"Hang together if you can. Crowd close in behind me!"
Had all obeyed the orders of young Butler they might have escaped with no serious consequences, but in the excitement of the moment and swallowed up in the darkness of the night in Smoky Pass, the boys were quickly separated. One had pulled this way in fighting with his pony, another that. Even Professor Zepplin had been carried into a cove far on the other side, for at this point the stream had broadened out considerably.
All at once Tad felt his pony lifted from its feet. The animal began to swim. To lighten the burden the boy slipped off, taking a hitch of his rope about his waist, securing the rope to the pommel of the saddle. It was now a case of every man for himself and trust to luck.
"Are you there?" he called to his companions.
"Ya—yassir," answered Billy Veal.
"Are you there?" again demanded Tad at the top of his voice.
He heard a shout in reply, the shout seeming to come from far down the stream. Then Tad was caught in a wave and swept along with the current, clinging desperately to the saddle. There was no need to try to swim. He was traveling fast enough without attempting to go any faster. Every little while the boy would shout for his companions. Only twice was he able to catch a reply from any of the party.
"I am afraid they're lost," groaned the boy. Even the familiar "yassir" of Chops was no longer to be heard. Billy Veal had disappeared, and for all Tad knew the guide had been drowned. Now and then a tree or a heavy trunk would graze the body of the lad. Lightning was still flashing at intervals, but the storm was passing, and already a faint streak of light might have been observed roofing the narrow opening over Smoky Pass.
All at once Tad found himself enveloped in a new darkness. Something seemed to have caught his head in a vise-like grip, and he lost consciousness. Though Butler did not know it, a heavy piece of timber had been hurled against him, striking the lad on the head. The rope that had been secured about the boy's waist slipped up under his arms under the added weight put upon it. Tad's head drooped, but not far enough to permit the water to cover it. Then on swept boy and pony through the swirling flood, the pony fighting, the boy passive. Another pony bumped into Butler's horse, but Tad did not know of the collision.
How long he had been unconscious, Tad did not know, but it could not have been for very long, and when he returned to consciousness he found himself literally hanging at the side of the pony. The animal was standing dripping and trembling, but, as the Pony Rider Boy quickly discovered, the horse was on solid ground. The roar of the swollen stream was still in Butler's ears, but he was no longer battling with the flood. The night was still so dark that he could not see the water, though overhead he saw the stars twinkling brightly.
Tad spoke to his horse. The animal whinnied its appreciation, and Tad patted it with a feeble hand. The boy was still too weak to do more than lie back, breathing hard, and exerting every bit of will power that he possessed to pull himself together.
"This won't do. I'll surely shake to pieces if I remain here," he muttered.
With a great effort he pulled himself up and released himself from the rope.
"Hello!" called Tad with all his strength.
There was no response.
"They've gone! I hope they aren't drowned, but I am sure something terrible has happened to them. How I wish it were light so that I could see what I am about."
Taking the bridle rein in one hand, Tad began feeling about in the darkness. He learned that the pony had dragged him up to a narrow, sandy strip of land at the base of the wall. The ground was wet, indicating that the water had but recently receded from it. This proved to the boy that the crest of the flood had passed and that the water was rapidly going down.
"There's little doubt that it was the crest that struck us. But the question is, what hit me? I don't suppose it would help if that question were answered. The real question is, what has become of my companions?" he muttered.
There was nothing to be done just yet, though Tad decided to try the creek very soon. This he did after half an hour's waiting. By that time his pony had recovered itself sufficiently to warrant Butler in climbing to the wet, slippery saddle. How cold it did feel underneath him, but the heat of his body soon took away this unpleasant sensation.
Tad boldly forced the pony into the creek. To the boy's relief the water barely touched the stirrups.
"Now if I don't fall into any pockets in the creek, I'm all right. I don't know whether the others are below or above me, but I'm going down a piece and if I find no one, I'll turn about and come back."
Every few moments Tad would shout. At last there came an answering call.
"Who are you?" cried the lad joyously.
"Chunky!"
"Chunky?"
"Yassir, nassir," answered the fat boy.
"Where are you?"
"I'm where the little boy was when he was chased by a bulldog—up a tree."
Riding over toward the voice, Butler found this to be literally true. Stacy had grabbed at a limb that had struck him in the face, and then swung himself up to the limb, permitting his pony to go on where it would.
"Take me down," begged Stacy.
"Where are the others?"
"I saw Jonah go by me just after I landed from my ark."
"Who?" wondered Butler.
"Chops."
"But the rest of them?" urged Tad.
"I don't know anything about them. I've had all I could do to look after myself, and don't you forget it. Where have you been?"
"Up the creek a way. What became of your pony?"
"I don't know. I tell you I've been busy. It wasn't any fun to hang to this limb, not knowing at what second it was going to break and let me down into the water. I reckon that would have been the end of Stacy Brown. Then the papers at home would have had something to talk about. 'Our distinguished fellow townsman, Stacy Brown, carried away and lost in a flood in Smoky Pass in the Blue Ridge.' Sounds kind of romantic, doesn't it?"
"You have about as much feeling as a turnip," remarked Tad disgustedly. "The others may be drowned. I wish you had your pony. I don't know what I am to do, but I'm afraid I'll have to leave you up there while I go and search for the others."
"What? Leave me up here in this tree?" wailed Chunky, changing his tone instantly.
"Yes."
"No you don't! My death will be on your head if you do. Don't you ever accuse me of not having any feeling, if you go away and leave me treed like a coon at bay."
"I suppose I'll have to take you, but the pony's pretty well played out and so am I. Here, give me your hand."
In trying to make the pass from the limb to the pony, Stacy fell into the water with a splash and uttering a yell. He thought he was going to be drowned, but was surprised when he found that the water did not reach far above his waist. The pony, frightened by the splash, leaped to one side, nearly unseating its rider.
"You're a lumbering lummox," rebuked Tad.
"So are you. If you hadn't been, you wouldn't have let me fall. Are you going to help me get up?"
"Yes. I will get down and walk. You may ride if you want to. I'm not going to ask the pony to carry us both."
Chunky reflected over this for a moment. Tad slipped down into the cold water.
"Get up there, and mind you don't let my pony get away," ordered Butler.
"I won't!"
"You won't what?"
"I won't get up."
"I got down so that you might."
"I'm not that kind of a tenderfoot and you ought to know it by this time. No, sir; I don't do anything of the sort. Get back there and ride your own bundle of bones."
"I prefer to walk," answered Butler briefly.
"So do I, and I'm going to."
Neither would get into the saddle, so they very stubbornly started splashing along beside the pony, each with a hand on the bridle to save himself in case he stepped into a hole in the stream.
Tad continued calling until his voice gave out, but got no reply from anyone.
"Come now, you yell for a while," he urged.
"What shall I say?" asked Chunky innocently.
"Say? I don't care what you say. Make a noise. That's all. I want to find the rest of our party."
"I'll bet Chops is alive. But isn't he the Jonah?"
"I hadn't thought about it," answered Tad briefly.
"You will when you get calmed down a little. You're excited now," declared Stacy Brown.
"I'm nothing of the sort," protested Tad indignantly.
"Oh, yes you are. You don't know it, that's all," insisted the fat boy.
A sharp retort rose to Tad's lips, but he suppressed it. There was no use in arguing with Chunky, who was bound to have the last word and that last word always did have a sting in it. At present there were more important matters on hand. Soon after that Tad's hello was answered by one a short distance down the pass. Contrary to his usual powers of voice, Chunky had not proved much of a success in yelling.
The new voice turned out to belong to Ned Rector. Ned and his pony had found a strip of land on which they had taken refuge. It was a glad Ned, too, when he discovered his companions.
"Have you seen anything of Walter and the Professor?" asked Butler anxiously.
"I think they are below here somewhere. I am sure it was they who swept past me just after we got caught in the eddy back there."
"How about Jonah?" asked Stacy.
"Who is Jonah?"
"The Jonah who claims to be a guide, but who ought to be in a strait-jacket."
"He means Chops," laughed Tad.
"I don't know that I care particularly what has become of him," growled Ned.
"Oh, yes you do, Ned. He is a human being just the same as you or I," rebuked Stacy.
"I suppose that's so, but the question is open to argument and a wide difference of opinion. I think the Veal Chop stayed upstream somewhere, though he may have gone on downstream. If he did, I didn't see him go, nor hear him. Come to think of it, it seems to me that I did hear him yelling behind me after I started on my swim for life. Talk of going through the Rapids of Niagara! I don't believe your swim in the Grand Canyon was any more exciting than this one tonight. It was daylight then," said Ned.
"Yes," agreed Tad.
"Oh, wait till I get hold of that guide! What I won't do to him—"
"It will be my turn first, Ned," interrupted Stacy.
"What happened to you, by the way?" questioned Ned.
"Oh, I got left up a tree, just like the alligator bait down in Florida. Do you know how the colored people catch alligators down there?"
"In a woodchuck trap?" questioned Rector quizzically.
"Na-a-a-a! I'll tell you for your information, if you don't know. They take a little colored baby and tie him either to the limb of a tree that hangs over the water, or else fasten him to a long pole—one that will bend—then lower him over the water. He yells—could you blame him? The 'gators, hearing the yell, and maybe getting a whiff of the kid, come up with open jaws with appetites that would break a hotel. No, they don't get the little cullud person. They get a chunk of lead right through one eye and usually that's the end of Mr. 'Gator. The tiny cullud person is removed from the pole and the deed's done and everybody's happy ever afterwards."
"A very likely story!" observed Ned scornfully.
"Very," agreed Tad. "We had better be getting downstream to look for the others."
Ned refused to get off and walk, so he rode ahead of them to sound the bottom of the stream. Day was just breaking when they came across the Professor and Walter Perkins, both sprinting up and down on a sandy beach to start their blood into circulation. So ludicrous did the two look that the boys shouted. They could well afford to shout now that all of their party were accounted for, with the exception of the guide, whom they had little doubt they should find later safe and sound.
"Boys, boys!" cried the Professor. "You don't know how relieved I am to see you safe and sound—"
"And wet and miserable," added Stacy.
"That doesn't make any difference so long as you are safe. I feared something serious might have happened to you."
"There did. Tad was knocked out and I was lost up a tree," added the fat boy eagerly. "Oh, what a fine time we're having!"
"Where is the guide?"
"We are going back to look for him, Professor," answered Butler. "I don't know what has become of him."
"And we don't care what's become of the Jonah," scoffed Chunky. "Got anything that looks like food in this outfit?"
"Yes. By the way, Professor, how about the stores? Have you saved any from your packs?" questioned Tad.
"I am afraid the provisions are in a sad state," answered Professor Zepplin ruefully.
"But surely the canned stuff must be all right," urged Tad.
"Yes, but where is the canned stuff? The pack holding the canned goods came open and everything spilled out," Walter Perkins informed them.
Chunky groaned.
"I see my end! Not satisfied with trying to drown me in a raging flood, you now propose to starve me to death! But I won't be starved. I'll go out and shoot a deer. I understand they are plentiful in this range of rocks."
"I reckon you will have to get out of Smoky Pass before you carry out any of your well-laid plans," answered Ned.
At Tad's suggestion, such stores and equipment as they had saved were taken from the packs and spread out on the ground to dry. Most of the biscuit were so soaked that they were falling apart. Not a single can of food was left, although a ham had been preserved from the wreck. Their extra clothing, too, had been saved from the flood, and merely needed drying to be fit for use.
"We can live on ham for a long, long time," said Tad encouragingly. "Then there is the coffee which will be usable after we have dried it out. I propose that we leave all the stuff here with someone to watch it, while the rest of us go upstream to see what we can pick up, and at the same time look for Chops. I am mighty glad that we haven't lost our tents. Professor, will you stay here while we take the trail?"
"Yes. But you will be careful, won't you?"
"Of what?"
"That you don't get into other difficulties."
"No danger of that," answered Tad laughingly. "Everything that could occur already has happened, unless Stacy were to climb the side of the pass and fall off."
"No, thank you," objected the fat boy. "You may stir up all the excitement you like, but no more for Stacy Brown until he is at least dried out from the last mixup."
Tad now suggested that he and Ned go back to look for their lost property and their guide.
"The rest of the party will remain here," he directed. "No need for you to go with us, but suppose we have something to eat first—ham and coffee, for instance."
"We have no matches to start a fire with," reminded Walter Perkins.
The boys looked very solemn. Chunky groaned dismally.
"I knew you fellows would find some way to my distress—to the awful gnawing on the inside of me," he complained.
"Never mind, young men," spoke up the Professor. "Find some reasonably dry wood or bark, and I will attend to the lighting end. Fortunately my match safe is intended for just such an emergency as this, and I do not believe we shall find any difficulty in making a fire, provided you rustle the fuel."
The Pony Rider Boys gave a cheer for Professor Zepplin. The problem of finding wood, however, was almost as perplexing as had been that of the matches. Tad immediately jumped on his pony and trotted up the pass. He returned half an hour later, with a bundle of bark, dry sticks and a few pieces of pitchpine. A roaring fire was going soon after his arrival. The warmth from it felt good, indeed, to the wet and shivering Pony Riders.
Breakfast that morning was limited, so far as variety was concerned, though there was plenty to eat, and the ham had grown perceptibly smaller when they finished, and not the least of this had found a resting place in the person of Stacy Brown. Stacy was quite willing to remain with Walter and the Professor.
Tad and Ned started up the pass immediately after breakfast, and on the way up they recovered the missing ponies, except the pack animal, which must have been carried away with most of their stores. Later in the day they discovered Billy Veal fast asleep in the sunlight on a ledge of rock, some eight feet above the channel of the creek. How he had succeeded in getting up there neither Tad nor Ned could imagine, nor did Billy seem to know what had happened to him. He sat up, regarding them with wide eyes, after they had called to him several times. Great was their relief when they found him, but the next problem was how to get Billy down. This was solved by Tad's ever-ready rope. One end of this was tossed up to the guide with instructions to pass it about a nearby sapling, tossing the free end down to them. In this way Tad would only have to pull on one rope after the colored man had come down, then the rope would slip back to its owner. Shortly after that Billy was standing in the creek channel beside them.
"Did you get wet, Chops?" asked Rector.
"Yassir, nassir."
"Did you get drowned?" asked Tad with a grin.
"Nassir, yassir, I done—"
"He doesn't know what happened to him," scoffed Ned.
"You come along with us. There's work to be done today and if you don't do your share, I shall have something besides words for you," threatened Butler.
They made the guide walk until they came up with his pony. Chops grinned broadly, delightedly, when he discovered his horse browsing contentedly beside the stream.
"Wah-hoo-wah!" he shouted, flinging his arms above his head.
"Who would have thought him to be so near human?" cried Ned.
"Yes, there's hope for Chops yet. But we shall see," answered Butler.
It was considerably past noon when they reached their companions on the return journey. A few of their belongings had been picked up in the pass, but not enough to relieve their critical situation.
"Boys, I have been thinking, since you left. We shall have to find a place where we may replenish our stores, else we shall have to go back. Guide, do you know of a store anywhere near here?" asked the Professor.
"Yassir."
"You forgot something," laughed Tad.
"Nassir," jeered Stacy. "Chops, you're a Jonah. I've said it before, and I say it again. Why, you couldn't go to the aquarium without some of the whales biting you."
"That will do, Stacy. Now, guide, where is this store that you know about?" urged the Professor.
"Jim Abs', sah. Ah reckon him done keep a store at Hunt's Corners, sah."
"Good for you, Chops," cheered the boys.
"How far is that from here?"
"Right smart piece, ah reckon, sah."
"How far, how far?" insisted Professor Zepplin. The Professor was near to losing his temper.
"Right smart, sah, right smart."
"It's hopeless," declared Butler. "The best we can do will be to follow him. See here, Chops, shall we be able to reach there before dark if we start out right away?"
"Yassir, nassir."
"He means no," interpreted Tad.
"I wish you'd give me the key so I could understand what he does mean," said Ned disgustedly.
"You'd have to get the key to the whale, if you expect to understand Jonah," scoffed the fat boy.
"I would suggest that we start at once," said Tad. "The outfit is pretty well dried out now. It doesn't matter so much about the tents. They will dry quickly after they have been pitched. When we come to a good camping place we will go into camp along towards night. In the morning we can go on and find the store. Are you sure you know where it is, Billy?"
"Guyot's Peak."
"Very good, very good. You are improving, my man."
"Yassir. T'ank you, sah."
"Nassir, ah don't t'ank you, sah," mocked Stacy.
"Let him alone, can't you?" demanded Ned savagely.
"Yes, while he is trying to be good, help instead of discouraging him. You are enough to upset anyone," returned Tad, trying to be stern.
The camp was pitched near a spring and there in the warm late afternoon sun a thorough drying out was given to both tents and equipment, with everyone in excellent humor. The boys even sang as they went about their work of dressing up the camp.
Supper consisted of more ham and some excellent coffee, the latter having been thoroughly dried out before grinding. Chops, of course, ate his supper after the others had finished, one or another of the boys now and then tossing him a piece of food while they were eating, which Billy ordinarily swallowed whole.
The evening was spent sitting about the campfire telling stories and joking with one another. At such times the Professor came in for a share of jibes, all of which he took with smiling face, frequently giving the boys back better than they had sent.
Morning was ushered in with a brilliant sun, the birds singing all about them and the fresh odors of foliage and flowers in the air. Even Chunky began to sing before he had finished his dressing.
"Anybody'd think you were a bird," called Rector.
"Thank you for the compliment," retorted Stacy.
"I didn't say what kind of a bird, did I?" jeered Ned.
"What kind am I?"
"You remind me of a crow. You sing like a crow. I'll wager that Chops can sing better than you."
"How about it, Chops?" called Tad.
"Yassir?"
"Can you sing?"
"Yassir."
"Nassir," added Chunky.
"Let's hear you," urged Walter.
"Yes, I guess we can stand it after all we have been through," decided the fat boy.
"Wha' you want me sing?" grinned Chops.
"Sing something soft and low," begged Stacy.
"No, none of those sob songs for mine," objected Ned. "Give us something to cheer us up. We need cheering."
"Yassir."
Chops cleared his throat and with frying pan in hand began to sing in a melodious voice:
Quit dat playin' 'possum,Ah sees dem eyelids peep!Spec's to fool yo' mammyP'tendin' you'se ersleep.
Smah'tes li'l baby dat uver drord a bref,Try ter fool he mammy, he gwine git sho'-nuff lef'.'Possum, 'possum, 'possum mighty sly,'Possum, 'possum, 'possum, ah sees you blink dat eye.
Bye-o, bye-o, baby,'Possum mighty sly,Bye-o, bye-o, baby, Bye-o, bye-o-bye.M-hm-m-m-m. M-hm-hm-hm!
"Hooray!" howled the Pony Rider Boys.
"''Possum mighty sly, Bye-o, bye-o, baby bye.'"
"Go on. Sing some more," urged Tad.
"Yes, for goodness' sake do something that you really know how to do," cried Ned Rector.
Chops began swaying his body, swinging the frying pan from side to side. Then he launched into another song that set the boys joining in the chorus, swinging their own bodies, keeping time with the singer.
"Is this another of those cry-baby songs?" questioned Ned.
"Yassir."
"Go on, go on," urged the boys.
W'en de sun roll in an' de moon roll out,An' de li'l stars git sprinkl't all erbout,Den ah listens fer my honey an' ah calls her an' ah shout,O Lindy, Lindy, Lindy, O my Lindy!O Lindy, come erlongAn' listen at my song;De mockin' bu 'd is singin' ter his honey,Come, lemme sing ter youAn' tell you, tell you true,Dat ah loves you mo' dan heaps er silver money,
Twice did the Pony Rider Boys roar out the chorus until they had drowned the voice of the singer entirely. In their merriment they forgot all about the breakfast, all about the thick slices of ham that had long since dropped from the frying pan of the singing Billy Veal.
"Come, come, young men," interrupted the voice of Professor Zepplin. "Singing is all right, but I want my breakfast."
Stacy thrust his chin up close to the Professor's face and in a low, crooning voice, sang,
Come, lemme sing ter you,An' tell you, tell you true,Dat ah loves you mo' dan heaps er silver money.
The boys chuckled at the ludicrous sight of Stacy Brown in his pajamas singing a lullaby to the dignified Professor. It was too much for the Professor's gravity, too. The latter let out his own voice in a roar of laughter that, according to Ned Rector in describing the scene later, fairly shook old Smoky, miles off to the northward of them.
"Now, gentlemen," said Professor Zepplin, after having recovered his composure, "if you will be good enough to rescue the ham from beneath the feet of our guide, we will proceed with our preparations for the morning meal. You have a very fine voice, guide."
"Yassir."
"We shall be glad to have you sing for us again."
"Some day when you have such cold that you can't speak above a whisper," added Stacy Brown, trotting back to his tent to put on his clothes.
Shortly after eight o'clock the camp was struck, tents packed and everything put in shape for the journey to Hunt's Corners, the location of which Chops confidently assured them was a right smart distance straight ahead. This proved to be true. It was four hours later when the outfit drew up at a log building, one-storied, the low porch being piled with small agricultural implements. In the rear were three other buildings constructed of the same material, but not nearly so large as the store itself.
Several mountaineers were lounging about, and the arrival of the Pony Rider Boys created considerable excitement. Jim Abs, proprietor of the store, came out to see what the commotion was about. He recognized Billy at once, but glanced suspiciously from one to the other of the boys, whose warlike appearance evidently stirred apprehension in the mind of the keeper of the store at Hunt's Corners.
The boys slid from their saddles and tethered their horses at the tie rail to one side of the store building. Professor Zepplin stepped up, followed by the crowd of loungers, and introduced himself to the proprietor, stating that they were desirous of laying in a stock of supplies.
"I reckon I kin accommodate ye," nodded Abs. "Where ye hail from?"
"The north," the Professor informed him.
"Say, Mister, where's the Corners?" piped Stacy.
"This is them," grinned the storekeeper.
"I don't see any corners except the corners of the building."
"You wouldn't know a corner if you were to meet it in Smoky Pass," declared Tad.
"I know a good thing when I see it, and those bananas hanging there look pretty real to me," answered Stacy, helping himself to half a dozen of the well-seasoned bunch.
"That'll be thirty cents," said the storekeeper, extending a hand. Stacy regarded him solemnly. The fat boy's mouth was so full of banana that he was speechless for the moment.
Chunky nodded his head at Tad, indicating that Butler was to pay for the fruit. Stacy was too busy to waste time in paying. Tad good-naturedly handed out thirty cents.
"That's sixty-five cents you owe me now, Chunky. If you keep on at this rate I'll have to levy on your pony."
"I wouldn't give sixty-five cents for his whole outfit," declared Ned.
"Perhaps that is because you haven't sixty-five cents," retorted Tad.
"Yes, I have. I've got several times sixty-five cents."
"It's counterfeit, then," mumbled Stacy.
"Boys," called the Professor coming to the door of the store, "did you know this is a post office?"
"A post office?" cried the lads.
"Yes. I thought perhaps you might wish to send off some letters."
"Yes, we do. Indeed, we do," cried Ned and Tad and Walter in chorus.
"But we shall have to write them. We haven't any letters ready. Can we get paper here? Ours is all down in the pass," said Tad.
"I suppose you can get all you want in here, provided you have the money to pay for it," smiled Professor Zepplin.
"Oh, we have the price, though I suppose I shall have to pay for Chunky. He is broke as usual," laughed Butler.
"He'll be broke worse before he finishes this nice peaceful trip. Don't you say so, Chops?" jeered Ned.
"Yassir," grinned the guide.
"Do you want to write letters, too, Billy?" teased Stacy.
"Yassir, nassir."
"He does and he doesn't," laughed Tad.
"In other words, Chops is on the fence," nodded Rector. "If we are going to do business I guess we had better get at it."
"Agreed," answered Tad, striding into the store. There the boys got pads and pencils, for they had lost their own supply. They also bought stamps, peanuts and various other things that were either useful or that appealed to their boyish appetites.
Having equipped themselves for writing, the Pony Rider Boys repaired to the porch where they sat down, and with pads on knees began to write, while the loungers gathered about, eyeing the lads curiously. Others were out at the side of the store, looking over the ponies and discussing the party, the like of which perhaps never before had been seen at Hunt's Corners.
"How do you spell torrent, with one or two r's?" questioned Chunky after a few moments of silence, during which the lads had been writing industriously.
"Depends upon the size of the torrent," retorted Rector.
"Was that one last night a single or a double r'd one?" inquired Stacy solemnly.
"I reckon it was a double r," laughed Butler. "You are safe in using two of them in this instance."
"Chunky's writing an article for the paper," suggested Walter mischievously.
"That's right. That's just what I am doing and that's where I get even with you fellows. I can have the last say—"
"Don't you use my name," snapped Ned. "I'm not looking for the kind of newspaper notoriety you would be likely to give a fellow. You tell them all you want to about Stacy Brown, but leave Ned Rector out of it."
"I have," answered the fat boy significantly.
"That's one for you, Ned," cried Tad. "But I wish you boys would keep quiet. I'm writing to Mother and she'll think something is the matter with me, for I've already written 'torrent' twice where it didn't belong and next thing I know I'll be putting in some of Chunky's stuff about last night. Do be quiet. If you don't want to write, go to sleep."
Stacy yawned broadly at the suggestion of sleep. He was ready for sleep at that moment, but his desire to tell the folks at home, through the medium of the weekly paper, through what an exciting experience the Pony Rider Boys had gone, outweighed all other emotions.
The boys had written for a half hour or more when suddenly a shot rang out somewhere off to the northwest. The lads glanced up inquiringly. At first they saw nothing of interest. Then a horseman swung into view, riding at a lively pace. As he drew near he began firing into the air from his revolver.
"Whoop!" he roared.
There was a scattering of the loungers. It was plain that they knew the man. The boys resumed their writing.
"Whoopee! I'm the Bad Man from Smoky Creek! Higher up the creek you go, the bigger they grow, and I'm right off the headwaters!"
"Bang, bang, bang!"
"Turn the coyotes loose! Fer I'm out fer blood and a genwine killing! Whoope-e-e-e!"
"Bang, bang, bang!"
The crack of the six-shooter was almost wholly drowned by the yells of the fellow, but through all this the Pony Rider Boys wrote on as calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring, though Stacy gave the bad man a glance out of the corners of his eyes now and then. Stacy was ready to run if, perchance, the fellow should turn a gun in his direction. The lads had met with such characters before, and knew that it was not usually the man who indulged in such loud boasts who was to be feared. Still, it was a nerve-racking situation.
Professor Zepplin and Jim Abs had appeared at the door at the first sound of the uproar, but they beat a quick retreat when they saw who and what was the cause of the disturbance.
"Is—is there any danger to the boys?" stammered the Professor.
"Not unless they stir him up. That's Smoky Griffin, one of the meanest bullies in the whole Blue Ridge. Everybody's afraid of him and I reckon they've got good reason fer being afraid. The kids don't seem to mind him, do they?" wondered Abs.
"The kids, as you call them, are quite able to take care of themselves, even against such a ruffian as that," answered the Professor, proudly. "I hope he will let them alone. They might make up their minds not to endure too much imposition."
Smoky now sat in his saddle, reloading his weapon and leering at the cool youngsters on the porch. To find men, to say nothing of boys, who did not fear him, was such a new experience to Smoky that it fairly hurt him. The ruffian had been a neighborhood bully for years, and was wholly accustomed to seeing men flee when he rode into town discharging his weapons, without any particular concern as to where the bullets went. Lack of awe in anyone injured his abundant self-esteem.
Now that his weapons were reloaded, he again emptied them, driving all of the bullets into the porch posts at a level over the boys' heads.
Still the Pony Rider Boys sat tight, though it must be confessed that they were making scant progress with their letter-writing.
Observing this, the bully, with undue deliberation, slid from his saddle and made his animal fast to the hitching-bar. Then Griffin strolled up to the porch, and grabbing one of Stacy's feet gave the ankle a sharp twist.
"Do that again," drawled Chunky, "and you'll get a kick from the northwest. You make a noise like one of those Germans we licked in France. Say, why don't you go get a job washing dishes in a lumber camp or something instead of trying to make folks think you're a man. Go put on an apron, Bo!"
In another instant such things had started as had never before been seen at Hunt's Corners.
It may have been the tenderness of Chunky's youth, or the look that flashed from his eyes, but Smoky Griffin, after a moment, strode over to Tad Butler who sat calmly writing a letter to his mother.
"Writin' letters?" jeered the bully.
"Your impudence and your grammar are quite in keeping with each other," answered Tad laughingly. "If you consider it any of your business—I don't—then I'll say that I am writing to my mother."
The loungers, overcome by their curiosity, now began slowly creeping out into the open where they might witness what they were sure would follow. The face of Smoky Griffin flushed a deeper red than its natural color at the cool audacity of the boy.
Tad had again turned to his writing.
"None of my business, eh?"
"I do not consider that it is. If you will be good enough to keep quiet until I finish writing, I shall be glad to talk to you."
This was too much. The loungers fully expected to see Tad topple over backwards with a bullet in his body. Nothing of the sort occurred, however. But something else, still less expected, did happen. With a growl, Smoky stretched forth a big paw, snatching the pad and letter from Tad's knee. The bad man grinned broadly as he looked at the written page.
"'Dear Maw,'" he read.
Tad rose slowly, stepping down from the porch. A dull red flush had grown into his cheeks.
"'Dear Maw,'" continued Griffin, after darting a quick glance at the approaching Pony Rider Boy. "'I am writing you today to—'"
"Kindly hand over that letter," ordered Butler in the quiet tone that to his companions meant trouble.
"Mighty perk today, ain't ye?"
"Hand over that letter!" Tad's tone was pitched a shade higher.
Hand Over That Letter!"Hand Over That Letter!"
Hand Over That Letter!"Hand Over That Letter!"
For an instant Griffin glared into the face of the resolute young fellow who stood confronting him. Then Smoky threw the letter on the ground and trod on it.
"I reckon Dear Maw won't—"
Whack!
Tad had brought the flat of his hand across the fellow's red face in a resounding slap that was heard by every person there. Even Chops, now hiding behind the store, heard it, and his eyes grew large, for he expected to hear the report of a revolver following close upon the slap. In that case it would be high time for Billy Veal to flee.
With a roar of rage the bully reached for his revolver. But his hand did not quite touch the butt of the gun. Ere it had reached the weapon his head was jerked backward in a violent jolt.
Tad smote the ruffian a blow on the jaw that turned Smoky half way around. A quick left-hand swing caught the man on the back of the head, sending him flat on his face.
"Walt, look out for the ponies!" commanded Tad sharply, at the same time stooping over and deftly removing the bully's pistols, which he "broke," scattering the shells on the ground, then tossing the revolvers to the store porch.
Walter, a little paler than usual, walked steadily to where the stock was tied and leaning against the tie rail, one hand on his revolver, awaited further developments. They came quickly.
The loungers, now augmented by a half dozen men who had appeared so suddenly as to puzzle the boys as to where they came from, began to murmur angrily. It was all right so long as Smoky was having fun with another, but now that one of their kind should have been knocked down by a stranger stirred their blood within them.
Smoky was getting to his feet. The blood had gone from his face, leaving it pale under its coat of tan. Reaching for his revolvers he found the holsters empty and Tad Butler standing before him with a sarcastic smile on his face.
"Stand fast, fellows!" directed Tad in a low voice, nodding to Chunky and Ned.
The mountaineers began crowding closer.
"Stand back, men," warned Ned Rector. "This is going to be fair play. The first man who reaches for his gun is going to get his right there and then. We didn't start this row, but we're going to see it to a finish now. The one who gets thrashed gets thrashed, and that's all there is about it."
Ned's resolute voice, backed by a six-shooter in his own hand and another in Stacy Brown's, had its effect. The mountaineers backed off a few paces, muttering. Some were plainly tickled at the insult to the bully, but they, of course, did not express their satisfaction in words. It was not safe to do so just yet. Perhaps Smoky might take his revenge on them after having finished with the slender lad so calmly facing him. They did not believe there was a possibility of Tad's coming out of the fray with a whole skin.
At this juncture Professor Zepplin came tearing out.
"Here, here! Stop that!" he commanded sternly.
"Keep back, Professor," warned Rector. "The fellow assaulted Tad. I am keeping the others back. You must stay back with the rest."
"But—but—but—"
"The only 'but' that has any influence here is the butt of my revolver just now," answered Ned, never for an instant taking his eyes from the mountaineers.
"Gimme a gun!" roared Griffin.
"The man who tries to give you a gun gets a bullet in his anatomy," answered Rector. "I'll shoot the first man who tries to pass you a gun; then I'll drill you, too," added Ned.
Smoky glared, first at the boys who were twirling their revolvers about their forefingers, then at his friends still further back. It was plain that he could look for no help from his associates. Once more Smoky roared. At least, he could punish the fellow who was responsible for this situation. Smoky made a leap and a wild lunge for Tad, but there was no Tad there. The Pony Rider Boy had leaped aside, laughing lightly.
"Come on. Smoke up! I'm waiting for you!" urged Butler in a tantalizing voice.
Griffin tried it again, but with no better result than before. The bully was thoroughly at home with a gun in his hands, but without a weapon he was as awkward as a sucking calf with its first pail of milk. Already the bully was breathing hard.
"Short-winded, eh?" grinned Tad. "You'll be more so after I have finished with you. It's my opinion that you need a lesson. It will be doing the community a service to give you one and I'm going to do it."
Smoky launched a vicious kick at the Pony Rider Boy. Tad dodged it, and ere Smoky could recover his balance Butler had planted a blow on the man's nose that literally turned that member upward. A second swift blow landed on the same tender spot.
With a wild howl of pain, Griffin began beating the air with his fists, striking; blindly and wildly. This was exactly what Tad wanted. His antagonist had wholly lost control of himself. His was a blind, murderous rage. Butler was playing with him like a cat with a mouse. Now and then the Pony Rider Boy would send in a punch, ever aiming for the damaged nose of Smoky Griffin, and Smoky was spinning about so frequently that he had grown dizzy. He was bellowing like an angry bull, but every time he opened his mouth to bellow, Tad's hard fist smote him on the nose.
Now the Pony Rider Boy got in closer and began beating a tattoo on the bully's face. It was eyes, nose and mouth, now, that got the blows. Tad was showing no preference. It was plain to the other boys that Butler was determined to teach a lesson that Smoky would not soon forget. Tad's face now wore a set grin. He did not appear to be in the least ruffled, but the grin looked as if it had grown on his face and had been there for years.
"Put him out, why don't you?" jeered Chunky.
"Smoky, have you had enough?" asked Tad, stepping back a few paces.
For a brief instant the bully glared through his bloodshot eyes, as if scarcely able to believe his senses. That a slender lad, such as the one before him, should possess so much skill and such a punch—it seemed to Smoky like the kick of a mule—passed all comprehension. But the longer he gazed the more sure was Griffin that he had but to stretch out his hand and crush Tad Butler.
Smoky tried it then and there. As a reward he got three blows, on as many different parts of his face, that sent him staggering backwards.
Tad now saw that he must fight to a finish. Smoky never would give up as long as he were able to lift a hand. For that the Pony Rider Boy admired him.
From that moment on it was a one-sided battle. Griffin's resistance was without effect, though had he been able to get a grip on his slender antagonist it would have ended the fight. Tad swung the blows in so fast that his companions were unable to count them, and at last the bully, Smoky Griffin, sank groveling in the dirt, blubbering and crying like a child who has been thoroughly spanked.
For the moment Tad Butler felt sorry for the fellow, sorry that he himself had been responsible for such a spectacle.
"Get up!" commanded the lad. "Perhaps this may teach you a lesson to mind your own business in the future, and—"
But Tad was interrupted by a howl from the spectators. They broke out into cheers for the plucky lad who had downed the bully of two counties. As quickly as his maimed condition would permit Smoky mounted and galloped away, trusting to his pony to find the way, for Smoky's eyes were swollen nearly shut.
Tad Butler had destroyed forever the power of the bully to terrorize Hunt's Corners.