Chris re-loaded his empty barrel and looked sharply in several directions, mostly in that from which danger had shown itself, and with the full intention of firing at the first enemy who tried to reach the spot which commanded his resting-place. But the silence continued, and there was no sign of a renewed attack.

Then all at once there was a fresh beating of the pony's hoofs from below, where everything was hidden. This was followed by a sharp scrambling sound, and again by a tremendous rush as of earth and stones sliding down for awhile before reaching the bottom with a crash.

"My poor nag!" groaned Chris, and in imagination he saw the crushed and bleeding body of the sturdy little steed lying motionless amidst the heap of stones.

The fancy was so horribly vivid that he shivered as if from a cold wind passing over him, while all the time he was bathed with perspiration.

The old dread of slipping from the narrow ledge upon which he lay came back, and with a terrible feeling of despair he waited for the moment when he would again be falling swiftly through the air to share the fate of his mount.

He had just reached this point when, sounding rather faint and distant but perfectly clear, he heard a familiar voice calling him by name.

But in his state of painful agitation he could make no reply, only lie motionless and ready to ask himself whether he had not conjured up the call himself.

But it was no fancy! It was his father's voice, sounding as if sent forth with a great effort between hands held on either side of the speaker's lips.

"Chris! Chris!" And perfectly clearly now a repetition of the words in a husky whisper from somewhere close at hand.

The Indians were above him, he knew, and it was like telling them exactly where he lay; but the boy felt that at all risks he must reply, and bending over a little so as to direct his voice downwards, he shouted—

"Ahoy! Here!"

Ahoy! Here!

The softly-whispered echo of the cry, not from close at hand, but from the face of the cliff far away.

But there was another and more ominous sound, or rather burst of sounds, at this, for a chorus of savage yells arose from the top of the cliff above him, and he knew that the Indians must have exposed themselves once more, for a couple of shots rang out from far below, raising strange echoes from the end of the valley, and once more there was the terrible silence in which Chris crouched hopelessly, for more than ever now he felt the crux in which he was placed—to attempt to move was to fall or expose himself to the arrows waiting for him on the top of the cliff.

The next minute the black cloud of hopelessness seemed to be cut by the voice which came up out of the depths—the voice that told him his friends were watching and waiting—as he felt must be the case—to fire at the first Indian who showed himself above the top of the cliff.

"Chris!" So low and distant, but so clear. "Chris!"

"Ahoy! Coo-ee!" shouted the boy downward, and from between his hands.

This time there was no answering yell, and Chris listened to the words that came up, sending a thrill of joy through him, but at the same time a strange tremor of fear.

"Can you hear?" came now.

"Yes."

"Then—listen," came with very slow emphasis. "You—must—creep— gully—lower—self—down."

Chris was silent as he sat staring down as it seemed into nothing but the clear air, for the stone to which he had clung projected from the cliff-face, just as the parts above him overhung as if about to fall.

"Hear?" came from below.

The single word was so sharp and imperative that the boy replied at once, shouting the one word, "Can't!" And then, as if ashamed of himself for so shrinking a reply, he alluded to one only of the dangers which hemmed him in by crying out, "Indians!"

Chris's heart leaped again, and hope grew brighter, for he more fully grasped his situation from the next words that came, though he had pretty well understood it before.

"Dare—not—show."

But the words had hardly been uttered before Chris felt that he knew more than his friends, for his strained and wandering eyes, which shrank from gazing down into the awful depths below, suddenly became aware of a slight movement amongst the pensile growth between the summit and the spot from which the Indians had shot at him.

He was in doubt for a few moments, and he held his breath as he cautiously brought his rifle to bear upon the hanging bush. But it did not stir, and it seemed evident that he had only imagined the danger.

He had held his breath painfully while he watched, and now, feeling that he was wrong, and must say something to those below, he breathed again freely and was about to speak when his heart seemed to stand still again, for one swinging bough was slightly agitated and pressed aside, showing the glistening, copper-hued skin of an Indian's shoulder, with the strap of a quiver-sling plainly in view.

The man was evidently crawling like a short thick serpent to reach a spot from which he could shoot; but it was not to be, for covering the Indian's side the boy waited a full minute to see if a better opportunity presented itself; and it came, for after lying perfectly still for awhile the man raised himself a little as if to clear something in his way, and then gave a spasmodic jerk, rolled over sidewise, and came gliding out from beneath the hanging growth, to fall like those who had gone before.

"How horrible!" thought Chris with a shudder, as he re-charged the barrel he had just fired. Then bitterly, "More horrible for poor father if it had been Chris Lee."

The excitement of this fresh attempt to reach him roused him to try whether he could not obey the order that had been shouted from below, while the needed spur was now applied in the shape of the one word which rose up, perfectly clear—

"Try!"

The boy's answer took the form of obedience.

Glancing upward to see that he was quite hidden, and again at the ledge from which the arrows had come, Chris passed his rifle-sling over his head and one shoulder, got the piece well over his back, and flattening himself down upon his chest, edged himself along to get his head a little beyond the stone of shelter so that he could look down, when he turned icy with the shiver that ran up his spine. For he was gazing down a perpendicular portion of the cliff-face to a patch of bushes fully two hundred feet below.

"Oh, it's impossible!" he cried; but as he uttered the words once more the command came up—

"Try!"

"Ah, he doesn't know," groaned the boy despairingly, as he shrank shivering back to his old position, to lie still for a minute, feeling the palms of his hands grow wet. But the sound of that word try seemed to be echoing on his ear, and thrusting himself more away from the edge of the shelf over which he had peered, he wrenched his head round to see whether there was any possible ledge or slope on the other side of the stone where he had looked before and had seen as it were that it projected right out.

Once more his heart seemed to leap, for as he looked after backing a little more, he could see that his feet rested on a ledge formed by one band of the shale projecting about a foot beyond that above, while two yards or so beyond this ledge was broken sharply away.

What was beyond he could not see, but the ledge was certainly safer than the spot he occupied, there being room for him to lie down, and, better still, he could see that he would be better screened from any attack made from the ledge or the clump of bushes, the stone and an angle of the cliff being between the ledge and the dangerous foes.

It was a case of its being only the first step that costs. Chris had begun to try, and forcing himself backward along the ledge inch by inch, he soon had the satisfaction of feeling that he was more hidden from the danger of being shot at than he expected, while the cliff-wall at whose foot he lay completely screened him from above.

There was a hopefulness about this, a feeling of being rewarded for his effort to try, which nerved the boy to continue, in spite of the difficulties attending his backward progress and the way in which his rifle caught against the wall, and his having to stop again and again to readjust the holster of his revolver, which kept on slipping round.

"This going backward is horrible," he said to himself at last, as he paused rather out of breath to look anxiously about him, but felt in better heart upon again seeing how thoroughly he was screened from the Indians. The danger was not there, and he had nothing to mind on one side where the rock-wall went right up, probably to the tableland above, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might come right to the edge of the mass of earth and stone. That which he had to fear was the horrible vacancy on his left, over which, had he cared to, he could have stretched out his hand; but though more than once tempted to do so, he shrank from it with a shudder.

"But I must do something," he thought. "I can't go on backwards like this."

He waited a little while to let his breath come and go more easily, and while he lay there resting upon his chest he thought. He reasoned with himself in a kind of argument and appeal to his common-sense.

"This natural shelf," he said, "is about a foot wide, and if it were only just above the ground I should feel not the slightest nervousness, but be ready to stand up and run along it, instead of creeping back like a worm. Suppose it does go down hundreds of feet, what then? There is just as much room, and it only wants pluck. If I couldn't run along it I might walk steadily. I will."

But he did not begin. The horror of that great unknown depth was too hard to master; but he raised himself slowly on all fours to see if he could not turn himself round so as to crawl the rest of the way head first instead of feet.

It seemed very simple, but at the first trial his rifle caught tightly, and he was attacked by a sensation as of something thrusting at him hard, so that he closed his eyes and remained for some seconds with his head projecting over the edge of the shelf before he shuffled himself back into his former position, and then lay panting till the breathlessness that had attacked him passed away, leaving a sensation of anger against himself for his want of firmness.

"Oh, it's cowardly," he muttered fiercely. "I can't go on backwards, and I must and will do it. But how?"

He thought more calmly at last, and it seemed plain enough. All he had to do, it seemed, was to take fast hold of some projection in the rock, so as to steady himself, and then—

No, that wouldn't do.

"I see," he panted the next minute. "Turn over on my back. But is there room?"

This required a good deal of anxious thought, for failure meant plunging down at once into the depths below.

"There must be room enough," he panted, "if I keep on edging myself close to this great wall of rock."

He hesitated no longer, but setting his teeth hard and moving by inches, and battling with the hindrances offered by the weapons he carried, he wrenched himself round till he lay flat upon his back, gazing upward calmly enough in spite of one terrible half-minute he had passed, when it seemed to him that his rifle was acting as a lever to thrust him right off.

"But that was only fancy," he said to himself now the danger was past, "and all I have got to do is to take hold tightly of the rock with my right-hand and of some block or projection in this wall with my left, let my legs glide over the edge, and sit up. It only means my legs swinging over the gulf. Then I can get on to my hands and knees and go forward easily enough, while my rifle won't be in the way.

"Only means my legs swinging over the gulf," said Chris again, this time aloud, in a peevish, low voice. "Only! Oh, I can't do it," he groaned, and then breathlessly and without giving himself an opportunity to shrink, he said aloud, "I will."

The next minute he had begun making the effort—seizing the edge of the rock and reaching up overhead to feel about till his fingers sank into a crevice, and then, panting heavily, he made one brave effort, holding on tightly and letting his legs glide over, while he stiffly raised himself up, moving as it were upon a pivot, that pivot being the base of his spine.

"There," he cried triumphantly, as the result of his effort was that he was sitting upright on the ledge with his feet in the air, but not swinging, for he pressed his heels hard against the rock beneath him, as he glanced sidewise to think of how he was to make his next movement.

"Chris! Ahoy! Chris!" came faintly from below, and at the same moment there was a sharp crack, and the ledge upon which he was sitting gave way, dropping down with its burden, many feet on either side of him parting clean from the wall of rock, just as if it had been riven off by some mighty wedge.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

A WELCOME WORD.

Chris's lips parted for a cry to escape, but his teeth remained fast set, and there was not a sound for the moment. He was conscious of dropping rapidly down without the slightest change in his position, and then there was a dull heavy shock, when the apparently solid piece of ledge, after being exposed to the atmosphere for ages, crumbled into dust and went on downward with a curious whispering rush along a steep slope instead of over a perpendicular wall. Choking with the dust which arose, rolled over and over and half blinded, Chris was stunned by the confusion of the rush, for how long he could not tell, and then there was a sudden stoppage, and he lay half buried in the debris of the little earthen avalanche.

For a few moments the lad was too much stunned to attempt to move, and lay motionless, trying to pierce the thick dust which closed him in. Then the horror and dread of his position came upon him with terrible force, and he began to struggle violently, increasing the dust, but getting first one arm and then the other free. Then matters grew more easy; he dragged himself sidewise, and shovelfuls of the debris dropped from his hips, while he could feel that his legs were looser. Then another desperate struggle, and he was on the outside of the sloping heap, but only to set the surface in motion again and roll and glide down and down and over and over once more, till he was brought up short in the narrowest part of a wedge-shaped mountain cleft, to begin struggling again, trampling as if rapidly ascending stairs, to avoid being buried by the gliding rubbish still in motion and filling up the bottom of the rift.

The dust was still forming a cloud, but it was floating away, leaving the bare sides of the cleft clear enough for him to see far above him where the ledge ran horizontally along the side of the huge wall; and the change in colour showed him where what seemed to be quite a small portion had dropped away.

Chris's next effort was to feel himself over and move his limbs, which felt sore, and ached; but he soon found that he was not hurt, and began to try and realise his position.

As far as he could make out he was in a rift of the valley; walls almost completely shut him in on three sides and nearly so on the fourth, but here there was light—bright light—coming through a lightning-shaped, enormous crack which zigzagged downward from a great height, and whose depth below he could not trace.

The position would have been enough to confuse a man at any time, but now after the fall it was tenfold more puzzling than it would have been to one trying to ascend the rock-face. But Chris soon came to the determination that the open valley must be out beyond the zigzag rift, and shaking himself clear of the rubbish which adhered to his garments, he felt that his weapons were all right, and then began to make his way over the fallen stones and earth to the great crack.

"I must be a long way down the cliff," thought the lad; "but it's wonderful that I'm not hurt—more," he added after a pause, for a feeling of stiffness and pain began to trouble him.

With the pain the remembrance of the Indians began to come back from where it had been driven, and instinctively drawing round his rifle, he looked upward; but the edge of the cliff was not visible from where he stood, and there was no fierce-looking warrior upon any ledge drawing his bow to send an arrow whizzing through the air. But all the same Chris instinctively hastened his steps over the yielding debris, seeing as he did that once inside the zigzag rift he would be sheltered from any such danger as that.

The next minute he had left the heaped-up earth and shale, to begin climbing over blocks of hard stone which filled up the bottom of the rift, finding the way difficult, even painful, with the light a very short distance in front, but with jagged masses hanging threateningly overhead and looking as if a touch would bring them thundering down.

It was only fancy though, for they would be immovable until the water that the boy now heard trickling softly amongst the stones far beneath his feet had gone on doing its insidious mining perhaps for ages, for the zigzag rift was composed of massive stone.

"Oh, if I could only get some of that water!" thought Chris, as he now heard the soft musical trickle which roused within him a parching feeling of thirst.

But it was far out of reach save to some burrowing animal which might have felt no compunction about making its way down through the crevices of the fallen blocks over which Chris continued to stumble, till all at once he dragged himself through a narrow opening between the two sides of the rift, to find that he could look diagonally across the valley at the openings and terraces far away, but evidently those which would be the unexplored portions of the rock city, opposite the places they had examined.

"Hurrah!" he cried, as the light seemed to flash into his spirit and give him strength, for a shot rang out from somewhere to his right. He knew it must come from there, for the echo came from beyond the opening on his left.

Then there was another, and another, to awaken the echoes, followed by silence, during which he waited for a fresh signal.

It came at last, but very faint and distant, and though he shouted several times over, there was no reply.

"It's of no use to wait," muttered Chris; "they can't hear, and if they did they couldn't help me. I must help myself."

Feeling this strongly he climbed a little farther, to find that he was at the edge of the zigzag rift, which, as far as he could make out, clove the face of the cliff from a great height up to far below him; and to damp his spirits the fact was clearly before him that he could go no farther outward, for there was no fancy here—he was at the edge of a genuine precipice, and if there was any escape it must be by descending.

He stepped back a little way and reached where the stones were piled-up roughly, partially filling up the rift, and by using care he was able to descend from block to block, with the water keeping up its musical tinkle far below.

"Why, it must be making its way out into the valley," he thought, "and if I can follow it I may be able to get out where it falls.

"But we saw no falls," he said, after a few minutes' thought; "but then we never came quite to this end of the place, and only saw it from a distance. Let's see; water keeps going down and down, and if I can keep on close by it it's sure to lead one right into the valley, which looked as if it was completely closed at the upper end.

"So it is," Chris added, with a pitiful little laugh, "The Indians couldn't get down—those who were shot did. And so did I; but only after two awful tumbles. Why, it must be a wonder that I am alive. But it killed my poor nag."

Chris did not talk to himself, but his brain was very active, and he wondered a good deal why it was, as he kept on threading his way over and under stones, with the water acting as guide—why it was that he heard no more calls.

"It must be," he thought, "that they are quite behind me, while I'm making my way across the end of the valley, so that I shall come out somewhere near the opposite side—if I ever do get out, for the place gets narrower and darker the farther I go."

Chris had good cause to complain, for from climbing over blocks of stone he had to begin creeping under and between pieces so closely set that there were times when he was ready to give up in despair, and at last the end of his journey seemed to have arrived. For he was brought up short at the mouth of a cavern-like place where the sound of trickling water grew louder and was accompanied by a peculiar whispering echo sounding horribly strange and mysterious, coming as it did out of black darkness.

It took a strong effort to enter the place, but the lad had grown desperate. He was conscious that whatever difficulty there was to encounter he must face it, so bending down and feeling his way by the rough rocky wall, he stepped on very slowly and cautiously, for the flooring of the cavern-like place was of loose stones, beneath which he could hear the water running faster as if nearing its exit, and he knew that if he could not find the opening where the spring ran into the valley, he could come back, for the hidden stream would still be his guide.

He had just comforted himself with this thought—a most welcome one where all was black—when it seemed to him that there was a dull suggestion of light not far ahead, and he took a few more cautious steps with his hands telling him startling news, for he found that the roof was rapidly getting lower, and a few yards farther he had to stoop.

But it was lighter, and hence it was that a little farther on he did not hesitate to crawl, while before he had progressed many feet farther he had to drag himself over the rough stones, which vibrated now from the water flowing about their bases, and then as he dragged himself out into the full light of day it was into the rocky channel of a stream where the water, that must at some time have rushed out as a heavy fall, smoothing the stones on either side, was now invisible, descending as it did for about fifty feet into the valley amongst the rocks, and plunging, mole-like, deep down beneath the surface, as if shunning the light of day.

"Hah!" sighed the lad, as he stood upright and breathed deeply of the soft pure air, for his difficulties seemed to be at an end, nothing remaining for him to do but lower himself down amongst the rocks from the rough ledge upon which he was perched, when his heart leaped at the sound of a familiar voice hailing him with a cheery "Ahoy!"



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

OPEN-AIR SURGERY.

"Griggs!" shouted Chris excitedly.

"Why, there you are! The doctor's gone the other way to see if he could find a gully by which he could climb up to try and find you. I came this way. Same purpose, and I've got all the luck. Take care! Mind! These stones are slippery."

"Yes, I'll mind," said Chris, as he descended the rocks backwards. "This is nothing; but hadn't you better run and tell father you've found me?"

"Nay! I'm not going to brag. I didn't find you; you seem to have found me. Then you haven't broken your neck?"

"No."

"How many legs are snapped?"

"None," said Chris, who threatened to break one directly, so reckless was his progress.

"Arms, then?"

"I'm all right, I tell you, only a bit knocked about; but where's Ned?"

"Along with his father on the upper terrace, giving the Indians a bit of a shot now and then to keep them from coming up after the mules."

"But can they do it alone?"

"Oh yes; the brutes are sad cowards and don't like powder and shot at all."

"There!" cried Chris, leaping to earth and coming close to the American. "Now then, I want to join father."

"That's soon done," said Griggs; "but keep an eye up towards the top yonder, and 'ware arrows."

"Yes, I know," said Chris excitedly.

"Of course you do; but they'll be pretty shy of showing themselves now, after our bit of shooting."

"Walk quicker," said Chris. "But tell me, how did the enemy attack you?"

"That's what we want you to tell us, lad. When they began we were afraid they had got you. How did it all happen?"

Chris explained in a few words, and then began questioning, to learn how those he had left behind were nearly taken by surprise, but their preparations proved too perfect and a few shots had driven the Indians back.

"Spoiled our night's rest, though," said Griggs dryly, "for there was no sleep for fear of the redskins stealing by us in the dark and driving off the cattle."

"Ah," said Chris, with a sigh. "My poor mustang!"

"Poor brute, yes," said Griggs. "It was a thousand pities. I liked that pony. He made me jealous of you."

"Don't talk about him," said Chris quickly. "I tried so hard to save him."

"You did, my lad; you did."

"How do you know?" said Chris, staring.

"How do I know? Why, didn't I tell you the redskins spoiled our night's rest?"

"Yes."

"Well, that means we were all wide awake at daybreak."

"Then you saw all?" cried Chris.

"Why, certainly. Ned had the glass and was telescoping in all directions up and down the valley, looking out for squalls, when he suddenly made us all jump nearly out of our skins for joy by shouting out, 'There's Chris!'"

"And then you saw all that happened?"

"To be sure we did," said Griggs; "everything, and precious unpleasant some of it was. It brought us into action pretty soon though, making us hurry up towards the head of the valley here on the chance of getting a good shot or two in amongst our savage friends."

Chris turned round and looked the American full in the face, but without speaking.

"Well, what's the matter, lad? Smudgy with gunpowder? Oh, I've had no time to wash this morning."

"Griggs," cried Chris excitedly, "who was it fired that shot?"

"Which one, my lad? We sent a good many flying."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, who was firing. Your father, of course."

"You're prevaricating, Griggs," cried Chris huskily. "Tell me at once who fired that shot?"

"Which one? We tumbled two or three, or more, of the enemy down. So did you. I heard your rifle crack, and saw them come off the cliff."

"No nonsense, Griggs; you know what I mean. I say, who fired that shot?"

"And I say which one? There were so many."

"The one that saved my life."

"Oh, I see," cried the American; "that one. Well, I think it was either me or the doctor, but we were in such a state of excitement that it's doubtful."

"There, I was sure of it from the first," cried Chris, holding out his hand; "it was you, Griggs."

"I don't say it was, and I don't say it wasn't, my lad," said the American, turning away carelessly as if not seeing the extended hand; "but look here, it was bad enough for you, that set-to with the redskins; but it was all excitement and action; you had no time to think. It was a hundred times worse for us down below here."

"Indeed?" said Chris half mockingly.

"Yes, indeed. I tell you, my lad, I never passed such a bad half-hour before in my life. We could see every movement, except when you galloped out of sight. It all stood out like a picture against the clear morning sky, while there we were nearly all the time, afraid to shoot because we were more likely to hit you than the enemy. My word, I felt bad enough, but it was just horrible for the doctor."

"Poor father!" said Chris.

"You may well say that, my lad. P'r'aps you don't know it, but he thinks a deal of you, my lad."

"Why, of course," cried Chris.

"Very foolish of him, I suppose, but then he don't know you so well as I do. He's prejudiced, you see."

"I suppose so," said Chris.

"My word, he did take on when he saw the mustang come over the cliff and drag you after it!"

"Don't talk about it," cried Chris with a shudder.

"Why not? I think it was very fine now. We were a bit worried at first, and the doctor couldn't shoot at all for some time; but as soon as we heard you begin to pop and the redskins came down, we nearly went mad with joy. I saw, though he didn't say much out loud, but I just caught sight of his lips moving now and then; and the way he shot afterwards—I don't believe he made a miss. I say, the redskins were soon tired of showing their faces over the edge of the cliff. But, my word, Chris, lad, you had a narrow escape!"

"Several," said Chris, smiling.

"Ah! Yes! You ought to have been killed with the arrows."

"Ought I?"

"Yes, that you ought. Those fellows shoot very straight, and send those thin splints of wood with tremendous force."

"They do," sighed Chris. "My poor mustang!"

"Ah! Poor plucky little thing; he nearly killed you too."

"In his agony, poor creature. He was shot savagely."

"Ah! Yes. Seems rather hard on him—a horse to be shot by means of a horse."

"I don't understand you," said Chris, staring.

"No? Don't you know what some of their bows are?"

"Oh, you mean the strings. Made out of twisted gut, perhaps."

"That's quite right, my lad, but not what I meant. I meant the bows themselves."

"Some very tough wood, I suppose, like the yew with which the English used to make bows."

"Nay. Lots of them are made of horses' or buffaloes' ribs. They're handy and short and tough. You know with what a whing they can send an arrow."

"I didn't know that," said Chris thoughtfully.

"Didn't you, now?" said Griggs mockingly. "I shouldn't wonder if there are two or three more things that you haven't found out yet. But, as I was saying, you ought to have been a dead one over that job, squire. The redskins meant you; but they got the worst of it. I say, though, I could teach you a-many things."

"Well, you have taught me many things in shooting and fishing and hunting."

"Well, yes, a few," said the American coolly; "but they're just about nothing to what you could teach me."

"I?" cried Chris, staring at him in wonder. "Why, what could I teach you that you don't know?"

"How to tumble over a cliff like that without doing yourself any worse damage than making a few scratches, tearing your jacket, and getting yourself full of dust."

They had been tramping together across the head of the valley as they talked about their experiences, with Chris keeping a keen lookout ahead for the first glimpse of his father, and giving an occasional look up towards the edge of the cliff, which he noted was wonderfully broken up into hollows and prominences, rifts and gorges that had been invisible from a distance, and all overhung by a level band of apparently impassable rock. But during the last few minutes of their chat they had been so deeply interested that neither had glanced upward to their right, and the first warning they had of danger was given in a quick sharp shout in the doctor's familiar voice.

"Ah, look out!" he cried, and followed up his words by firing; but before the bullet left his rifle Chris heard a loud whirring and saw his companion start violently before stooping down a few yards away to pick a little arrow from where it had stuck in the ground.

"That's not bad shooting," said Griggs coolly. "Hit him, doctor?"

"Yes," said the latter, hurrying up to catch Chris's hand.

"My boy! my boy!" he cried in a choking voice which prevented him from saying more.

But he seemed to give himself a wrench directly after, to speak out plainly and with decision.

"You must keep a sharper lookout, Griggs," he cried. "You forget that we are within range of their arrows."

"I shall remember in future, doctor," said the American dryly.

"Did that arrow touch you?" said the doctor anxiously.

"Went right through the leg of my boot, sir," said Griggs coolly.

"But it did not graze you? Why, man, you're bleeding fast!"

"Oh, it's nothing, sir," said the man.

"How do you know?" cried the doctor. "Here, let's get behind that stone. They can't touch us there."

Griggs walked firmly enough half the distance to the shelter sought for, but he limped the rest of the way, and was ready enough to sit down behind the rock and let the doctor go on one knee to carefully draw up the bloodstained bottom of the man's trousers just above where it was thrust into the high boot.

"Hah!" sighed the doctor. "Only a clean little cut in the flesh. I'll put a stitch or two in it. Why, it's as clean as if done with a knife."

The doctor had laid his rifle ready to hand, and was busy at once opening a pocket-book containing the necessaries he required; but first of all he pulled round the bottle slung over his shoulder and carefully washed the diagonal cut.

"You don't think there's poison in it, do you, doctor?" said the American, with a look of amusement.

"Any form of dirt is poison to a wound," said the doctor, drying the place; and then, after deftly drawing the edges of the wound together, cutting some strips of plaister with the bright scissors ready, and applying them to keep all protected from the air.

"Hurt much?" he said, as he worked away, Chris watching the while as if taking a lesson.

"Well, yes, I won't say it don't, doctor; but not worse than I feel somewhere else. I say, though, hadn't we better make haste back to the fort?"

"Yes; you feel faint, don't you?"

"Horribly," said Griggs, giving Chris a comical look.

"Let's go, then. Put your foot as lightly as you can to the ground, and lean on me. We must get out of bowshot as quickly as we can."

"Tchah! Only my nonsense, doctor," said Griggs cheerily. "My faintness is the same as squire's here. We want our breakfast horribly."

"Oh," cried the doctor, smiling. "I was afraid it was from your wound. I don't wonder that you are faint, Chris. But one moment, boy, do you think the Indians can lower themselves down over the edge of the cliff?"

"No, father; not unless they are ready to drop as I did."

"How far?"

"Can't tell," said Chris, with an involuntary shudder. "It was rather horrible, and I wonder I wasn't killed."

"And I wonder too," said the doctor solemnly. "I don't think that they will dare to descend in the daytime, for they will be afraid that we are waiting to fire at all who show; so come on. Are you sure you can walk, Griggs?"

"Walk, sir? I should like to run."

"But your leg must smart."

"Hardly smarts, sir; it's just as if somebody was playing at sewing it up with a red-hot skewer. Nice bold refreshing sort of pain.—Tchah! That's all right."

"But where are the mules and ponies, father?" said Chris, as they hurried now in the direction of the terraced cliff on their right.

"Hobbled, and grazing at the foot of our cliff under shelter of a couple of rifles."

"But there are more Indians at the mouth of the gulch?"

"I don't know," said the doctor. "They had a fire burning there last night."

"Yes," said Chris dryly, "I know;" but he did not then attempt to explain how he knew.

"They haven't shown since they felt the effect of our bullets, but they're as cunning as they are treacherous, and one never knows what they may be about."

Some quarter of an hour later the adventurers were all in shelter, one of the cells of the lower range having been turned into a temporary mess-room, while the next showed signs of cooking in the shape of a curling little column of smoke; there was water in buckets outside on the terrace, where, behind a kind of breastwork hastily piled-up, watch was being kept; and well in sight there were the animals of the little train, grazing contentedly enough well within range of the watchers' rifles.

Chris felt like a hero after the warmth of his welcome was beginning to cool down. He had eaten almost ravenously, and assuaged the great thirst from which he had suffered. But now the great desire from which he suffered was want of sleep, for he was utterly weary and so stiff that he could hardly refrain from uttering a groan.

All the same he had been obliged to relate his adventures once more— such of them as had not been seen from the valley. But at last he was lying down in the cool shade in one of the cells and dropping off, but only to be aroused by the coming in of Ned, who was eager to hear more.

"You are a lucky one, Chris," he said, in an ill-used tone.

"What!" cried the boy angrily; but the next moment the remark presented such a ludicrous side that he began to laugh, and then, possibly from exhaustion and the result of the exciting passages he had gone through, his mirth grew at once almost hysterical, so that he could not check himself.

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Ned wonderingly. "Have I said anything comic?"

"Horribly," panted Chris; "but I do wish you'd go, and let me sleep."

"I will soon," said Ned; "but I don't see what there is to laugh at, unless you feel jolly triumphant at getting all the best of the expedition to yourself."

"I do," said Chris. "It was lovely being shot at with arrows and tumbling down those precipices, better than any dream I ever had."

The boy's face looked mirthful, and Ned did not notice the bitterly sarcastic ring there was in his comrade's words, as he said in an envious tone—

"Well, it's all very fine, but I shall tell father that it isn't fair for you to be made the favourite, and I don't think you've behaved well."

"Don't you?" said Chris, sobering down. "I'm very sorry; but I've done the best I could."

"Perhaps so, but I don't think that if I had lost my pony I could have lain there and grinned as you've done. Poor brute! I almost believe I would rather have died myself."

Chris was perfectly sobered now, and as Ned walked away he lay there in the cool shadow with a peculiar look in his weary eyes, while, far from desiring sleep, he could only lie hot-headed and in feverish pain, thinking of the gallant way in which the pony had galloped to save his life.

It was long before he slept, and when he did it was to go through most of the events of the past night and morning again in feverish dreams. But at last he slept too heavily for dreams. Nature required rest, and the boy lay breathing in the cool mountain air and sleeping as if he meant to crowd the rest of two nights into one.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A WELCOME STRONGER.

"Chris!"

"Don't!"

"Chris!" in a louder tone.

"Get out!" very irritably, and the speaker turned sharply over with his face to the stones and his back to the bright sunshine that came through the old window-opening.

"Are you going to sleep here for ever?"

A grunt, accompanied by the kicking out of one leg, which would have taken effect if Ned had not hopped over it.

"I say, are you going to sleep for a week?"

"No! And I'm not asleep now," said Chris, with his eyelids squeezed very close together; "but I tell you what, if you don't be off and leave me alone I'll get up and punch your stupid old head."

"You daren't.—I should like to see you!"

"You soon will, and so I tell you. Be off, or I'll empty the wash-hand jug over you."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Ned. "Where is it?"

"Oh, bother! Be off!"

"Shan't! Do you know it's to-morrow morning?"

"No, I don't, Paddy Bull. How can it be to-morrow when it's to-day?"

There was a grunt very much like a snore.

"Well, of all the old dormice!" muttered Ned. "Chris, you must get up."

"Shan't!"

"But you've been asleep twenty-four hours."

"Look here, stupid," grumbled Chris, without stirring, "if you want to tell a big fib you should always make it as big as you can, or else people won't believe you. Say twenty-four days."

"Why, you unbelieving old humbug! It's the truth. You ate till I was ashamed of you, and then you lay down to sleep about this time yesterday, and here you are now as sleepy as ever. If you don't get up I'll go and tell the doctor you must be ill."

Chris started up into a sitting posture and uttered a cry.

"Oh! I say!—Ugh! I am stiff. I can't hardly move.—What's the matter with me?"

"Slept till you've turned stiff as a log," cried Ned. "Twenty-four hours right off."

"I say, that isn't true, is it?"

"Why, of course it is. Don't you remember lying down?"

"Of course I do. But what time is it?"

"Oh, I don't know about the time, but it's getting on for mid-day."

"Ned! I say, why didn't you wake me up before?"

"To be kicked at and threatened and called names?"

"Oh dear, how stiff I am! But really, Ned—no gammon—have I slept like that?"

"Of course you have. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I think so. Yes, of course. But what about the Indians?"

"Oh, they're hanging about. Some are at the mouth of the gulch, and some are on the cliffs at the top of the valley, but they don't come near."

"Haven't got the horses and mules, have they?"

"No. We've kept too sharp a lookout for them."

"Oh!" cried Chris wildly, and his face contracted with pain.

"Well, I suppose it hurts," said Ned, with a trace of sympathy in his voice, "but I wouldn't holloa like that. Get up and move about, the stiffness will soon go off."

"I wasn't shouting because of my hurts," said Chris bitterly. "I was thinking of my poor mustang."

"Yes," said Ned, after a pause; "that was a horribly bad job; but I've been thinking about it all, old chap, and I've settled what we'll do. I'm going to play fair—same as you would if it had been my nag. We'll share one between us. I'll have him one day, and you shall have him the next."

"That wouldn't be fair," said Chris, who was rubbing himself and kneading his joints where they ached.

"Yes, it would. You wait and hear. Then we'll have that mule that we took to fetch the water—old Brown Ginger. He's a regular brick, and likes us. Don't kick so much as the others—and take it in turns to ride him. What do you say now?"

"Well—yes! I like that idea; but you wouldn't care for that."

"Look here, you're growing a sore-boned, old disagreeable. Say I'm a selfish beast at once."

"Shan't!"

"Then it's all right," cried Ned.

"It's very good of you, old fellow."

"Bah! Rubbish! Stuff! I say, are you so very sore?"

"I can't hardly move some ways."

"Like me to give you a rub?"

"Oh no," said Chris, increasing the friction he was applying across the small of his back. "I shall be better soon. Only it's just as if I'd been hammered all over. But how queer that I should sleep like that!"

"Not a bit of it. The doctor said it was all right and it would do you good."

"Where is he?" cried Chris.

"Along with Wilton, watching the Indians down at the gulch. Father's up yonder along with old Griggs, keeping an eye on the top of the cliff, and shooting the birds that rise out of the hollows and rifts there. They come down our part to get at the water."

"Then you've been all alone?"

"Yes, playing pony and mule-herd. Nobody at home but me in this big three-storey house."

"But what about breakfast?" said Chris anxiously.

"Over hours and hours ago. Hungry?"

"I think so: I feel very hungry."

"That's a good sign," cried Ned, grinning. "Now I'll confess. That's why I roused you up. There's coffee hot, and damper, and a split-up and frizzled bird. I don't know what it is. Sort of vulture crow, perhaps."

"What! A carrion bird?" cried Chris. "Disgusting! They're not good to eat."

"Oh, these are—delicious. I ate half of one this morning. Perhaps they're not carrion birds, though."

"It's all your gammon," cried Chris. "Who shot them?"

"Old Griggs, when they came after the water."

"That proves it. Old Griggs knows what's good to eat well enough.—Hah, that's better. I'm not quite so stiff now. But is there plenty of water?"

"Lots. Why?"

"I want to have a wash."

"Bucket and pan waiting for your lordship in the bathroom. There, go and have it; and look sharp. You'll find me in the kitchen. We're using that till the workmen have been to put the breakfast-room in a state of repair."

"You seem pretty lively this morning," said Chris, rather sourly, for he was in a good deal of pain.

"Of course I am. We're enjoying ourselves so."

"You did nothing but grumble yesterday, and said I was having all the fun."

"Ah, but I didn't know how sore you were going to be then," cried Ned merrily. "There, look sharp. Breakfast's waiting.—I say."

"What?"

"I wouldn't stop to shave this morning as it's so late."

Chris passed his hand over his chin.

"I expect it wants a scrape," he said, "to take all the dust off."

A few minutes later, feeling much refreshed, Chris was feasting away at a most enjoyable breakfast, the lads chatting away merrily the while.

"I say," said Ned, "this wouldn't be a bad place if it wasn't for the Indians. Quite a palace when it's put in repair. Land one's own; the soil beautifully rich. I believe anything would grow here. I vote we settle down."

"And what about the gold?"

"Ah, the gold! I'm beginning to think with my father that we shall never find the old temple, and that if we did we should be none the better for it. I don't think we want all that gold."

"Grapes sour?" said Chris dryly.

"N-no," replied Ned. "But there, what's the good of talking? We've come to find the gold, and we shall go on till we feel it's no good. I like what we're doing, though. We must stop here, of course, till the Indians are tired and have gone. I wish they would go."

"Yes, it makes it so horrible."

"Ah! Doesn't it? I don't mind shooting something that we want to eat. But firing at them—Ugh!"

"Yes, it is horrid," said Chris; "but they're hardly men. Savage wretches! They seem to love killing."

"Have some more vulture," said Ned quietly. "There's all that piece of breast yet."

"Vulture!" said Chris, laughing.

"Well, didn't it taste bitter?"

"Yes, a little. It's one of those prairie hen things, of course."

"No, it was a fine fat cock."

"Well, they call them prairie hens. It was, as you say, delicious."

"Well, finish it."

Chris shook his head, rose stiffly, and helped his companion to clear away.

"Now then," he said, "I'm not much disposed to walk to-day. It's just as if I'd strained one of the muscles or something up in my hip. I should like to go and sit out on the terrace. Haven't got the glass, have you?"

"Yes, it's there, in the lookout. You can't do better than take my place. There's a rifle too, and cartridges, in case the Indians show, and the stones are built-up with loop-holes so that you'll be safe from arrows if the brutes do come crawling up and chasing the scouting-party."

"What are you going to do?"

"Help you do nothing," said Ned, laughing.

He led the way, and Chris limped after him, to find one part of the terrace turned into a rough observatory with a stone seat, and the binocular and rifle lying ready as Ned had said.

"I can't see anything of our people, nor yet of the Indians," said Chris, after a good look round in different directions.

"Oh, no; they keep well hidden."

"No fear of their hiding in any of those cells or on the terraces across the valley, is there?"

"I dunno; they might," replied Ned; "but they couldn't send an arrow in here from that distance."

"But we could send bullets. That side's within range," said Chris thoughtfully.

"Oh yes, and it wouldn't be lucky for one of the scalpers to show himself, I can tell him; but I say, look at the animals. I went down to them this morning, and their coats are getting smooth already. The coarse rich grass here suits them splendidly. If we stop here long they'll be growing fat."

Chris turned the glass upon the little drove of mules, which were grazing contentedly enough, and then changed his position to look at the ponies, which were keeping themselves aloof from their distant relatives, and cropping away with the thick grass right up to their knees.

"One—two—three—four—five—six," said Chris, by habit, counting the mustangs slowly.

"Hallo!" cried Ned. "Hurt one of your eyes?"

"Yes. It was when I came down with that ledge; I got both eyes full of dust and grit. Why?"

"Because you must be squinting," said Ned.

"Is this another joke?" said Chris, with the glass to his eyes.

"It's no joke," replied Ned, "not to be able to count properly. Try again."

"One—two—three—four—five—six," said Chris, counting slowly.

"Nonsense! Only five. One of your eyes don't go at all, seemingly."

"I can see them distinctly through the glass," cried Chris, with a touch of irritability in his tones.—"Why, Ned!"

"What's the matter?"

"There are six."

"Stuff!"

"There are, I tell you. Why, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! My pony's there."

"What! You mean his ghost."

"Ghosts can't eat grass," shouted Chris wildly.

"Why not? Horses' ghosts would when they couldn't get corn."

"It is! It is!" cried Chris, with a sound like a sob in his throat, and certainly there were tears in his eyes as he handed the glass to his comrade. "Look! Look for yourself; it's my dear old mustang. Ah! there! he's walking lame. And I thought he was dead—I thought he was dead!"

"It is, old chap," cried Ned, after a hurried glance. "He must have got here somehow and joined his mates in the night. I never noticed it, and no one else did, of course."

"Oh, Ned, this is good luck!"

"Good? It's glorious! Luck squared or cubed, or somethinged, up to the tenth power. Here, let's go down and see. Can you walk?"

"Walk?" cried Chris excitedly. "I feel as if I could run!"

"Get your rifle then; we mustn't stir without our popguns now. Why, I say, I never thought your mount was pure bred. His great-grandfather must have been a wildcat, a big one of the nine-lives breed, or he never could have come over that cliff, as you say, and lived. Perhaps it is his ghost, after all."

"Come on, and don't talk," cried Chris, who had buckled on his belt and slung his rifle.

"It's enough to make any one talk," cried Ned. "But, I say, you said that the Indians shot at him till he was as full of arrows as a pincushion is full of pins."

"I didn't. I said he was wounded two or three times."

"All the same. He must be a wonderful beast. Just wait till I've had a look at him, and then I tell you what we'll do. We'll change."

"Will we?" cried Chris, through his set teeth. "Poor old fellow, I wouldn't part with him for the world. Hff!"

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm only stiff and bruised all over. Come on."

Chris limped a great deal, and suffered plenty of pain, but he got down the slope bravely, managing to step from stone to stone until the way down to the water was passed and the two lads were hurrying across the verdant portion of the valley towards where the animals were browsing and grazing.

The mules just turned their heads to look at them in a surly, uncompromising fashion, and went on feeding again, but as soon as they were passed and the lads approached the ponies, Chris raised his voice, uttering a kind of bird-call, when the effect upon the little herd was immediate: all turned their heads, and Chris's mount uttered a shrill whinnying sound, before advancing to meet him, going, however, very stiffly on three legs, and as they approached looking as if it had suffered badly enough for anything that claimed to be alive.

"My word, he has had it warmly," cried Ned. "Poor old chap, he's been in the wars, and no mistake!"

The animal limped badly, and so did Chris, as they came within touch, when the pony thrust forward its muzzle in response to its master's extended hand, and then dropped its head and looked dejected in the extreme, but blinked and whinnied again as it felt itself caressed.

"My old beauty! My brave old chap!" cried Chris huskily. "Oh, look here, Ned! A broken arrow sticking in him still."

"Why, there's another on this side," cried Ned, "and a cut or a scratch—no, it's too bad for a scratch—there in his flank."

"He's cut here too, in the forehead. Oh, Ned, however did he manage to struggle back?"

"Oh, never mind about that. Let's have the heads of these arrows out first thing."

"Yes; they must be ready to fester in the wounds. No, we mustn't do it; they want cutting out with a proper knife. Look here, Ned; jump on your pony and go and find father. He'd like to dress the wounds himself."

"No need," said Ned sharply, as a distant whistle rang out; "here they come."

The whistle was answered, and a few minutes later the doctor and Wilton came into sight, saw the lads, and joined them.

"What's the matter?" cried the doctor hurriedly. "Another pony hurt?— What!—Impossible!—Oh, the poor beast! The brave fellow! I can hardly believe it. Here, let's lead him gently across, and I'll see what I can do. Has he just crawled back?"

"No, father; he must have come in the night," cried Chris. "We only just found that he was here."

"We didn't look at them before we went off this morning," said Wilton.

"No, and I remember I reproached myself once for not doing so. But there, we're giving all our sympathy to the pony. How are you, Chris, my boy?"

"All right now, father," was the reply. "Seeing this poor fellow has made me forget my bruises."

"But you are the better for your long sleep?"

"Yes, father; only a bit ashamed."

"Never mind that.—Tut, tut, tut!" continued the doctor. "Lame in the off fore-foot. Some horrible wrench; cut in the flank. Why, he has three arrows in him," continued the doctor, as he examined the poor beast while it limped along patiently by their side.

"But he'll get better, father?" cried Chris excitedly.

"I hope so, my boy; but I am not a veterinary surgeon. Depend upon it, though, that I shall do my best."

The pony followed them like a dog, holding out its muzzle to Chris from time to time, and uttering as soon as he was caressed a piteous sigh. But he did not wince till they were close up to the slope, where the doctor asked for bucket, water, and sponge, and began his attentions, with Chris's help, to the suffering, badly-injured beast.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A PATIENT PATIENT.

"I wonder you are both alive," said the doctor gravely, as he began to make a careful examination of the mustang. "The height of those cliffs is far greater than I expected."

Chris's eyes danced with glee, for he was beginning more and more to forget his injuries in his delight at recovering his pony.

"But we only fell a bit at a time, father," he said merrily.

"I suppose not," said the doctor dryly. "But now, can you help me a little, or are you too full of aches and pains?"

"You mean with the pony, father? Oh yes, I'm going to help. He'll be so much quieter if I stand with him."

"That's what I thought, for I don't want to have to throw the poor beast; he must be sore enough as it is. Stand forward, and be on your guard."

"Yes," said Chris quietly, "but I never thought of it before: his saddle and bridle are both gone."

"I wonder, his skin hasn't gone too," said Wilton. "But you had better get a good strong bridle on him again, doctor."

"We'll see. He'll soon show whether he will bear what I do, or show fight. Be on your guard, Chris, for bites and kicks."

"He won't bite or kick me, father," cried the boy resentfully.

"Not now, my boy, but I'm thinking about when I'm taking out those arrows. I must cut.—Let's see."

The doctor patted the poor animal on the neck, talking to him caressingly, and then passed his hand along slowly till his fingers pressed the spot where about an inch of one of the broken arrows stood out of the shoulder.

At the first touch the pony winced, giving a sharp twitch, making the skin crinkle up together; and he raised one hoof and stamped it impatiently, but he showed no disposition to bite.

"I believe he'll stand it," said the doctor, examining the wound. "It's beginning to fester already, and I dare say the cutting will give as much relief as pain."

"It's risky to chance it, doctor," said Wilton.

"No, I think not," was the reply. "I don't give animals the credit for much sense, but the poor beast knows us, and he may have enough to be aware that we are trying to do him good."

As the doctor spoke he opened his leather case of instruments, and took out a curved, hook-like knife and a pair of strong forceps.

"Water and sponge all ready? That's right. Now then, we shall soon know. Stand in front of his head, Chris."

Then as soon as the boy was where he was directed to stand, stroking the poor beast's nose, the doctor took hold of the broken shaft with the forceps, made sure of the position of the flattened arrowhead, and then passing the curved knife down by its side, made one firm cut through the skin and muscle, and the next moment the withdrawn arrow was thrown on the stones at their feet.

"Brave boy!" said the doctor loudly. "Why, he hardly winced. Now for the sponge and water. That's right," and he bathed and pressed the bleeding wound thoroughly. "There," he said; "I believe the poor brute really does understand. Let that bleed a little; it will help it to heal better. Now for the next."

This was a very different injury, for plainly enough to be seen just beneath the skin there lay fully six inches of a broken arrow.

The doctor passed his hand over this, and the pony shivered a little; but it was only a very superficial flinch, and the doctor changed his knife for another lying in the leather case.

"Poor old fellow," he said. "I believe I could do anything to him. He must understand."

The two boys watched everything intently, and noted that the operator pinched up the skin and arrow together; then starting from the orifice where the missile had entered he drew the keen point along the shaft till it grated on the barbed head, dividing the skin cleanly the whole length of the arrow, which required no forceps to remove it, for it dropped down of its own weight.

"Why, Chris," cried the doctor, "you couldn't have borne this so patiently.—Now, hold up the bucket, Ned. That's the way. I dare say the sponging feels comforting and takes off the itching."

"But ought it to bleed, father?" asked Chris.

"No, no. The injury is only to the skin. There's very little harm done."

The third wound was far worse, and to get out the arrowhead the doctor had to cut deeply, with the result that the equine patient stamped angrily and whinnied and shook his head. But he stood firm, making no attempt to kick or bite, and as soon as the wound was being bathed, stood blinking and evidently enjoying having its muzzle smoothed.

Then came the long cut or tear on the poor brute's flank, an injury so tender that he winced and shivered at the slightest touch. But there was no cutting here, nothing but bathing and cleansing the place thoroughly, before the skin was drawn together by means of pins passed through the edges and waxed silk wound round and round from head to point of the little pins. The skin of the other injuries was closed in the same way, and then the doctor made a fresh examination of the poor animal's sprain.

"I can do nothing here," he said. "Nature will put that right. There, Chris, lead him back to the others, and let him graze and forget his troubles if he can."

No leading was required, the pony following his master like a dog back to the pasture, where he began grazing for a few moments, before turning up his head to whinny loudly, and then lie down in the thick grass, stretching out legs and head, extended upon the flank.

"Why, Chris," cried Ned, "he's fainting!"

"Or something worse," cried Chris anxiously, as he sank stiffly upon his knees behind the mustang's head and laid his hand upon the neck.

"No, he's all right," cried Ned eagerly, for the pony on feeling the touch of his master's hand and hearing his voice, raised his muzzle, looked at him, and let it sink down again.

"Poor old fellow," said Chris softly, and he stayed there kneeling and talking quietly to the injured animal, till a shout from the terrace recalled them back.

Chris gave the soft neck another pat or two, and limped off with his companion.

"I do hope he's not going to die, Ned," he said, and he looked back when they had passed the mules, to have the satisfaction of seeing the pony make an effort to rise, without avail, but on the second trial he stood up with his legs far apart, gave himself a shake, and then lowered his head to begin biting feebly at the grass.

"Think he'll get over it, father?" said Chris, as he reached their stronghold.

"Oh yes. The injuries are not deep; but I'm rather afraid of that strain. He may go lame; but we shall see. I called you because I want you to keep out of the sun. Lie down in the shade and rest."

"I don't feel anything much the matter now, father."

"Perhaps not, my boy," said the doctor quietly, "but I want you to be better still to-morrow, not worse."

Chris, though he did not feel much the matter, to quote his own words, was fully conscious of being a good deal shaken, and when he lay down upon the rough bed of sage-brush covered with a blanket, the attitude was very pleasant to his aching limbs, and he soon began to feel that it was very restful to lie there watching the sides of the valley and making believe to keep a lookout for Indians.

The evening closed in, however, without any sign of the enemy, and soon after the lad had to listen to the congratulations of Bourne and Griggs, who brought in a pleasant addition to the stores in the shape of the grouse-like birds which came down from the tableland in coveys to get at the water which had been Chris's guide to the bottom of the valley.

"A fine bit of luck that, squire," said Griggs, "getting the mustang back. I was surprised."

"Have you been to see him?" asked Chris anxiously.

"Oh yes; I went as soon as I heard."

"What do you think of him?"

"Regular cripple," said Griggs, in his uncompromising way.

"But you think he'll get better?"

"Well, I hope so, but horses are ticklish things, and you never know what comes of a sprain or strain. I hope he'll come round, but I have my doubts about his being quite sound again."

As soon as it was dark the ponies and mules were quietly driven higher up the valley, so as to try and guard against any attempt to carry them off in the night. Then watch was set, and before those not on duty sought their resting-places a little debate was held as to the next steps to be taken. But not much was said. Reference was however made to Chris's mount and the possibility of his being fit to ride again at the end of a few days.

"But, you see, everything depends on the Indians," said the doctor. "We can't leave here to have them hanging on our heels, ready to catch us at a disadvantage. I almost wish they'd attack us to-morrow or next day, to get severely punished and so discouraged that they'd be off and leave us alone."

"Don't you think they'd come back to revenge themselves?" said Chris. "They must feel very spiteful even now, father."

"Yes, but an Indian is very fond of his life, my boy, and only likes to attack when he feels pretty sure of securing plunder. Now he is not likely to get much here, for any attempt made upon our cattle is bound to result in failure."

"But suppose they attacked in the night?" said Chris.

"I don't think these people would do that, my boy. They are horse Indians—Apaches, I fancy, and they like to fight as mounted men, so that they can dash in or gallop away. But come, you've talked too much already. Lie down and go to sleep. We're pretty safe here in our stronghold; water is plentiful; and it seems as if we have only to go and lie up near that spring to get as many birds as we want. Now then, sleep. I want rest badly, for I've had a long day and quite as much anxiety as is good for any one man."

Chris thought the same as he lay there, rather sleepless now, after so long an indulgence; and he thought a good deal too as he gazed up through the window-opening at the great stars, a little feverish and worried about his part in the adventures.

"Could I have done any better than I did?" kept coming as a question which remained unanswered when he dropped off to sleep, to begin dreaming about the reproachful eyes of his pony for a time. Then all was blank.



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

COUNCILS OF WAR.

Chris awoke next morning to find his father standing over him.

"Well, my boy; better?"

Chris started up, uttered a squeak and screwed up his face with a laugh, and fell back.

"How's my pony, father?"

"What was the matter?" said the doctor anxiously. "A pain anywhere inside?"

"No, father, only I seem to hurt all over, I'm so sore. But how's my pony?"

"Let the pony wait, boy. I want to be certain that you have no serious hurt. Wait a minute. Let me try."

The doctor began his examination, and question after question came. "Does that hurt?—Does this?—Now then, do you feel anything when I press here—or there—or there?"

"Yes—yes—yes!" cried the boy petulantly, as he winced and started and cried "Oh!" and "Ah!" and "I say, father!" and "Oh, please don't!"

"I must make sure, my boy."

"But I'm sure, father; won't that do?" cried the boy, in a tone of remonstrance. "Of course all that hurts me; you pulled and pinched me about so. I was as sore as sore all over before you began, and now I'm ever so much worse."

"No, you're not, boy. You're all right. There's nothing broken. You're bruised and strained, but that's all. You'll soon come right. Sleep well?"

"Part of the time, father. The rest was all waste, and I lay there feeling as if I ought to be keeping the watch, and thinking that some one else ought to be sleeping who could."

"But you were sleeping soundly when I came."

"Of course, father. I wanted to make up for lost time."

"And you feel now as if you can't touch food?"

Chris stared.

"Are you saying that as a joke, father?"

"Certainly not. You feel as if you had no appetite?"

"That I don't, father. I feel as if I could eat anything."

"Nothing the matter at all but stiff. That will soon pass off."

"Then you're not going to mix up anything horrid for me, father?"

"Nothing worse than tea or coffee; and you may have damper and bacon to take afterwards," said the doctor, laughing. "Have a good wash and rub out in the sunshine before breakfast. Then eat a good meal and lie about all day again in the sunshine."

"What for, father?"

"To give nature time to get your bruises right."

"But you won't tell me how my pony is—and he's worse than I am. Don't say he's tired, father?" cried the boy piteously, for the doctor's face looked very serious.

"Certainly not. Poor beast, he's far more stiff and sore than you are, besides having all those bad wounds."

"But they're getting better?" cried Chris anxiously.

"They're no worse, my boy," replied the doctor, "but they have had no time to get better. I have stopped them from getting into a bad condition, and the poor thing is limping about grazing as if nothing much was the matter. Are you satisfied?"

"Oh yes," cried Chris eagerly, as he rose and began to try himself in different attitudes. "It has done me good to hear it. I—I don't think I'm quite so stiff this morning."

"That's right."

"Are we going on to-day?"

"On? No. We're prisoners; and besides, we couldn't start with you and your pony in hospital."

"What about the Indians?"

"We haven't seen a sign of them. They're either laying some trap for us, or they have been regularly sickened and have stolen away in the night."

"Are you going to see?"

"Perhaps," said the doctor; "but I'm more disposed to keep a quiet lookout, and rest. We're quite safe here, and provisions are more plentiful than I thought for. Griggs has found the spoor of some big buck and his young does. They have straggled into the valley during the night."

"That's good news, father."

"For the larder: yes. What do you say to taking up land here and making a fresh start in life?"

"Wouldn't do, father," said the boy, shaking his head. "Too far away from everybody."

"Yes, it would be the life of a hermit. Ready to come out?"

"Yes, I'm going out to the water-bucket, as you advised."

"That's right; go. It will give you an appetite for your breakfast."

It was Ned's turn to keep watch from the observatory, as they termed a little shelter, roughly-made on the top terrace; but Chris would have taken his place had not his father interposed.

"But it seems so hard for him to go up there while we're having a good meal down here," said Chris wistfully.

"He shall be looked after," said the doctor, "and I don't want you to do much climbing about yet. You must rest."

Chris was silent, and took an opportunity to have a word or two with Ned before he started to climb up the narrow ways.

"That was very good of you, old chap," whispered Ned, gripping his comrade by the left arm, with the result that Chris groaned and ground his teeth.

"Oh, you brute!" he said sharply.

"Chris!—I am sorry."

"What's the good of being sorry? That's the sorest place I've got."

"I didn't know, old chap."

"I did; and I do now," replied Chris, rubbing the spot softly. "Never mind."

"But I do mind. I ought to have thought. Just too when you'd offered to do my work for me so that I could stop down to breakfast."

"Don't say any more about it," said Chris, with a grin of pain in his face dying out before a rather malicious smile. "They won't let me help you one way, so I will in another. I'm precious hungry, and I won't let your breakfast grow cold."

"Oh, thank you, old chap. That's very good of you, for I'm precious hungry too."

"I thought you were," continued Chris, looking quite solemn now. "I'll eat your lot for you."

For a few moments Ned's face was a study. It was so full of dismay. Then there was a look of doubt, and directly after he had read the truth.

"Get out!" he cried, and his hand was raised to give his comrade a heavy slap on the back; but Chris cried "Murder!" and shrank away.

"Oh, I forgot again," cried Ned hurriedly.

"You'd better be off up now, my boy," said Bourne. "Don't forget the glass."

"No, father. All right," cried the boy, and exchanging glances with Chris and following up his own with a clench of the fist, he took the binocular and hurried up to the lookout, while the rest applied themselves to the needed meal, but half-expecting to be alarmed, and impressed always by the expectation of attack, every one's weapons being kept ready to hand.

Chris ate, as his father said laughingly, like an impostor, a remark which Griggs, who did not join them till the meal had been going on for some minutes, readily endorsed.

Chris laughed, and the remarks did not spoil his appetite; but his thoughts were busy all through, and he looked anxiously for the termination of the meal, and when all was over he turned uneasily to Griggs.

"I say," he whispered, "oughtn't some one to go and relieve Ned?"

"What for?" was the uncompromising response.

"What for? Why, because he must be starving."

"Poor fellow! He must have an appetite then," said Griggs, laughing. "Did you see what I took up to him?"

"Oh," cried Chris remorsefully. "What a shame! Here was I thinking that every one had been selfish to the poor fellow, while all the time—"

"We had all played quite fair—you most of all. Here, how are all the aches and pains now?"

"Getting better. I have no right to make so much fuss about them and play at being in hospital."

"You're not, lad. You're only doing what the doctor ordered. A fellow can't fall nearly a mile perpendicular and slantingdicular without being a good deal shaken."

"How far?" said Chris, laughing.

"Well, say half-a-mile."

"What nonsense!"

"Say quarter of a mile then," cried Griggs sharply.

"Divided by what?"

"You are hard to please. I didn't measure the distance; but I will as soon as we've got rid of these precious redskins."

"Don't," said Chris. "I didn't fall far, and it was most of it sliding down."

"Turn round," cried the American, "and set your eyes at the very bottom of the cliff, and then run them up to the sharp edge where we saw you having that battle with your poor mustang before you went over, and then tell me again that you didn't fall far."

"Don't want to," said Chris, who looked all the same, and felt a little shiver as of something cold running down his back. "There, I'm off."

"Where are you going? The doctor said you were to rest."

"That's what I'm going to do," said Chris, "but I must go and see how my pony is."

"Ah, well, I suppose that won't hurt you. I'll go up and have a chat with Ned, and see if I can mark down any of the enemy."

They parted, and Chris walked over the rugged stones and down the slopes till he was at the bottom of the valley, with his feet brushing aside the long rich grass in which the mules were standing knee-deep, and which they neglected for the fresh green branches of the shrubs which grew thickly here and there.

"I forgot all about the snakes," said the boy to himself; "but there can't be any here, or the jacks wouldn't be so quiet."

Quiet they were, for though he walked right through the browsing herd they hardly turned their heads in his direction.

It was different when he reached the half-dozen ponies, which still kept themselves aloof as if preferring their own more aristocratic company. They were so rested and well fed that they were disposed to turn skittish, and two of them communicated their spirits to three of the others, which joined in, tossing their heads, prancing, and making a show of treating their visitor as one who was hiding bridle and bit behind him, ready to entrap and change their pleasant hour's grazing there amongst the rich succulent grass to a mouthful of hard iron with the burden of heavy riders upon their backs.

In fact, five of the ponies contrived to keep the advancing lad at a distance, while the sixth, which had been grazing slowly, suddenly raised its head and stood staring at him.

At the first glance Chris set this down to feebleness, and looked upon it as a bad sign. But he altered his mind directly after, when he walked up to the animal's side, patting its neck and passing its soft ears through his hand, for the poor beast whinnied softly, and slowly advanced its muzzle to rest it against the boy's arm.

"Why, I believe you're better, old chap," cried Chris, as he began to examine the pony's wounds, seeing at once that they appeared to be drying up, while when he moved a yard or two the animal followed him, limping, it is true, but not in a way that suggested permanent injury. "Why, this is cheering," cried Chris eagerly. "I thought that you and I were never going to have a long gallop over the plains again, and now you look as if you'll be ready for me to mount in a fortnight at the most—perhaps in a week, eh, old chap? There, I am glad. I say, I should like as soon as the Indians have gone, for you to carry me up to the head of the valley there, and then for you to show me exactly where it was that you fell, and—Hallo! What's that?"

Chris looked round sharply, but could see nothing but the groups of grazing horses and mules.

"It sounded as if some one had thrown a stone. Can't be Ned stalking me and up to his games, can it?—There it goes again."

He started round to look behind him towards the terraced fortress he had left, but all was quiet there and no sign visible of Ned or any one to play any trick.

Then again something—something, he knew not what; but it was as if a pebble had fallen from the sky.

"Not going to hail, is it?" thought Chris; and then he laughed at the absurdity of the idea, for the sky was perfectly clear.

Rap!

Another something fallen from on high, but the mystery was at an end, for he not only saw it falling but where it had struck, to stick quivering and nearly upright amongst the grass.

An arrow, and from its slope it must have come from the unexplored side of the valley, and been shot high in the air for it to stand so nearly upright in the grass.

"Indians on the other side," thought Chris, and his first thought was to run round the grazing animals and drive them towards the part where they had made their camp.

He started to do this, but stopped at once, uttering a groan of misery, for in spite of his brave effort, his run proved to be a miserable hobble, and then the agony he suffered in his side forced him to stop.

"Help! help!" he shouted hoarsely, but he felt that his cry sounded like a call to the animals amongst whom he stood, and as far as he could make out there was no one visible to heed his waving hat.

"I must fire my revolver," he thought, and his hand went to his belt to unbutton the leather flap of the holster; but he did not withdraw the weapon, for he knew that the report would scare the poor beasts and send them galloping in all directions.

The time occupied in this was very short, but it was long enough for two more arrows to fall very near him, one nearly upright to cut its way with a sharp whizz amongst the grass and bury its head in the soft earth at an angle of forty-five degrees.

Then another idea struck Chris—tardily, for he felt that he should have thought of it at first.

Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew forth a little chain, at the end of which was a metal whistle, and the alarm note he blew sounded piercing and shrill.

He did not stop there, but did what he felt was best. Hobbling to the side of his mustang and talking caressingly to it the while, he took hold of the thick forelock and began to lead it towards where he hoped to find safety.

The docile little animal made no opposition to being led from the pleasant pasture, but started and shivered as there came the sharp whizz of another arrow—too painful a memory to his ear—making the poor beast limp along a little faster in obedience to his master's effort to get him away.

Then another arrow came terribly near them, and Chris whistled again, his spirits rising though, for the rest of the animals, taking in the fact of one of them being led away from either corn or water, began to neigh and squeal as they closed in after their leader, so that if there proved to be time enough before the arrows took effect, Chris felt, as he blew a long and shrill note again, that he would be able to guide the herd into safety.

"Why are they not on the lookout?" groaned the boy, for his progress was painfully slow; "they ought to see that something is wrong." But he was ignorant of the fact that nothing was visible from the lookout but himself and the animals trotting about playfully as they kept pretty close to the wounded mustang.

An arrow again, and another, each wonderfully near, but no harm was done. Then another which fell with a dull thud, and was followed by a wild scream which startled the herd into disorder, sending the mules helter-skelter, kicking and plunging, all but one, which galloped away by itself, turning its head the while to bite at an arrow which had buried itself in its back.

That strange scream had done what Chris's whistle failed in, drawn attention to something being wrong, while directly after a little puff of smoke darted from the upper terrace, followed by its report and the reverberation of echoes. Then another shot, and another, and no more arrows fell, though Chris in his slow progress suffered as much agony as if they had still been dropping all around.

But now the doctor came running out, followed by Wilton, and under the cover of a few more shots the little herd was driven in, slowly enough, for the wounded mule progressed more and more slowly till it hung back close alongside of Chris's mustang, showing that it was badly hurt.

"Only enough to prove that the enemy are well on the watch," said the doctor, after he had seen to the wounded mule, "and a warning to us that we must not relax our care."

Griggs had by this time descended from the terrace, it having been his rifle that had put an end to the coming of the arrows.

"Hardly thought they could have shot so far," he said; "but after all, they didn't get an arrow much more than half-way here. Say, didn't do you much good, Master Chris, hurrying back like that."

"I'm afraid it's the mustang that has suffered," said Chris. "I didn't hurt, only it was dreadfully hard to find that I couldn't run."

"You ought to be very thankful that you can walk, Chris," said the doctor quietly. "It is next door to marvellous that you should have escaped without a broken bone. But now then, Griggs, matters begin to look serious. What is to be done?"

"That's just what I have been thinking, sir. The enemy isn't a bit satisfied, and the next time they begin making targets of us they may be more fortunate."

"What I am afraid of is that they may now get upon the high ground above us here."

"And that would be awkward, sir," said the American thoughtfully. Then after a pause—"We've got the whip hand of them with our rifles."

"Of course."

"And we've shown them a little of what we can do, but not enough. There's only one thing left now."

"And what's that?" asked the doctor, after a glance at his son.

"Give them such a lesson that they won't stop to have any more, but make off into the desert."

"That's very good advice," replied the doctor, "but how can it be done without risk to ourselves?"

"Let them think we daren't stir away from here, while we wait for a few days to let some one get well again, and his nag too, while we have not been wasting time, but under the screen of hunting and shooting have been watching, and when once we have got to know where they camp, we must come upon them suddenly some night, and the rifles must do the rest."

"Well, Chris, what do you think of that?" said the doctor, turning to where the two boys sat listening.

"Can't be done," said Chris shortly.

"Why?"

"How are you going to find out where they make their camp? They're in one place to-day and another to-morrow."

"Yes, Griggs, that is the difficulty."

"Well, I know that, sir," replied Griggs; "but can you think of a better plan?"

"Only that of waiting till we see them some time in the open, and then coming out to attack them."

"Half-a-dozen of us against a hundred," said Griggs dryly; "all mounted men who can ride as if they were part of their horses. We could shoot a good many of them, of course, but they'd be too much for us if we killed or wounded fifty of them. For how many of us would go down in doing it?"

"They could spare ten," said Bourne, who had just sauntered up, "while we couldn't spare one."

"No, nor half one," said Griggs. "What we've got to do, gentlemen, is something that will give them such a startler that they'll have had enough of it; and it must be done without our getting a scratch."

"Yes," said the doctor; "but how?"

"That's what we've got to think out, sir. We ought to be a bit cleverer than a set of savage Indians. I vote we all make up our minds to think it out. We've got plenty of time, for we're all right here as to food and shelter, and can't move for a week certain."

"On account of Chris and the injured beasts," said the doctor. "Very well; we must all put on our wisdom caps and puzzle it out. I'll go and have a chat with Wilton now."

The little meeting broke up, and Griggs went to spend his short time before going on duty in cleaning his rifle, while, as if attracted to the same spot, Chris and Ned followed him to a sheltered nook near the place where a bucket was standing ready for sending down to the running water and bringing up refilled.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

THE OTHER SIDE.

As the two boys made their way amongst the scattered stones they caught sight of the doctor stepping out on to the terrace where Wilton stood, glass in hand, scanning the opposite terraces and the sharp edge of the top, where the precipice stood out clear against the sky.

"I wonder whether they'll hit on a good idea," said Ned. "Here, let's sit down. I say, Griggs, you might be a good fellow and give my rifle-barrel a brush out too."

"I don't say I won't," replied the American. "I might give yours a touch up too, squire. I'll see," he continued. "I don't expect you're in very good trim for pumping water through gun-barrels."

"No," said Chris, wincing as he raised his arm and lowered it again as if passing a cleaning-rod through the piece.

"Here, steady!" cried Griggs. "Don't take yours to pieces yet. One at a time. We might want to have another shot or two at these red Robin Hoods."

"'Tisn't likely," said Ned.

"Isn't it? You never know what's likely with those gentlemen. While we're out here in the wilds we want to be always ready for action."

The American chatted away as he took his rifle to pieces, washing, carefully drying, and oiling it, in the hot sunshine, while Chris placed himself in a restful position to avoid aches and pains, and Ned leaned back against a stone with his hands behind his head, never once joining in the conversation. In fact, part of the time he seemed to be dozing, for his eyes were half-closed. At last, though, he started suddenly, made a gesture with his open hand as if catching a fly off his leg, and exclaimed—

"I've got it!"

"Kill it, then," said Griggs, without looking up from his task. "What is it—a skeeter?"

"No," cried Ned excitedly. "The idea!"

"You have?" said Chris eagerly.

"Yes!"

"Let's have it, then," said Griggs, "only be gentle. Don't startle us too much."

"Don't you begin sneering," said Ned, rather haughtily. "Other people may have bright ideas too."

"I don't know about 'too,'" said Griggs coolly; "I've got none. My head has grown thick with thinking of how we're to get out of this hole."

Ned was silent, and sat frowning.

"Well, let's have it," said Chris.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ned coldly. "Perhaps you've got a better idea of your own."

"Here, don't make us hungry with keeping it back," cried Chris good-humouredly. "What a fellow you are to take offence."

"Oh, I'm not offended, only I don't think some people need be ready to jeer quite so soon."

"'Some people,'" said Griggs softly. "That means me. Very sorry, and won't do so any more."

"And you keep on doing it."

"Well, never mind," said Griggs, smiling. "I'm only 'Murrican, and you know what we are. Come, let's have your notion, squire, and if it seems a right one we'll get out of our trouble like a shot. What was it?"

"Well, I propose," said Ned reluctantly, "that we take proper steps one night, and startle the Indians' horses into making a stampede. It could easily be done."

"And afterwards?" said Chris quietly.

"Why, ride off ourselves and get beyond the redskins' reach. They'd have no horses to follow."

"And they'd never think of running after and catching them," said Chris quietly.

"How could they when the horses had galloped right away? They wouldn't know which way the ponies had gone in the dark."

"But they'd find the trail in the morning, and follow it, if the job took them a week."

"Hear, hear!" cried Griggs, raising the barrels of his rifle to his eyes and looking through them as if they formed a binocular telescope.

"Oh, you're always so ready with your objections," said Ned angrily. "Why couldn't it be done?"

"Just because it would be impossible, I'm afraid, squire," said Griggs, polishing away now at his right barrel. "If you had all the horses together, and if you could frighten them, they might all rush off, but even if they did it wouldn't matter much, as Chris here hints, because the Indians would follow the trail, and not lose one. Very sorry, squire. Glad if it would do; but it won't, so try again."

Ned uttered a grunt.

"You'd better try now, Chris," he said scornfully, "and old Griggs'll sit upon your plan directly."

Griggs breathed upon the stock of his rifle, and gave it a hard rub with his piece of rag to bring up the polish upon the walnut grain.

"To be sure I will," he said pleasantly, as he gave Chris a nod. "I'm not going to play with a job like this. Have you got anything like an idea, my lad?"

"I've been trying to think out something," said the boy, turning a little red in the face.

"Let's have it, then," cried Ned.

"To be sure, let's have it," said Griggs, looking proudly at his well-cleaned rifle, before opening the breech and slipping in a couple of cartridges. "There, that's ready. Now, squire, I'll have yours, please."

Ned passed his rifle, after extracting the ball-cartridge, and the American began taking it to pieces at once.