the opposite," laughed Tad. "It was a white stallion, and when I got in its way it just bowled me over and rolled me down the hill——"
"The white stallion, fellows," nodded Bud. "I told you so. Come along, kiddie, and show me that trail. I'll tell you in a minute if he's the one."
Tad took the horse-hunter to the trail that he had followed up the mountain side. Bud lighted match after match, by the light of which he ran over the confusion of hoofprints. Finally he paused over one particular spot, and with a frown peered down upon it.
"That's him. That's the Angel," he emphasized.
"Why do you call him that?"
"Because of two things," answered Bud. "First place, he's white. That's the color angels is supposed to be, most of 'em says. Then, if you'll look at his hoof-mark, you'll see the frog is shaped like a heart. More angel. Then again—that's three times, ain't it?—he's got a temper like angels ain't supposed to have."
"So I have observed," agreed Tad, with a laugh.
"And that's why we call him the Angel. We'll get the old gentleman this time or break every cinch strap in the outfit."
There was rejoicing among the horse-hunters when they heard that it was indeed the Angel himself whose trail they had come upon.
"He's got the finest bunch of horse flesh with him that you'll find anywhere on the desert," averred another. "Old Angel won't travel with any scarecrows in his band. He's proud as a peacock with a new spread of tail feathers."
"S'pose you don't know how many there are in the band, eh, kiddie?" questioned Bud.
"Twenty-one and a colt," answered Tad promptly.
"Oho! So—but Tom Parry told you, of course."
"Tom Parry didn't," objected the guide. "Master Tad read the trail himself."
"Shake," glowed Bud, extending his hand to Tad. "You're the right sort for this outfit. We'll let you help point the bunch into the corral when we get them going. You'll see stars before you get through with that job—stars that ain't down on the sky-pilot's chart."
"It won't be the first time, Mr. Stevens. I've seen enough of them to make a Fourth of July celebration, already."
Just after breakfast, to which the camp had sat down at break of day, the horse-hunters began their preliminary work. Bud directed two of his men to work south, two more to ride north, while he would take the center of the range.
"What I want," he explained to the boys, "is to find where the wild horses are waterin' these days. They've been around these parts for more than two weeks, so we know they've got a nice cold water hole somewhere."
"What were they doing on the desert?" asked Walter. "I thought they had just come across."
"No; they were out for a play. That shows they had had plenty to eat and drink. Professor, I think I'll take the kiddie along with me," announced Bud, much to Tad's surprise, and, judging from the expression of the lad's face, pleasure, as well.
Professor Zepplin glanced at the guide inquiringly. Parry nodded his head.
"He'll be all right."
"Yes, you may go, Tad. But be careful. Don't let him get into any difficulties, Mr. Stevens. He's a venturesome lad."
"Guess he's able to wiggle out of anything he gets into," grinned the horse-hunter. "Come along; take a hunch on your cinch straps, a chunk of grub in your pocket; then we're ready to find where the Angel washes his face every morning and night."
Tad lost no time in getting ready for the trip to trail the wild horses to their lair, and in a few moments the horse-hunters rode from the camp, followed by the envious glances of the Pony Rider Boys.
"Wish I were going along," muttered Chunky ruefully, as he turned his back on them and gazed off across the desert.