"But— but— he ducked us," protested Ned.

"He did nothing of the sort."

"What— didn't duck us? Guess I know water when I feel it," objected Walter.

"You were ducked, all right, but it is I, not Juan, who am responsible for that."

"You?" questioned the lads all at once.

The Professor nodded, a broad grin on his face.

"But he had the pails."

"I gave them to him, after pouring the water over you. That's what is known as circumstantial evidence, young gentlemen. Let it be a lesson to you to be careful how you convict anyone on that kind of evidence."

"Fellows," glowed Chunky, "we've made a mistake. Let's make it right by ducking the Professor."

The boys looked over Professor Zepplin critically.

"I guess we'd better defer that job till we grow some more," they decided, with a laugh.

The next fifteen minutes were fully occupied in cleaning up and putting on their clothes. They were all thoroughly awake now, with cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling after their violent exercise. The guide had rather sullenly washed off the wet dust that clung to his face and hands.

"Never mind the clothes, Juan," advised Ned. "It'll brush off as soon as it gets dry. We'll take up a contribution to buy you a clothes brush. Ever see one?"

Juan grinned.

"You promise not to gamble the money away if we give it to you?"

"Si."

"Shell out, fellows. Ten cents apiece. That ought to salve his injured feelings."

Ned passed the hat, all contributing.

"That makes forty cents. Here, Professor, you haven't put in your ten yet. It'll take just fifty cents to paste up Juan's injuries."

"That reminds me of a fellow I heard about once," announced Stacy.

"Are you going to tell a story?" questioned Ned.

"If you will keep still long enough," replied Stacy.

"Then me for the bunch grass. It's like going to a funeral to hear Chunky try to tell a story."

"Let him tell it," shouted the lads.

"Go on, Chunky. Never mind Ned. He'll laugh when he gets back to Chillicothe," jibed Walter.

"I heard of a fellow once—"

"Yes; you told us that before," jeered Ned.

"Not the one we ducked in the spring, was it?" grinned Tad.

"Who's telling this story?" demanded Stacy belligerently.

"You are, I guess. I won't interrupt again."

"Well, did I say this fellow was a boy?"

"No."

"Well, he was— he's grown up now. He rushed into a drug store—"

"Was anything chasing him?" asked Ned innocently.

Stacy gave no heed to the interruption.

"And he said to the man in the store, 'Please, sir, some liniment and some cement?'"

"'What?' asked the clerk all in a muddle. You see, he'd never had a prescription like that to fill before. It made him tired, 'cause he thought the kid was making fun of him."

"'What— what's the trouble? What do you want liniment and cement for?'

"'Cause,' said the boy to the pill man, ''cause mom hit pop on the head with a plate.'"

For a moment there was silence, then the boys roared. But Ned never smiled.

"Laugh, laugh! Why don't you laugh?" urged Walter.

"Laugh? Huh! I laughed myself almost sick over that a long time ago. Read it in an almanac when I was in short trousers."

"The ponies! The ponies!" cried Juan, rushing up to them, waving his arms, then running his fingers through his long black hair until it stood up like the quills of a porcupine.

"What!" queried the Pony Rider Boys in sudden alarm. "What's the matter with the ponies?"

Juan pointed to the place where the stock had been tethered after they arrived at the camp.

There was not an animal to be seen anywhere on the plain.

"Gone!" gasped the lads, with sinking hearts.

"No, no, no. There!" stammered the guide.

With one accord the boys ran at top speed to the spot indicated by Juan.

There, stretched out in the long grass lay bronchos and burros.

"They're dead, the ponies are dead, every one of them!" cried the lads aghast.

CHAPTER IX

THE MIDNIGHT ALARM

"What's this, what's this?" demanded the Professor, striding up.

"Look! Look! The ponies are dead!" exclaimed Ned excitedly.

"What do you suppose could have happened to them?" stammered Walter.

"Is it possible? What's the meaning of this, guide?"

Juan shrugged his shoulders and showed his white teeth.

In the meantime Tad had hurried to his own pony, and was down on his knees examining it. Placing his hands on the animal's side, he remained in that position for an instant, then sprang up.

"They're not dead, fellows! They're alive!"

"Asleep," grumbled Ned disgustedly.

"But there's something the matter with them. Something has happened to the stock," added Tad.

"Only a false alarm," nodded Stacy.

"Think so? Try to wake your pony up," advised Tad.

Stacy had already hurried to his own broncho, and now began tugging at the bridle rein, with sundry pokes in the animal's ribs.

"I can't. He's in a trance," wailed Stacy, considerably startled.

That expression came nearer to describing the condition of the stock than any other words could have done.

"Guide, what do you know about this?" questioned the Professor. "Has some one been tampering with our animals?"

Juan shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference.

"No bother bronchs."

"Then will you please tell us what is the matter with them?"

"Sleepy grass!"

"Sleepy grass?" chorused the lads.

"Of course they're asleep all right," added Ned. "But whoever heard of sleepy grass?"

"He means they're sleeping on the grass," Stacy informed them.

"Ah! I begin to understand," nodded the Professor. "I think I know what the trouble is now. The guide is no doubt right."

The boys gathered around him, all curiosity.

"Tell us about it, Professor. We are very much mystified?" said the Pony Riders.

"A long time ago I remember to have read, somewhere, of a certain grass in this region that possessed peculiar narcotic properties—"

"What's narcotic?" interrupted Stacy.

"Something that makes you go to sleep when you can't," explained Tad Butler, rather ambiguously.

"When eaten by horses or cattle it is said to put them into deep sleep. The Rockefeller Institute, I believe, is already making an analytical test of the grass."

"Please talk so I can understand it," begged Stacy.

"Yes; those words make my head ache," scowled Ned. "Even the guide is making up faces in his effort to understand."

"He does understand. He understands only too well. For many years this grass has been known. Cows turned out for the day would fail to return at night—"

"To be milked," interjected Stacy.

"And an investigation would disclose them sleeping in some region, where the sleepy grass grew

And the fat boy hummed:

"Down where the sleepy grass is growing."

"Travelers who have tied out their horses in patches of the grass for the night have been unable to continue their journey until the animals recovered from their strange sleep. Thus the properties of the grass became known."

"Indians use 'em to tame bad bronchos," the guide informed them.

"Just so."

"But, when will they wake up?" questioned Tad.

"Mebby sun-up to-morrow," answered Juan, glancing up at the sky.

"What, sleep twenty-four hours?" demanded Ned.

"Si."

"Preposterous."

"Then, then, we've got to remain here all the rest of the afternoon and night— is that it?" demanded Tad.

"It looks that way."

"And you knew about this stuff, Juan?" questioned Tad.

"Si."

"Well, you're a nice sort of a guide, I must say."

"You ought to be put off the reservation," threatened Stacy, shaking a menacing fist in front of the white teeth.

In the meantime, Tad had gone over to the animals again, and, taking them in turn, sought to stir them up. He found he could not do so. The ponies' heads would drop to the ground after he had lifted and let go of them, just as if the animals were dead.

"Gives you a creepy feeling, doesn't it?" shivered Walter.

"I should say it does," answered Ned.

"Well, what is it, Chunky?" asked Tad, who observed that Stacy had something on his mind that he was trying to formulate into words.

"I've got an idea, fellows," he exploded.

"Hold on to it, then. You may never get another," jeered Ned.

"What is it, Master Stacy?" asked the Professor.

"Then— then— then— that's what Juan and his burro have been eating all the time. I knew there was something the matter with them."

A loud laugh greeted the fat boy's suggestion.

"Guess he's about right, at that," grinned Tad.

"A brilliant thought," agreed the Professor. "Boys, I must have some of that grass. I shall make some experiments with it."

"Experiment on Chunky," they shouted.

"No; he sleeps quite well enough as it is," smiled the Professor.

"I want some of it too— no, not to eat," corrected the fat boy. "I'll feed it to my aunt's cat when I get back; then he won't be running away from home every night."

"Better unload the rest of the equipment, boys," advised the Professor. "If we must remain here all night we might as well make the best of it."

Without their ponies, the lads spent rather a restless afternoon. They had not fully realized before how much a part of them their horses had become until they were suddenly deprived of them.

In the meantime, the bronchos slept on undisturbed.

"I've got another idea," shouted Stacy.

"Keep it to yourself," growled Ned. "Your ideas, like your jokes, graduated a long time ago."

"Is there sleepy grass in the Catskill Mountains!" persisted Stacy.

"We don't know, and we don't—"

"I know there is, and that's what put Rip Van Winkle to sleep for twenty years," shouted the fat boy in high glee. "See, I know more than—"

"Yes; you're the original boy wonder. We'll take that for granted," nodded Ned Rector.

Tad, however, was not inclined to look upon their enforced delay with anything like amusement. To him it had its serious side. He had not forgotten that they had been fleeing from the Indians. When he got an opportunity to do so, without his companions overhearing, he approached the Professor.

"I think it would be a good plan for us to have a guard over our camp to-night."

"On account of?"

"Yes."

"Very well; I think myself that it would be a prudent move. Have Juan sit up, then."

"No, he's a sleepy bead. Suppose we boys take turns?"

"Very well; arrange it to suit yourselves. I presume we ought to do something of the sort every night. It might have saved us some trouble on our Ozark journey had we been that prudent. Arrange it to suit you. I'll take my turn

"No; we can do it, Professor. You go to bed as usual. We'll draw lots to see who takes the different watches. With the four of us we'll have to take only two hours apiece. That won't be bad at all."

The other boys, after the plan had been explained to them, entered into it enthusiastically. Walter was to take the first trick, Ned the next, Chunky the third and Tad the fourth.

And they were to take their guns out with them. The Professor agreed to this, now that they had become more familiar with firearms. As a matter of fact, all the boys had developed into excellent marksmen, though Tad was recognized as the best shot of the party.

Professor Zepplin, during the afternoon, gave each of them a lesson in revolver shooting, using for the purpose, his heavy army revolver. They did pretty well with this weapon, but, of course, were not nearly as expert with it as with the rifle.

Evening came and the stock was still sleeping soundly. There was nothing the boys could do but let them sleep, though the fact of all the ponies and burros lying about as if dead began to make the Pony Riders nervous. Night came, and with it semi-darkness, the moon being overcast with a veil of fleecy white clouds, which cast a grayish film over the landscape. The lads joked each other about having the "creeps," but none would admit the charge.

Walter, with rifle slung over his right shoulder, went out on the first watch with instructions to go at least two hundred yards from camp and keep walking around the camp in a circle. This would protect them from surprises on all sides. Ned decided not to retire until he had taken his guard trick, in view of the fact that he was to go on at eleven o'clock. But Stacy, proposing to get all the sleep he was entitled to, turned in early. The rest did not disturb him. The boys were unusually quiet that evening, perhaps feeling that the responsibility of the safety of the camp rested wholly upon their youthful shoulders.

Ned came in at one o'clock, after having taken his turn, unslung his rifle, drew the cartridges then put them back in the magazine again.

"I might need them before morning," he told himself.

Chunky being sound asleep, Ned grabbed him by a foot giving him a violent pull.

"Wat'cher want? Get out!" growled the fat boy sleepily.

"Get up and take your watch!" commanded Ned.

"Who's afraid of Indians?" mumbled Stacy.

This time Ned took the lad by the collar, jerked him to his feet and shook him until Stacy yelled "Ouch!" so loudly as to awaken the entire camp.

It took some time, however, to get Stacy himself awake sufficiently to make him understand that he had a duty to perform. Finally, however, he shouldered his rifle, after surreptitiously helping himself to a sandwich from the cook tent. Then be marched off, munching the bread and meat.

"See here," snapped Ned, running after him. "You're not measuring off your distance. Come back and pace it off."

"How many?"

"Two hundred yards. Stretch your fat legs as far as they'll go, then you'll have a yard, more or less."

Stacy started all over again, forgot the count, came back, then tried it again. Even at that he was not sure whether he had gone one hundred yards or five.

He was awake enough, now, to observe his surroundings. The cool breezes of the night were tossing the leaves of the cottonwoods near the water course to the west of them, while here and there in the foliage might be heard the exultant notes of a mocking bird.

Stacy shivered.

"Guess it's going to freeze to-night," he decided, beginning his steady tramp about the camp of the Pony Rider Boys.

Muttering to himself, as was his habit when alone, Stacy kept on until finding himself opposite the ponies, he decided to go over and look at them. All were asleep. Not one had awakened since going down under the powerful influence of the "sleepy grass."

"I'd like to eat some of that stuff myself, right now," Chunky decided out loud. "I'd have a good excuse for going to sleep then. Now I can't without getting jumped on by the fellows. Wonder what time it is— only half-past one. Must be something the matter with my watch. I know I've been out more'n two hours."

This trip he circled out further from the camp, growing a little more confident because nothing had happened to disturb him.

In the meantime the camp slept in peace— that is, the lads did until nearly time for the change of guard. Then the whole party was aroused with the sudden, startling conviction that something serious had happened.

All at once the crack of a rifle sounded on the still night air. It was followed by another shot, and another, until four distinct reports had rolled across the plains.

In wild disorder the Pony Rider Boys tumbled from their cots, and, grasping their weapons, leaped from the tents.

"What's the row?" inquired the Professor.

"Wow! Wow! Wow! Yeow!" shrieked a shrill voice to the northward.

"It's Chunky. He's giving the alarm! We're attacked!" cried the lads.

Bang ! Bang!

They saw the flash of the fat boy's weapon before the report reached their ears.

A moment later the other boys caught sight of Stacy dashing into camp, hatless, waving his rifle and yelling as if bereft of his senses.

"What is it? What is it?" cried the boys with one voice.

"Indians! Indians! The prairie's full of them!"

CHAPTER X

MEETING THE ATTACK

Instantly the camp was thrown into confusion. The lads ran here and there, not knowing what to do.

"Get behind the ponies! That's the only cover we can find here. Run for it!"

And run they did, the Professor outdistancing all the rest in his attempt to secrete himself where the enemy's weapons would not be likely to reach him.

In a moment more, the camp of the Pony Rider Boys was deserted, and behind each sleeping pony lay a boy, with rifle barrel poked over the animal's back, ready to shoot at the first sign of the redskins. Stacy, in his excitement, had forgotten that not a cartridge was left in his magazine, and the others were too fully occupied to remember to tell him.

For all of half an hour did the party lie protected. The boys began to grow restive. Tad's suspicions were being slowly aroused.

"I'm going to do a little scouting," he told them, slipping from behind the pony and skulking along back of the tents. The moon was shining brightly now. He could see a long distance. Not a human being was in sight.

"I thought so," he muttered, retracing his steps. "See here, Stacy Brown, what did you see— what did you shoot at?" he demanded sternly.

"I— I shot the chute— I— I mean I chuted the shot— I mean—"

"Say, what do you mean?"

"I— I mean— say, leggo my neck, will you?" roared Chunky.

"Fellows, he doesn't know what he means."

"Guess he's been feeding on crazy grass out on the prairie," was Ned's conclusion.

"There isn't an Indian anywhere around here. I know it. They would have been after us long before this, if there had been."

One by one the boys came from their hiding places, the lazy Mexican last. Disapproving eyes were turned on Stacy.

"Chunky, you come along and show us where you were when you shot— did you shoot at an Indian?" asked Tad.

"Yes, and I— I— I shot him."

"Show us. We're all from Chillicothe," demanded Ned.

Stacy, with a show of importance, led the way, keeping a wary eye out for the enemy. It was noticed, however, that each of the lads held his rifle ready for business in case there should be an enemy about.

"There! I was standing right over there— I guess."

"You guess! Don't you know?" questioned the Professor.

"Yes; that's the place."

The lad walked over to the identical spot from which he had first fired his rifle.

"He was over there and I shot at him, so," said Stacy, leveling the weapon. "Ye-ow! There he is, now!" shrieked the boy.

Every weapon flashed up to a level with the eyes.

"There is something over there on the ground," decided the Professor.

"Put down your guns so you don't shoot me," said Tad. "I'm going to find out what it is."

Keeping his own weapon held at "ready," the lad walked boldly over to where a heap of some sort lay on the plain. It surely had not been there during the afternoon— Tad knew that.

He reached it, stooped, peered, then uttered a yell.

"What is it" they cried, hurrying up.

"You've done it now, Chunky Brown. You certainly have gone and done it."

"What— what is it?" cried the others in alarm.

"You've shot the lazy Mexican's burro. That's your Indian, Stacy Brown."

Juan, who had followed them out on the plain, uttered a wail and threw himself upon the body of his prostrate burro. The animal, it seemed, had recovered consciousness during the night, and in a half-dazed condition had wandered out on the plain. Stacy, while crouching down on the ground, had seen the head and long ears of the burro. He thought the ears were part of the head dress of a savage and let fly a volley of bullets at it.

"He— he isn't dead," shouted the fat boy. "See, I just pinked him in the ears."

And, surely enough, an examination revealed a hole through each ear. The holes were so close to the animal's head that it was reasonable to suppose the shot had stunned him, being already in a weakened condition from the sleepy grass.

The boys set to work to rouse the burro, which they succeeded in doing in a short time. Juan, with arm around the lazy beast's neck, led it back to camp, petting and soothing it with a chattering that they could not understand.

There was no more sleep in camp that night, though the boys turned in at the Professor's suggestion. Every little while, laughter would sound in one of the tents, as the others fell to discussing Stacy's Indian attack.

The next morning they were overjoyed to find that the ponies had awakened and were trying to get up.

"Lead them out of that grass, fellows," shouted Tad, the moment he saw the ponies were coming around. "We don't want them to make another meal of that stuff"

"Nor take another of Chunky's Rip Van Winkle sleeps," added Ned.

Never having had a like experience, none of the lads knew what to do with their mounts after getting them sufficiently awake to lead them to a place of safety. They appealed to Juan for advice, but the lazy Mexican appeared to know even less than they.

Tad, after studying the question a few moments, decided to give them water, though sparingly. This they appeared to relish and braced up quite a little. But the boy would not allow them to graze until nearly noon, when each one took his pony out, making sure that there was none of the sleepy grass around. The animals were then permitted to graze.

About the middle of the afternoon Tad decided that all were fit to continue the journey, and that it would be safe to travel until sunset. Everyone was glad to get away from the spot where they had had such unpleasant experiences, and the boys set off, moving slowly, the stock not yet being in the best of condition.

Late in the afternoon, when they had about decided to make camp, one of the boys espied an object, something like a quarter of a mile away, that looked like the roof of a house.

Ned said it couldn't be that, as it appeared to be resting on the ground. They asked Juan if he knew what it was, and for a wonder he did. He said it was a dug-out— a place where a man lived.

"Is he a hermit?" asked Stacy apprehensively, at which there was a laugh. Stacy had not forgotten his experiences in the cave of the hermit of the Nevada Desert.

For the next hour, the lads were too busy, pitching tents and unloading the pack animals, to give further thought to the dug-out or its occupant; but when, after they had prepared their evening meal, they saw some one approaching on horseback, they were instantly curious again.

The newcomer proved to be the owner of the dug-out. He was a tall, square-jawed man, with a short, cropped iron-gray beard and small blue, twinkling eyes.

"Will you join us and have some supper?" asked Tad politely, walking out to greet the stranger.

"Thank you; I will, young man," smiled the stranger.

Tad introduced himself and companions.

"You probably have heard my name before, young men. It is Kris Kringle; I'm living out here for my health and doing a little ranching on the side."

Stacy looked his amazement.

"Is— is he Santa Claus?" he whispered, tugging at Tad's coat sleeve.

"No, young man. I am not related to the gentleman you refer to," grinned Mr. Kringle.

There was a general laugh at Stacy's expense.

After supper, the visitor invited all hands to ride over to his dug-out and spend the evening with him. The boys accepted gladly, never having seen the inside of a dug-out, and not knowing what one looked like. Professor Zepplin had taken a sudden liking to the man with the Christmas name, and soon the two were engaged in earnest conversation.

The distance being so short, Tad decided that they had better walk, leaving the ponies in charge of Juan so they might get a full night's rest. Then all hands set out for the dug-out.

A short flight of steps led down into the place, the roof of which was raised just far enough above the ground to permit of two narrow windows on each side and at the rear end.

The room in which they found themselves, proved to be a combination kitchen and dining room. Its neatness and orderliness impressed them at once.

"And here," said Kris Kringle, "is what I call my den," throwing open a door leading into a rear room and lighting a hanging oil lamp.

The Pony Rider Boys uttered an exclamation of surprised delight.

On a hardwood floor lay a profusion of brightly colored Navajo rugs, the walls being hung with others of exquisite workmanship and coloring, interspersed with weapons and trophies of the chase, while in other parts of the room were rare specimens of pottery from ancient adobe houses of the Pueblos.

At the far end of the room was a great fire-place. Book cases, home-made, stood about the room, full of books. The Professor realized, at once, that they were in the home of a student and a collector.

"This is indeed an oasis in the desert," he glowed. "I shall be loath to leave here."

"Then don't," smiled Mr. Kringle. "I'm sure I am glad enough to have company. Seldom ever see anyone here, except now and then a roving band of Indians."

"Indians!" exclaimed Tad. "Do you have any trouble with them?"

"Well, they know better than to bother with me much. We have had an occasional argument," said their host, his jaws setting almost stubbornly for the instant. "Most of the tribes in the state are peaceful, though the Apaches are as bad as ever. They behave themselves because they have to, not because they wish to do so."

"I saw their fire dance the other night," began Tad.

"What?" demanded Mr. Kringle.

"Fire dance."

"Tell me about it?"

Tad did so, the host listening with grave face until the recital was ended.

He shook his head disapprovingly.

"And this— this Indian that you knocked down— was he an Apache?"

"I don't know. I think so, though. He had on a peculiar head dress

"That was one of them," interrupted Mr. Kringle, with emphasis. "And I'll wager you haven't heard the last of him yet. That's an insult which the Apache brave will harbor under his copper skin forever. He'll wait for years, but he'll get even if he can."

The faces of the Pony Rider Boys were grave.

"Have you a reliable guide?"

"Far from it," answered the Professor. "If I knew where I could get another, I'd pack him off without ceremony.

Kris Kringle was silent for a moment.

"I need a little change of scene," he smiled. "How would you like to have me take the trail with you for a week or so?"

"Would you?" glowed the Professor, half rising from his chair.

"I think I might."

"Hurrah!" cried the Pony Riders enthusiastically. "That will be fine."

"Of course, you understand that I expect no pay. I am going because I happen to take a notion to do so. Perhaps I'll be able to serve you at the same time."

The Professor grasped Mr. Kringle by the hand impulsively.

"I'll send that lazy Juan on his way this very night—"

"Let me do it," interposed Stacy, with flushing face. "I'll do it right, Professor. But I'll put on my pair of heavy boots first, so it'll hurt him more."

The boys shouted with laughter, while the new guide's eyes twinkled merrily.

"I think, perhaps, the young man might do it even more effectively than you or I," he said. "Have you weapons, Professor?"

"Rifles."

"That's good. We may need them."

"Then you think?"

"One can never tell."

CHAPTER XI

RIDING WITH KRIS KRINGLE

A slender ribbon of dust unrolling across the plain far to the northward marked the receding trail of Juan and his lazy burro. They had given him a week's extra pay and sent him on his way.

The burro was making for home, aided by the busy feet of its master, while Stacy Brown, shading his eyes with one hand, was watching the progress of the guide, whom he had just sent adrift.

"Well, he's gone," grinned Stacy, turning to his companions, who were busy striking camp.

"And a good riddance," nodded Tad.

"He'll probably join the Indians and tell them where we are," suggested Walter.

"I hadn't thought of that," replied Tad. "Still, if they wish to find us they know how without Juan's telling them."

"How?"

"They can follow a trail with their eyes shut," said Ned.

"That's right. They do not need to be told," muttered Tad.

Everything being in readiness, the boys started with their outfit for the dug-out, where they were to be joined by Kris Kringle. They felt a real relief to know that they were to have with them a strong man on whom they were sure they could rely to do the right thing under all circumstances. Tad, however, believed that Mr. Kringle had decided to join them, fearing they would be attacked by the Apaches and come to serious harm. Yet he hardly thought the redskins would dare to follow them, after the latter had once gotten over the frenzy of their fire dance. By that time the Indian agents would have rounded them all up on the reservations, where the Indians would be able to do no more harm for a while.

After picking up the new guide the start was made. The party had water in plenty in the water-bags, so that no effort was made to pick up a water hole when they made camp late in the afternoon. The guide had brought in his pack a tough old sage hen, at which the lads were inclined to jeer when he announced his intention of cooking it for their supper.

"You'll change your mind when you taste it, young gentlemen. It depends upon the cooking entirely. A sage hen may be a delicious morsel, or it may not," answered Mr. Kringle, with a grin.

They were encamped near a succession of low-lying buttes, and to while away the time until the supper hour, the boys strolled away singly to stretch their legs on the plain after the long day's ride in the hot sun.

When they returned an hour or so later, Stacy, they observed, was swinging a curious forked stick that he had picked up somewhere a few moments ago.

"What you got there?" questioned Ned.

"Don't know. Picked it up on the plain. Such a funny looking thing, that I brought it along."

"Let me see it," asked Mr. Kringle.

Stacy handed it to him.

"This," said the guide, turning the stick over in his hand, "is a divining rod."

"Divining rod?" demanded Stacy, pressing forward.

"Yes."

"Never heard of it. Is it good to eat?"

"Looks to me like a wish bone," interjected Ned. "Do you eat wish bones, Chunky?"

"Might, if I were hungry enough."

"A divining rod is used to locate springs. Some users of it have been very successful. I couldn't find a lake with it, even if I fell in first."

"Indeed," marveled the Professor. "I have heard of the remarkable work of divining rods. What Rind of wood is it?"

"This is hazel wood. Oak, elm, ash or privet also are used, but hazel is preferred in this country."

"Then— then we won't have to go dry any more— I can find water with this when I'm dry?" questioned Stacy.

"You might; then again you might not."

"Better take it away from him," suggested Ned. "He might find a spring. If he did he'd be sure to fall in and drown."

The stick, which was shaped like the letter Y, was an object of great interest to the Pony Rider Boys. One by one they took it out on the plain, in an effort to locate some water. The guide instructed them to hold the Y with the bottom up, one prong in each hand and to walk slowly.

But, try as they would, they were able to get no results.

"The thing's a fraud!" exclaimed Ned disgustedly, throwing the divining rod away.

Stacy picked it up.

"I know why it doesn't work," he said.

"Why?" demanded the other boys.

"'Cause— 'cause there isn't any water to make it work," he replied wisely.

The boys groaned.

Shortly after returning to camp, they found the fat boy standing over a pail of water holding the stick above it.

He was talking to the stick confidentially, urging it to "do something," to the intense amusement of the whole outfit.

"Now, where's your theory?" questioned the Professor.

"Why, it doesn't have to work, does it? Don't we know there's water here? If we didn't the stick would tell us, maybe. Take my word for it, this outfit won't have to go dry after this. Stacy Brown and his magic wand will find all the water needed," continued the fat boy proudly.

"Your logic is good, at any rate, even if the rod doesn't work at command," laughed the Professor.

Supper was a jolly affair, for everyone was in high spirits. The sage hen, contrary to general expectation, was found to be delicious. Chunky begged for the wish bone and got it. He said he'd use it for a divining rod when he wanted to find a little spring.

"Mr. Kringle, I am commissioned by the fellows to ask you a question," announced Tad, after the meal had been in progress for a time.

"Ask it," smiled the guide.

"We thought we'd like to call you Santa Claus, seeing you've brought us so much cheer. Then again, it's your name you know. Kris Kringle is Santa Claus."

"Oh, well, call me what you please, young men."

From that moment on, Kris Kringle was Santa Claus to the Pony Rider Boys.

They had now come to a rolling country, with here and there high buttes, followed by large areas of bottom lands which were covered with rank growths of bunch grass. Traveling was more difficult than it had been, and water more scarce.

It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky.

"There goes the trouble maker," cried Ned. "He's at it again."

The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky's wail had been heard. The others were not far behind.

They saw the red, perspiring face of the fat boy above a clump of grass, his yells for help continuing, unabated.

"What is it?" shouted the guide.

"I've got it, Santa Claus! I've got it!"

"Got what?" roared the Professor.

"The stick!— I mean it's got me. Help! Help!"

Stacy was wrestling about as if engaged in combat with some enemy. They could not imagine what had gone wrong— what had caused his sudden cries of alarm.

"It's the divining rod!" called the guide.

"He's found water!" shouted the boys.

"I've got it! I've got it! Come help me hold it. The thing's jerking my arms off."

To the amazement of the Pony Rider Boys, the forked stick in the hands of the fat boy was performing some strange antics. Breathing hard, he would force it up until it was nearly upright, when all at once the point of the triangle would suddenly swerve downward, bending the rod almost to the breaking point.

"See it? See it?"

"Most remarkable," breathed Professor Zepplin.

"Yes, there can be no doubt about it," nodded the guide.

"He's bluffing," disagreed Ned.

"Doesn't look to me as if he were," returned Tad.

"Take hold with me here, if you don't believe me," cried Stacy. "No, not on the stick, take hold of my wrists."

Ned promptly accepted the invitation.

Instantly the tug of the divining rod was felt by the new hands.

Ned let go quickly.

"Ugh! The thing gives me the creeps."

"Let me try it, Master Stacy," said Professor Zepplin.

"I can't let go of it," wailed Chunky.

"Step off a piece," directed the guide.

Stacy did so, whereupon the divining rod immediately ceased its peculiar actions.

The Professor took hold of it, but the rod refused to work for him.

"Let Santa Claus try it," suggested Ned.

The guide did so, but with no more success than the Professor had had.

"I told you it wouldn't work for me," Mr. Kringle grinned. "Here, Master Tad, you try it."

Tad, with the rod grasped firmly in his hands, walked back and forth three times without result. On the fourth attempt, however, the stick suddenly bent nearly double.

All were amazed.

"Why were we unable to get results, Mr. Kringle?" questioned the Professor.

"According to some French writers as much depends upon the man as on the divining rod. Where one succeeds another fails absolutely. Supposing the others take a try?"

Walter and Ned did so, but neither could get the rod to move for him.

"I guess Chunky is the champion water-finder," laughed Ned.

"Would it not be a good idea to find out whether or not there is water here?" asked the Professor.

"Yes," agreed the guide. "It may be so far down that we cannot reach it, however. You know in some parts of this region they are locating water with the rod and sinking artesian wells."

"Why— why didn't we think to bring some down with us?" demanded Chunky. "Can't we get any in some of the towns down here?"

"Some what?" questioned the guide.

"Artesian wells."

A roar greeted the fat boy's question.

"Bring down a load of artesian wells!" jeered Ned.

"An artesian well, my boy, is nothing more than a hole in the ground," the guide informed him, much to Chunky's chagrin.

The spot where the divining rod had so suddenly gotten busy was about midway of an old water course, covered with a thick growth of bunch grass.

"Get some tools, boys," directed the Professor.

Tad ran back to camp, which lay some distance to the east of where they were gathered. Searching out a pick and two shovels, he leaped on his pony, dashing back to the arroyo.

"That was quickly done," smiled Santa Claus. "Are all of you lads as quick on an errand as that?"

"Only Chunky," answered Ned solemnly.

The guide began to dig, in which effort he was joined by Stacy Brown, who, with a shovel, caved in about as much dirt as he threw out.

"Here, give me that shovel," commanded Ned. "You'll fill up the bole before we get it dug."

Tad, having tethered his pony, took the extra shovel and went to work.

"Guess it's a false alarm," decided Ned, after they were up to their shoulders in the hole.

"Don't be too sure. The ground is quite damp here. Try your rod, young man."

"Chunky held the divining rod over the excavation, whereupon it drew down with even greater force than before.

"Dig," directed the guide.

They did so with a will.

"Here's water!" shouted Kris Kringle.

They crowded about the hole, amazement written on every face.

A fresh, cool stream bubbled up into the hole, causing those in the pit to scramble out hastily.

"Some of you boys run back to camp and fetch pails and water-bags," directed the guide.

"I'll go. I've got the pony here," spoke up Tad.

"No; I want you to do something else for me."

"We'll all go," offered Walter. The three lads started on a run, Chunky holding his precious divining rod tightly clasped in both hands.

"What is it you wish?" questioned Tad.

"I wish you would ride over toward that small butte and cut a load of brush. Want to rip-rap the outer edge of this water hole, so the bank will not cave in and undo all our work! Have you a hatchet?"

"Yes, in my saddlebags."

"Good. Hurry, please."

Tad leaped into the saddle, and putting spurs to his broncho, tore through the high bunch grass, above which only his head was now observable. In a short time he was back with the green stuff piled high on the saddle in front of him, with a large bundle tied to the cantle of the saddle behind.

Unloading this, Butler started back at a gallop for more. When there was work to be done, Tad Butler was happy. Activity to him was a tonic that spurred him on to ever greater efforts.

This time he found himself obliged to climb higher up the butte in order to get branches of available size. These he cut and threw down. After having procured what he thought would be all he could carry the lad scrambled down, and, dropping on his knees began tying them into bundles. The heat was sweltering, and occasionally be paused to wipe away the perspiration.

"I smell smoke," sniffed Tad. "I wonder where it comes from?"

The odor grew stronger, but so interested was he in his labor that he did not at once understand the significance of his discovery.

"W-h-o-o-e-e!"

It was a long-drawn, warning shout.

"It's a signal!" exclaimed the lad, straightening up. "I wonder what's the matter?"

As he looked toward the camp a great wall of flame seemed to leap from the ground between him and his companions. There it poised for one brief instant, then, with a roar swooped down into the tall bunch grass, rushing roaring and crackling toward him.

For an instant he stood unbelieving, then the truth dawned upon him.

"The prairie's on fire!" cried Tad.

CHAPTER XII

THE DASH FOR LIFE

The shouts of the Pony Rider Boys and of the guide were swallowed up in the roar of the flames."

"They'll be burned alive!" whispered the lad.

Then, all at once he realized that he himself was in dire peril.

"I'll have to go the other way and be quick about it at that," he decided, making a dash for the pony, that already was whinnying with fear and tugging at its tether.

Tad did not wait to untie the stake rope. With a sweep of his knife he severed it and vaulted into the saddle.

Whirling the animal about he headed to the west. To his alarm he suddenly discovered that the prairie fire was rapidly encircling him, the flames running around the outer edge of the bottoms with express train speed, threatening to head him off and envelop him. Had it not been for the long grass, which, tangling the feet of the pony, made full speed impossible, the race with the flames would have been an easy one to win. As it was, Tad knew that the chances were against him.

But the dire peril in which he found himself did not daunt the Pony Rider Boy. Perhaps his face had grown a shade paler underneath the tan, but that was all. His senses were on the alert, his lips met in a firm pressure and the hand gripped the bridle rein a little more firmly, perhaps, than usual.

Uttering a shrill cry to inform his companions that be was alive to his peril, and at the same time to encourage the broncho, Tad dug in the rowels of his spurs.

The frightened pony cleared the ground with all four feet, uttering a squeal, and launching itself at the rapidly narrowing clear space ahead of him; and urged to greater and greater endeavor at every leap by the short, sharp "yips" of his rider.

For all the concern that showed in his face, Tad Butler might have been running a horse race for a prize rather than fleeing for his life.

"If I make it I'm lucky,"— commented Tad grimly. He found himself wondering, at the same time, how the fire had started. He knew that the flames first showed themselves midway between where he was at work and the place where his companions were engaged at the water hole.

He could not understand it. Fire was necessary to use to start fire, and he knew that none of them had been foolish enough even to light a match in the dry bunch grass of the prairie.

The flames were reaching mountain high by this time, great clouds of smoke rolling in on the breeze and nearly suffocating him.

At times Tad was unable to see the opening ahead of him. When, however, the smoke lifted, giving him a momentary view, he saw that the gap was rapidly closing.

All at once his attention was drawn from the closing gap.

"Yeow ! Yeow! Yeow! Y-e-o-w!"

A series of shrill, blood curdling yells from out the pall of smoke and flame at the rear, bombarded his ears.

At first he thought it was Indians; then the improbability of this being the case came to him.

"Yeow! Yeow! Yeow!" persisted the voice behind, and it was coming nearer every second.

Tad slackened the speed of his pony ever so little, despite the peril of his position.

"There's somebody in there behind me, and, he'll never get out alive if he loses his way."

The moment this thought occurred to him, Tad began to yell at the top of his voice.

Suddenly from out the thick veil of smoke burst a pony with a mighty snort, coming on in bounds, each one of which cleared many feet of ground. On the pony's back was Stacy Brown, hatless, coatless, his hair standing up in the breeze, his face as red as if it had come in actual contact with the flames.

"Yeow!" he roared, as his pony shot past Tad as if the latter's mount were standing still. Where Stacy had come from, how he had passed through that wall of flame, Tad had not the slightest idea.

As a matter of fact the explanation was simple enough. The guide had sent Chunky out to assist Tad in bringing in the rip-rapping material. Stacy had made a detour from the camp, having gotten just inside the danger zone when the fire broke out. Guided by the butte where he knew his companion must be, Stacy headed for that point. There he came upon Tad's trail, and began yelling to attract his attention. He had heard Tad's answering cry, and this inspired the fat boy to renewed efforts.

Stacy, now that he had passed Tad, slowed up ever so little. He had passed his companion so swiftly that he was unable to determine whether or not Tad were in distress.

The latter came up, overhauling Stacy in a few moments. Both ponies were steaming from the terrific gruelling they were giving themselves.

"What you doing here?" exploded Tad.

"Same thing you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Trying to save myself from being burned alive—"

"Don't slow up! Don't slow up!" shouted Tad. "Keep going!"

"I am. Wat's matter with you?"

"I don't see what you had to come tumbling into this mess for," objected Tad.

"Didn't tumble in. Rode in. Came to help you—"

"Precious lot of help you'll be to me. Lucky if we're not both burned with our boots on. See! The flame's narrowing in on us. More steam, Chunky! More steam!" urged Tad.

"Can't. Blow up the boiler if I do," Stacy could not be other than humorous, even under their present trying situation.

"That's better than burning out your fires, and it's quicker too—"

All at once, Chunky uttered a terrible howl. His pony had stepped into a hole and gone down floundering in the long grass, Chunky himself having been hurled over the animal's head, landing several feet in advance.

"Help! Help!"

The rest was lost as the fat boy's face plowed the earth filling mouth, eyes and nostrils.

Tad did not lose his presence of mind, though events had been following each other in such quick succession.

Changing the reins to his right hand and bunching them there, he grasped the pommel of the saddle, driving his own pony straight at the kicking, floundering Chunky.

The pony swerved ever so little, Tad's body swept down, and when it rose, his fingers were fastened in the shirt collar of his companion, with Chunky yelling and choking, as he was being dragged over the ground at almost a killing pace.

Tad had no time to do more than hold on to his friend. He dared not stop to lift him to the saddle just then. The flames were roaring behind them and on either side, leaving a long, narrow lane ahead, through which lay their only hope of safety.

"Buck up! Buck up, Chunky!" shouted Tad, himself taking a fresh brace in the stirrups, for the weight of the fat boy's dragging body was slowly pulling Tad from the saddle.

Stacy was howling like an Indian, not from fear, but from anger at the rough usage to which he was being subjected. He did not stop to think that it was the only way his life might be saved— nor that his own pony lay back there in the bunch grass amid the flame and smoke.

Tad knew it.

Now, by a mighty effort Tad righted himself again, and, leaning forward, threw one arm about the pony's neck, trusting to the animal to follow the outward trail to safety of its own accord.

Tad felt a sudden jolt that nearly caused him to slide from his pony on the side opposite Chunky. At the same time, the strain on the lad's arm was suddenly released.

Tad was up on his saddle like a flash. His right hand held the fat boy's shirt, while a series of howls to the rear told him where the owner of the shirt lay.

Tad groaned. Pulling his pony fairly back on its haunches, he dashed back where Stacy lay kicking, entangling himself deeper and deeper in the bunch grass.

Had Tad not had presence of mind they both might have perished right there. He was off like a flash. With supreme strength, he grasped the body of his fallen companion, raising him into the saddle.

"Hold on!" he shouted. "Don't you dare fall off!"

Stacy clung like a monkey to a pony in a circus race.

"Y-i-i-p!" trilled Tad. He had no time to mount. Already he could feel the hot breath of the flames on his cheek.

The broncho was off with a bound.

"Tad! Tad!" cried Chunky in sudden alarm, now realizing that he was alone. "Whe— where are you?"

"H-h-h-h-e-r-e!"

"W-w-where?"

"H-h-h-holding to the b-r-r-oncho's t-tail."

"Wow!" howled Stacy, as, turning in the saddle, he discovered his companion being fairly jerked through the air, holding fast to the pony's tail, the lad's feet hardly touching the ground at all. The broncho, that ordinarily would have resented such treatment, too fully occupied in saving his own life from the flames, gave no heed to the weight he was dragging, and it is doubtful if he even realized there was any additional weight there.

With a final, desperate leap, the broncho shot out ahead of the narrowing lane. Like the jaws of some great monster, the two lapping lines of fire closed in behind them, roaring as if with deadly rage.

The pony dashed out into a broad, open water course, whose dry, glistening sands would prove an effectual barrier to the prairie fire.

Tad, though everything was swimming before his eyes, realized quickly that they were now well out of danger.

"St-t-t-top him. I c-c-c-an't let go if you d-d-don't."

"Whoa! Whoa! Don't you know enough to quit when you're through?" chided Chunky, tugging at the reins. The broncho carried them some distance before the lad was able to pull him down. Finally he did so.

"Leggo!" he shouted, at the same time whirling the pony sharply about, fairly "cracking the whip" with Tad Butler.

Chunky's clever foresight probably saved Tad Butler's life, for, instantly the pony found itself free, it began bucking and kicking in a circle, kicking a ring all round the compass before it finally decided to settle down on all fours. Finishing, it meekly lowered its nose to the ground and now, as docile as a, kitten after having supped on warm milk, began dozing, the steam rising in a cloud from its sides.

"Well, of all the fool fools, you're the champion fool!" growled Stacy, slipping from the saddle and surveying the broncho with disapproving eyes. "Hah! I guess we'd been done to a turn by this if it hadn't been for you, just the same. Hello, Tad!"

Tad had doubled up in a heap where the tail of the broncho had flung him. He was well-nigh spent, but he smiled back at his companion, who stood on a slight rise of ground, almost a heroic figure.

Chunky's shirt was entirely missing, his skin red from the heat, ridged with scratches where he had come in violent contact with cactus plants, his hair tousled and gray with dust.

"Well you are a sight," grinned Tad.

"You wouldn't take a prize at a baby show yourself," retorted Stacy, spicily.

Tad's clothes were torn, and his limbs were black and blue all the way down where the hoofs of the broncho had raked them again and again.

"My arms feel a foot longer than they did. What are you looking at?"

Stacy's eyes grew large and luminous as he gazed off over the plains.

"Look! Look, Tad!" he whispered.

CHAPTER XIII

FOLLOWING A HOT TRAIL

"Fire! Fire!" cried Professor Zepplin, leaping up from where he had been leaning over, watching the water bubbling in the bottom of the excavation they had made.

The guide had been hanging over the hole, dipping water to Ned, who was turning it into the water-bags.

"Where, where?" demanded Mr. Kringle explosively. He also sprang to his feet. "It's a prairie fire!"

"The boys are caught. They'll perish!" exclaimed Professor Zepplin, with blanching face. "Go to them, go to them, Mr. Kringle!" he begged.

"No living thing could get through that wall of fire, Professor," announced the guide impressively. "We'll shout and perhaps, if alive, they'll bear us."

They did so, with the result already known.

"Which direction did Master Stacy take?" Mr. Kringle asked.

"I saw him riding down that way," replied Walter, pointing excitedly.

"Then, perhaps he is safe outside of the fire zone. Some of you hurry back to the camp, The stock may take fright and stampede. No, we'll all go. The wind may shift at any moment, and while I do not think the flames could reach the camp, all our animals might be suffocated, even if they did not succeed in getting away."

"But you're not going to desert Tad and Chunky, are you?" demanded Walter indignantly.

"Certainly not. What can we do here? We must get the ponies first; then we'll hurry to them. I'm afraid they've been caught," answered the guide.

"If there's any way of escape you may depend upon it that Master Tad has discovered that way," answered the Professor. "He is a resourceful boy, and—"

But the rest were already dashing madly toward the camp and Professor Zepplin began to do so with all speed to catch up with them. The hot breath of the prairie fire had brought the color to his blanched cheeks.

"How— how do you think the fire started?" stammered the Professor, when he at last came up with the guide.

"It was set afire," answered Kris Kringle grimly.

"Set!" shouted the Professor and the two boys all in one breath.

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Do you mean that one of the boys was imprudent enough to build a fire in that grass? Surely they would not have been so foolish as to do a thing like that."

"As I said, that remains to be seen. The first thing to be done is to get to them as quickly as possible, though I don't know that we can do any good. They're either out of it, by this time, or else they're not," added Mr. Kringle suggestively. "Professor, I wish you and one of the boys would get out your rifles, mount your ponies and watch the camp, while two of us go in search of the lost ones."

"Watch the camp?"

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"Merely as a precaution."

"I'll attend to that. I want all of you to get after Tad and Stacy. We don't care about the camp particularly, when compared with two human lives."

The smoke was rolling over them in such dense clouds that the camp was wholly obscured from view until they were upon it.

"Quick! Get the horses before they break away!" commanded the guide.

"I can't find them!" shouted Ned, who had bounded on ahead and disappeared in the great suffocating cloud.

Walter was only a few steps behind him, both boys groping, blinking and coughing as the smoke got into eyes and lungs.

"Lie down when it gets stronger than you can stand. There's always a current of fresh air near the ground," called the guide.

Both lads adopted his suggestion instantly, and they were none too soon, for already they were getting dizzy. After a few long breaths, they were up, groping about once more in search of the stock.

"Over to you right," called the Professor.

"We've been there. They're not there at all," answered Ned.

By this time the guide had dived into the cloud.

"The stock has gone," they heard him shoat.

"Have they stampeded?" roared the Professor.

"I don't know. I'll find out in a minute."

"Queer that this smoke blows two ways at once," said Walter.

"There is a slight breeze blowing this way," explained Ned. "Not enough, however, to turn the fire back. It has got too good a start."

Suddenly a weird "c-o-o-e-e" sounded to the right of them.

"What's that?"

"It's the guide, Walt. He's trying to call the boys, to see if they are alive," explained Ned.

"I don't think so. That cry is for some other purpose. I'm going over where he is to find out what it does mean. Come on."

Together the lads ran as fast as they could in the direction from which the guide's voice had come.

They found him with hands shaped into a megaphone, uttering his shrill cries. He made no answer to their questions as to what he was trying to do.

All at once off in the cloud they heard rapid hoofbeats. The boys glanced at each other in surprise.

"It's the ponies returning," breathed Walter Perkins.

Ned shook his head.

The cries now took on a more insistent tone, and a moment later two ponies came whinnying into the camp, snorting with fear. Kris Kringle spoke to them sharply, whereupon they came trotting up to him with every evidence of pleasure.

The lads were amazed.

"Can you boys shoot a rope?"

"Yes," they answered together.

"Which one is the better at it?"

"Ned is more expert than I am."

"Take one of my ponies. We've got to go after the stock. Rope and bring them in as fast as possible. It's getting late, and it will be dark before we know it. There's not more than two hours of daylight left."

"I can take my pony and help," began Walter.

"You haven't any pony. They're all gone."

Ned and the guide dashed from the camp at break-neck speed. Emerging from the dust cloud they saw some of the stock far off on the plain.

"There they are!" cried Ned

"Thank goodness, they're all together. And they are not running. We've got them bunched."

"Were they afraid of the smoke? What made them break away?"

"They didn't break away."

"What?"

"Their tethers were cut and they were sent adrift," answered the guide grimly;

Ned was speechless with surprise.

Some of the ponies, objecting to being roped, ran away, necessitating a lively chase. Kris Kringle worked with the precision of an automatic gun and with proportionate speed. In half an hour they had roped all the ponies, and, with the burros trailing along behind, started back to camp as rapidly as possible.

A heavy pall of smoke still hung over the camp and all the surrounding country.

Once more they staked down the ponies and pack animals, and urging vigilance on the part of Professor Zepplin, Ned and the guide dashed away at full gallop in search of the two missing lads.

"Are we going through the fire?" questioned Ned apprehensively.

"We're going to try it. The worst of it must have passed before this, but we may have to turn back or turn out for spots. It's the shortest way, and the only course to follow if we want to know what has become of them."

Spreading out a little they continued on their way, the ponies snorting, threatening to whirl about and race back into the open plain. The ground was like a furnace and the grass smouldered beneath them, heating their feet and singeing their fetlocks.

Suddenly Ned's pony reared into the air, bucked and hurled its rider far over into the smouldering bunch grass.

Ned uttered a yell of warning as he felt himself going.

The guide wheeled like a flash. Ned's mount had whirled and was away like a shot. But the guide was after him with even greater speed. The chase came to an abrupt ending some few rods farther on, when Kris Kringle's lariat squirmed out, bringing the fleeing pony to the ground with its nose in the hot dust.

Without dismounting, the guide turned his own mount, and fairly dragging the unwilling pony behind him, pounded back to the place where Ned had been unhorsed.

"Grab him!" commanded the guide to Ned, who had quickly scrambled to his feet. "What was it that he saw?"

"I don't know. Guess he made up his mind to go back."

"No; he saw something. Hang on to him and cover the ground all about you till you find it."

"Wha— what do you—"

"Never mind. Look!"

"Here! Here it is!" cried Ned aghast.

The guide was at his side instantly.

"It's a pony," gasped the Pony Rider boy.

Kris Kringle was off his own mount instantly, and bidding Ned hold the animal, he made a brief examination of the fallen horse, after which he darted here and there, unheeding the fact that the still burning grass was blistering his feet through the heavy soles of his boots.

For several rods Kringle ran along the faint trail that Tad and Stacy had left, or rather, that the fire had left after passing over it.

"They beat their way out here. We may find them later. Come on!"

Again Ned and the guide dashed away, both keeping their gaze on the smoking prairie about them. The smoke now was almost more than they could bear.

"Do— do you think they are alive?" asked Ned unsteadily.

"So far. If they are not, it's not their fault. The Professor is right. Those boys have pluck enough to pull them through, but sometimes pluck alone will not do it. A prairie fire is no respecter of pluck."

They burst out into an open space. There were no signs of either of the missing boys.

"Something has happened to them. We must have missed them," announced the guide.

CHAPTER XIV

AGAINST BIG ODDS

"What is it, Chunky?"

"There!"

Tad jerked his companion flat on the ground, flattening himself beside Stacy at the same instant.

What had caused their sudden alarm was the sight of two Indians, sitting on their ponies without saddles, some distance out on the open plain. The redskins were wrapped in their brightly colored blankets, which enveloped them from head to knees. Even the hands were invisible beneath the folds of the blankets.

"D-d-do you think they saw us, Tad?"

"I don't know. It's safe to say they did. Indian eyes don't miss very much. You ought to know that, by this time. I wish we could make that pony lie down."

"Why don't you?"

"He's too afraid of the ground— thinks it's still hot, and I don't blame him. The fire has singed him pretty well as it is.

The Indians sat their mounts as motionless as statues, the ponies headed directly toward where the two lads were lying.

"I'll bet they're got guns under those blankets," decided Tad. "You can't trust an Indian even while you are looking at him."

"Anybody'd think you'd been hunting Indians all your life," growled Stacy.

"They've been hunting me mostly," grinned Tad.

"And usually caught you," added Chunky.

"I don't like this lying here as if we were scared of them."

"But, what else can we do, Tad?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I. Wish I had a shirt. I'll spoil my complexion clear down to my waist. Resides, I'm not fit to be seen."

"You're lucky to be alive," growled Tad. "I'm going to get out of this."

"How?"

"Listen, and you'll know. I'm going to get on the pony; then, as soon as I'm in the saddle, you jump up behind me and we'll start back to camp."

"Not— not through that fire?" protested Stacy.

"No; I don't dare try it. I'm afraid we'd get lost in the smoke and perhaps get burned as well. We'll ride out some distance, then turn to the left and try to go around the burned district."

"What if the Indians chase us?"

"I don't believe they will. They'll hardly dare do that. And, besides, these may be friendly Indians."

"Huh!" grunted Stacy. "They look it."

Tad got up boldly, and without even looking toward the silent red men, began fussing about his saddle, cinching the girths, and straightening the saddle. His last act before mounting was to see that the coils of his lariat were in order.

"All right," announced the lad, vaulting into the saddle.

Stacy scrambled up behind him without loss of time, and they rode out into the open, the fat boy peering apprehensively over his companion's shoulder.

"You keep watch of them, Chunky, but don't let them see you doing it. I won't look at them at all. We don't want them to think we're afraid."

Stacy fidgeted.

"You bet I'll watch 'em. Wish I had my rifle."

"I don't."

"Huh!"

"You have distinguished yourself quite enough with that rifle as it is. We don't want any more of your fancy shooting."

"There they go," warned Stacy.

"I see them." Tad had been cautiously observing the horsemen out of the corners of his eyes. "Moving in the same direction we are. I don't like the looks of it. Still, if they don't get any nearer we may be thankful."

The pony carrying the boys was walking easily, and the mounts of the Indians were doing the same.

"Jog a little," suggested Stacy.

"That's a good idea. It will tell us quickly whether they are trying to keep up with us."

He touched the pony lightly with his spurs. The little animal switched its tail, for its sides were tender, and started off.

"There they go, Tad! Jogging the same gait as ours!"

Tad's face took on the stubborn look it always wore when he had determined upon a certain course of action.

"I'll beat them yet, even if there are only two of them. I wish there weren't two of us on this nag."

"I'll get off and walk," suggested. Stacy.

"You'll do nothing of the sort. That would be a nice thing to do, wouldn't it? They'd round you up quicker'n they could a lame burro."

"Say, Tad."

"What?"

"I've got an idea."

"What is it?"

"You know that sage hen we had?"

"Yes, what's that got to do with our present predicament?"

"I was wondering why there aren't any sage roosters?"

"You'll be a sage rooster, with your head off, first thing you know," snapped Tad in disgust. "Can't you be serious for a minute? Don't you see we are in a fix?"

"Uh-huh!"

"There, that fellow is trying to head us off."

One of the Indians had shot away from his companion, running obliquely toward the point to which Tad was headed.

The red man had gotten quite a start before the boys caught the significance of his manoeuvre.

Tad dug in the spurs.

At that instant the fat boy's hands had been removed from Tad, to whose body they had been clinging.

The pony leaped forward, and Stacy slid over its rump, hitting the ground with a jolt that jarred him.

"Wow!" howled Stacy.

Tad, instantly divining what had happened, pulled up sharply; wheeled and raced back to where his companion was still complaining loudly and rubbing his body.

"Get up!" roared Tad, leaning over and grasping Stacy by the hair of his head.

The fat boy was jerked sharply to his feet.

"Quick! Quick, climb up here!"

With the help of his companion, the lad scrambled up behind Tad again, muttering and rubbing himself.

By this time the leading horseman had wholly outdistanced them, and his pony was now loping along easily, while the second Indian appeared to be riding directly toward them, at right angles to the direction in which they were traveling.

All at once the two Indians began riding about the boys in a circle, uttering short little "yips," intended to terrify the lads, but not loud enough to be heard any great distance away.

"Hang on! We're going to ride for keeps now!" warned Tad.

The fat boy threw both arms about his companion's waist as the pony let out into a swift run. At first Tad thought he had gotten safely out of the circle, only to discover that they had headed him again.

The circle was narrowing, and the Indians were gradually drawing in on them.

Stacy's eyes were growing larger every minute, perhaps more from astonishment than from fear. Then, too, he could not but admire the riding of their pursuers. Even the blankets of the Indians appeared not to be disturbed in the least by their rapid riding, the horsemen sitting a little sideways on the ponies' backs, the reins bunched loosely in their left bands.

"They've got us, Tad."

"They shan't get us!" retorted Tad stubbornly. "If they don't use their guns— and I don't believe they will— we'll beat them yet."

If Stacy was doubtful he did not say so.

"If they get close to us, you be ready to let go of me when I give the word," cautioned Tad.

"What for? What you going to do?"

"I don't know yet. That depends upon circumstances. I'm not going to let them have it all their own way while I've got a pony under me. We may get help any minute, too, so the longer we can put off a clash the better it will be for us."

"Who you mean— Santa Claus?"

"Yes."

"They're closing in now," said Stacy.

"Take your hands away from my waist."

"But I'll fall off, Tad."

"Slip one hand through under my belt and take hold of the cantle with the other. Sit as low as you can so as not to get in my way."

Stacy obeyed his companion's directions without further comment, but he was all curiosity to know what was going to happen next.

The Indians were drawing nearer every second now. The boys could see the expressions on their evil faces, intensified by the streaks of yellow and red paint.

"They look as though they'd stuck their heads in a paint pail," was Chunky's muttered comment.

The blankets fell away from the racing savages, flapped on the rumps of the bobbing ponies for a few seconds and then slipped to the ground.

A rifle was reposing in each man's holster, as Tad observed instantly. He was thankful to note that the guns were not in the hands of the Indians.

The lad's right hand had dropped carelessly to the saddle horn, the fingers cautiously gathering in the coils of the lariat that hung there. The red men did not appear to have observed his act.

"Lie low!" commanded Tad, scarcely above a whisper.

Stacy settled down slowly so as not to attract attention.

One horseman shot directly across Tad's course, striking the lad's pony full in the face as he did so, and causing the animal to brace himself so suddenly as to nearly unseat both boys.

Tad's rope was in the air in a twinkling.

A warning shout from the second Indian, who was just to the rear of them, came too late. The rope shot true to its mark and the first savage, with back half-turned, had failed to observe it coming.

The great loop dropped over his head. The pony braced itself and Tad took a quick turn of the rope about the pommel of his saddle.

The result was instantaneous. The Indian was catapulted from his saddle with arms pinioned to his aide.

"Ye-ow!" howled Chunky; unable to restrain his enthusiasm.

Tad did not even hear him.

"Look out! Here comes the other one!" warned the fat boy.

But Tad was too busily engaged in keeping the line taut about the roped Indian. The fellow was struggling on the ground, fighting to free himself, while the boy with the rope was manoeuvring his pony in a series of lightning-like movements that made the fat boy's head swim.

"Take care of him, Chunky!! I can't," gasped Tad.

Stacy's eyes took on a belligerent expression as the second savage bore down upon them, with knees gripped tightly against the side of his pony, half raising himself above the animal's back, reins dropped on the pony's neck. The Indian was guiding his mount by the pressure of legs and knees alone.

The angry redskin was making futile attempts to get into a position where he might grab the active Tad. He did not seem to take into account the cringing figure behind the boy who had roped the other Indian.

All at once, at the opportune moment, his pony forging ahead, the Indian's hand shot out. The red, bony fingers were closing upon Tad Butler's right shoulder, when all at once something happened.

The cringing fat boy rose. The right hand that had been clinging to the cantle was launched out. His body, thrown forward at the same time, lent the blow added force.

Chunky's fist came into violent contact with the Indian's jaw. Mr. Redman disappeared from the back of his pony so quickly that, for a second, Stacy could scarcely believe his eyes.

"Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!" howled the fat boy. "Beat it for the tall grass, Tad!"

A quick glance behind him, revealed the true state of affairs to Tad Butler. He dug in the spurs, clinging to the lariat for a few feet, then suddenly releasing it, as the pony leaped away under the stinging pressure of the spurs.

"Duck! Duck! They're going to shoot!" shouted Tad.

CHAPTER XV

HIT BY A DRY STORM

"There it goes! Lower, Chunky!"

A rifle had crashed somewhere to the left of them.

Stacy's curiosity getting the better of him, he had twisted his body around, and was peering back; but he was bobbing up and down so fast that he found it difficult to fix his eyes on any one point long enough to distinguish what that object was.

"Look! Look!" he cried, when in a long rise of the pony his eyes had caught something definite.

The roped Indian was running for his pony, which he caught, leaping to its back and dashing away madly.

"Hold up! Hold up! There's something doing," shouted the fat, boy.

Tad swerved a little, turning to his left. Rifles were banging, and the dust was spurting up under the feet of the savage's racing pony.

By this time, the second Indian had recovered from the blow that Stacy had landed on his jaw, and he too was in his saddle in a twinkling, tearing madly cross the plain.

Stacy Brown uttered a series of wild whoops and yells. He knew their assailants were running and that some one was shooting at the Indians, but who it was the fat boy could only guess.

Two ponies suddenly dashed out from the low-lying smoke cloud. One of their riders was swinging his sombrero and cheering; the other was firing his rifle after the fleeing savages.

"Hooray, it's Santa Claus," howled Stacy, fairly beside himself with excitement. Even Tad caught something of his companion's spirit of enthusiasm. He swung his hand and started galloping toward the two horsemen.

"Shoot 'em! Kill 'em!" howled Chunky.

But Santa Claus merely shook his head, and after refilling the magazine of his rifle slipped it into the holster.

"It would only make trouble and probably cause an uprising if I did. They know I could have winged them both had I wanted to," he grinned. "Well, you boys are a sight."

"I— I lost my shirt," interjected Stacy.

"And I suppose you fell in," chuckled Ned.

"No; I fell off."

"We're lucky to be alive," laughed Tad.

"You are that. I see now that Professor Zepplin was right when he said you could take care of yourself. Never saw anything quite so slick as the way you roped that redskin—"

"And— and I punched the other one," glowed Chunky.

"Did you see us?" questioned Tad.

"Yes, we saw the whole proceeding. But you were so mixed up that we couldn't fire without danger of hitting one of you boys. Wonder what those Apaches think struck them," laughed the guide. "How did you get through the fire?"

Tad explained briefly; at the same time accounting for the loss of Stacy's shirt.

"I bet that the fellow with the canary-wing face has a sore jaw," bubbled Stacy.

"No doubt of it, Master Stacy. I didn't suppose you had such a punch as that. You're a good Indian fighter."

"Always was," answered the fat boy, swelling with importance.

"Come, we'll have to hurry back It will be dark before we reach camp, as it is, and the Professor will be worrying about you."

They turned about, and, heading across the burned area, started for camp. Fitful blazes were springing up here and there, but all danger had, by this time, passed, though the smoke still hung heavy and the odor of burned vegetation smote the nostrils unpleasantly.

Stacy sniffed the air suspiciously.

"Tastes like a drug store fire I smelled once in Chillicothe," he averred.

"I haven't made up my mind, yet, how that fire started, Mr. Kringle," wondered Tad.

"I have," replied the guide tersely.

"How?"

"It was set afire!"

"By whom?"

"By one of those savages, or by somebody who was with them. They must have been watching you all the time. Did you recognize either of them as the fellow you knocked down the other might?"

"No; I don't think I would know the Indian. The light was too uncertain at the fire dance, and then again, all Indians look alike to me."

"It was a narrow escape."

"Do you think they'll come back again?" questioned Ned.

"I doubt it. They won't if they recognized me. They know me. They've done business with me before."

Professor Zepplin and Walter were overjoyed when at last the party rode into camp and they learned that both boys were safe. The lads were obliged to go all over their experiences again for the benefit of the Professor and Walter.

"It's getting worse and worse," decided the Professor helplessly. "I don't know where all this is going to end. I thought when we got a new guide— but what's the use? Do you think we had better start to-night, Mr. Kringle?"

"No. There is no necessity."

"What am I going to do for a pony?" asked Chunky.

"You can ride one of mine. I always take two when on a long journey," replied the guide.

Chunky's first act after reaching camp, was to provide himself with a shirt. After donning it, he announced that he had an appetite and wanted to know when they were going to have supper.

"Why, you had supper hours ago," scoffed Ned. "Want another one already?"

"That wasn't supper, that was four o'clock tea. Indian fighters must have real food."

"Stop teasing. We'll give the 'ittle baby his milk," returned Ned.

That night, Kris Kringle remained on guard himself. He would not trust the guardianship of the camp to any of the boys, for he fully expected that they would receive a visit from one or more of the Indians, though he did not tell the others so. But nothing occurred to disturb the camp, and the boys, despite their trying experiences, slept soundly, awakening in the morning fresh and active, ready and anxious for any further adventures.

The party set out shortly after sunrise, and traveled all day across the uneven plains, across short mountain ranges, through deep gorges and rugged foothills.

Crossing an open space the guide espied a bottle glistening in the sunlight.

"There's a bottle," pointed the guide. "Want it?"

Stacy glanced at it indifferently;

"What do I want of a bottle?"

"Then I'll take it," decided the guide, dismounting and stowing the abandoned piece of glass in his saddle bags.

"Bottles are good for only two things."

"And what are they, Master Stacy?" questioned the Professor.

"To keep things in and to shoot at," replied the fat boy wisely.

Everybody laughed at that.

"I guess that embodies everything you can say about bottles," smiled the Professor. "Your logic, at times, young man, is unassailable."

Chunky nodded. He had a faint idea of what Professor Zepplin meant.

Late that afternoon the travelers came upon a shack in the foothills, where an old rancher, a hermit, lived when not tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, Kris Kringle said, the old man had stolen from droves that came up over the trail going north.

He was an interesting old character, this hermit, and the boys decided that they would like to make camp and have him take supper with them. This the Professor and the guide readily agreed to, for everyone was hot and dusty and the bronchos were nervous and ill-natured.

The boys found the old rancher talkative enough on all subjects save himself. When Chunky asked him where he came from, and what for, the old man's face flushed angrily.

At the first opportunity the guide took the fat boy aside for some fatherly advice.

"In this country it isn't good policy to be too curious about a man's family affairs. He's likely to resent it in a way you won't like. Most fellows out here have reasons for being out of the world, beyond what's apparent on the surface."

Chunky heeded the advice and asked no more personal questions for the next hour, though he did forget himself before the evening was ended.

"You seem to be having pretty dry weather down here," said the Professor, by way of starting the old man to talking.

"Yep. Haven't had any rain in this belt fer the last two years."

"Two years!" exclaimed the boys.

"Yep. Had a few light dews, but that's all," replied the hermit.

"Looks to me as if you were going to get some to-night," announced Tad.

"Reckon not."

"Then I'm no judge of weather."

Even as Tad spoke there was a low muttering of thunder, and the far lightning flashed pale and green, and rose on the long horizon to the southwest.

Kris Kringle heard the far away growl. Springing up, he began staking down the tents.

"That's a good idea. We lost our whole outfit on our last trip. Think they'll stand a blow?"

"I guess they will when I get through with them. Have we any more stakes in camp?"

"There should be some in the kit."

Tad searched until he found several more stakes, and with these and the emergency ropes, they made the tents secure.

By the time they had done so, the heavens had grown black and menacing. They could see the storm sweeping down on them. It was a magnificent sight, and the lads were so lost in observing its grandeur that they forgot to feel any alarm.

A cloud of dust accompanied the advance guard of the storm.

"Reckon there ain't any rain in them clouds," commented the old man. "There's plenty of the other thing, though."

"What's the other thing?" questioned Chunky.

"Lightning."

Even as he spoke a bolt descended right in the center of the camp, tearing a hole in the earth and hurling a cloud of dirt and dust many feet up into the air.

The force of the explosion knocked some of the party flat.

Chunky picked himself up and carefully brushed his clothes; then, solemnly walked out and sat down on the spot where the lightning had struck.

"Here, here! What are you doing out there?" demanded the guide.

"Sitting on the lightning."

"You come in here! And quick, at that!"

"Huh! Guess I know what I'm doing. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. I'm—"

By this time Kris Kringle had the fat boy by the collar, hustling him to the protection of one of the tents.

No sooner had they reached it than a crash that seemed as if it had split the earth wide open descended upon them. Balls of fire shot off in every direction. One went right through the tent where they were huddled, hurling the Pony Rider Boys in a heap.

They scrambled up calling to each other nervously.

The shock had extinguished the lantern that hung in the tent. The guide relighted it, and, stepping outside to see what had happened, pointed to the place where Chunky had been sitting but a few minutes before.

The bolt had struck in the identical spot where the previous one had landed.

"Now, young man, there's an object lesson for you," Mr. Kringle said, with a grim smile.

"And there's another!" replied Chunky, pointing to the outside of the tent.

There lay the old rancher, whose absence they had not noted. He had been in the tent with them when they last saw him and how he had gotten out there none knew. The rancher had been stripped of every vestige of clothing by the freaky lightning.

"He's dead," crooned Stacy solemnly.

"Get water, quick! He's been struck by lightning!" commanded the guide, making systematic efforts to bring the old man back to consciousness.

Stacy ran for the water-bags.

"I am afraid it is useless, Mr. Kringle," warned, the Professor, failing to find a pulse. The boys were standing about fanning the victim, having one by one dumped the contents of their canteens in his face.

Stacy returned with a water-bag after a little.

"I— I— I've got an idea," he exploded, as with eyes wide open he attempted to tell them something.

"Keep still. We've got something else to do besides listening to your foolishness," chided Ned.

"Chunky, we're trying to save this man's life. Give me that bag," commanded Tad.

The two older men were working desperately on the patient. Stacy stood around, fidgeting a little, but making no further attempt to enlighten them as to what his new idea was.

After a time the rancher began to show signs of recovering. He gasped a few times then opened his eyes.

"What kicked me?" he asked, with a half-grin.

They could all afford to laugh now, and they did. The rancher refused their offer of clothes, saying he had another suit in his shack.

"That's twice the stuff has knocked me out. Next time it'll git me for keeps," he said.

"Does it strike here very often?" questioned the Professor.

"Allus."

"Then, there must be some mineral substance in the soil."

"No, ain't nothing like that. Jest contrariness that's all. Hit my shack once, and 'cause 'twas raining, bored holes in the roof so the place got all wet inside."

"But it isn't raining now. Doesn't it usually rain when you have a thunder storm here?" asked the Professor.

"No. Ain't had no rain in nigh onto two year," the hermit reiterated.

"You'd better go and put on some clothes," suggested Kris Kringle.

"Guess that's right."

The old man seemed to have forgotten his condition. The others had wrapped a blanket around him, which seemed to satisfy his demand for clothes. Gathering up the blanket he strolled leisurely toward his cabin, undisturbed by his recent experience.

"Nothing like getting used to it," chuckled Stacy.

"Hello, now we'll hear what your new idea is, Chunky?" jeered Ned.

"Yes, what is it?" urged Tad.

"Nothing much."

"Never is," cut in Walter Perkins, a little maliciously.

"I— I got an idea the ponies tried to kick holes in the lightning."

Everybody laughed loudly. They could well afford to laugh, now that the danger had passed.

"What makes you think that?" asked the guide, eyeing him sharply.

"'Cause they're dead!"

"What!" shouted the boys.

All hands dashed from the tent, Stacy regarding them with soulful eyes, after which he surreptitiously slipped a biscuit into his pocket and strolled out after them.

CHAPTER XVI

CHUNKY'S NEW IDEA

Three of the ponies, they found, had been knocked down and so severely shocked that they were only just beginning to regain consciousness.

"Why didn't you tell us?" demanded Ned, turning on Stacy savagely.

"You wouldn't let me. Maybe next time I've got an idea, you'll stop and listen."

Kris Kringle's face wore a broad grin.

"Master Stacy is right. He tried hard enough to tell us," he said.

Chunky was humming blithely as the party set out next morning. He was pretty well satisfied with himself, for had he not been through a prairie fire, knocked a savage Apache off his horse, saved himself and his companions, besides having just escaped from being struck by lightning? Stacy swelled out his chest and held his chin a little bit higher than usual.

"Chunky's got a swelled head," said Ned, nodding in the direction of the fat boy.

"Swelled chest, you mean," laughed Walter. "Nobody has a better right. Chunky isn't half as big a fool as he'd have everybody believe. When we think we are having lots of fun with him he's really having sport with us. And those Indians— say, Ned, do you think they will bother us any more?"

"Ask Chunky," retorted Ned. "He's the oracle of the party."

"I will," answered Walter, motioning for Stacy to join them, which the latter did leisurely. "We want to know if you think we've seen the last of the Apaches? Will they bother us any more?"

The fat boy consulted the sky thoughtfully.

"I think there's some of them around now," he replied.

"What?"

Stacy nodded wisely.

"Santa Claus ought to have shot them."

"Why, you cold-blooded savage!" scoffed Ned. "The idea!"

"You'll see. I'd have done it, myself, if I'd had my gun," declared Stacy bravely.

"Good thing for you that your gun was in camp, instead of in your holster."

"Yes; I'd have lost the gun when the pony went down. Poor pony! Say, Walt," he murmured, leaning over toward his companion.

"Well, out with it!"

"This pony of Santa Claus's can jump further than a kangaroo."

"Ever see a kangaroo jump?" sneered Ned.

"No; but I've seen you try to. I'll show you, Walt, when we get a chance to go out and have a contest."

"That would be good sport, wouldn't it, Ned?"

"What?"

"A jumping contest!"

"If we didn't break our necks."

"Can't break a Pony Rider Boy's neck. They're too tough," laughed Walter, to which sentiment, Stacy Brown agreed with a series of emphatic nods.

"Say, Tad," called Walter, "what do you say to our jumping our ponies some time to-day?"

Tad grinned appreciatively.

"If the stock isn't too tired when we make camp, I think it would be great fun. We haven't had any real jumping contests in a long time."

"Wish we had our stallions here, Tad."

"They're better off at home, Chunky. Altogether too valuable horses for this kind of work. I'll speak to the guide."

"Well, what is it, young man?" smiled Kris Kringle.

"If you can find a level place for our camp we want to have a contest this afternoon. Professor, will you join us?"

"What kind of a contest?"

"Jumping."

"No, thank you."

"We will camp in the foothills of the Black range. You will find plenty of level ground there for your purpose," said the guide.

In order that they might have more time for their games, an early halt was called. The first work was to pitch the camp, the ponies being allowed to graze and rest in the meantime, after which the lads started out on a broad, open plain for their sport.

Their shouts of merriment drifted back to the camp where Kris Kringle and Professor Zepplin were setting things to rights and preparing an early supper, the sun still being some hours high.

"That's a great bunch of boys, Professor."

"Great for getting into difficulties."

"And for getting out of them."

"I'll put them against any other four lads in the world for hunting out trouble," laughed the Professor.

The result of the afternoon's sport was a total of several spills and numerous black and blue spots on the bodies of the Pony Rider Boys. Stacy Brown on Kris Kringle's pony, carried off the honors, having taken a higher jump than did any of his companions. Then Stacy did it again, after the others had tried— and failed to equal the record.

The games being finished, Tad and Walter rode off to get a closer view of some peculiar rock formations that they had discovered in the high distance, while Ned and Chunky started slowly for the camp.

The table had been set out in front of the tents when the fat boy and his companion came in sight of the camp.

"Whew! but I'm hungry!" announced Stacy Brown.

"But you didn't think of it until you saw the table set, did you?"

"It wasn't the table, it was the shaking up I got back there that made me feel full of emptiness."

"Huh!"

"I've got an idea, Ned."

"For goodness' sake, keep it to yourself, then. When you have an idea it spells trouble for everybody else around you."

"Bet you I can."

"Can what?" snorted Ned.

"Bet you I can jump the dinner table and you can't."

"Bet you can't."

"Bet I can, and without even knocking a fly off the milk pitcher."

"Go on, you! You try it first, and, if you don't make it, you lose. I don't have to try it if I don't want to," agreed Ned, with rare prudence.

Chunky was fairly hugging himself with glee, but he took good care that Ned Rector did not observe his satisfaction.

"If you don't you're a tenderfoot," taunted Stacy.

"I'll show you who's the tenderfoot. You go ahead and bolt the dinner, table and all, if you dare. Now, then!"

Stacy gathered up his reins. There was mischief in his eyes, which were fixed on the table, neatly set for the evening meal.

"You start right after me. They'll be surprised to see a procession of ponies going over the table, won't they?"

"Somebody'll be surprised. May not be the Professor and Santa Claus, though," growled Ned.

Stacy had his own ideas on this question, but he did not confide them to his companion.

The fat boy clucked to his pony, and the little animal started off. As they moved along, Stacy used the persuasive spurs resulting in a sudden burst of speed.

"Come on!" he shouted.

He heard Ned's pony pursuing him.

"Hi-yi-yi-y-e-o-w!" howled the shrill voice of the fat boy.

Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with elbows leaning on it, engaged in earnest conversation. There had been so much yelling out on the plain ever since the boys left camp that the older men gave no heed to this new shout— did not even turn their eyes in the direction whence Stacy Brown and his pony were sweeping down on them at break-neck speed.

Suddenly the two men started back with a sudden exclamation, as a shadow fell athwart the table and a dark form hurled itself through the air, while a shrill, "w-h-o-o-p-e-e!" sounded right over their heads.

The fat boy cleared the table without so much as disturbing the fly to which he had referred when making the arrangement.

Kris Kringle's face wore an expansive grin as he discovered the cause of the interruption. But, Professor Zepplin's face reflected no such emotion. He was angry. He started to rise, when a second shadow fell across the table.

Ned Rector, not to be outdone by his fat little friend, pursed his lips tightly, driving his broncho at the dinner table and pressing in the spurs so hard, that the pony grunted with anger.

Up went the broncho in a graceful curving leap.

But the pony or its rider had not calculated the distance properly. Both rear hoofs went through the table, whisking it off the ground from before the astonished eyes of Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle.

Both men drew back so violently that they toppled over backwards.

'Mid the crashing of dishes and the sound of breaking wood, the dinner table shot up into the air, while the pony ploughed the ground with its nose.

Ned Rector struck the ground some distance farther on; he slid on his face for several feet skinning his nose, and filling mouth, eyes and nose with dirt.

Then dishes and pieces of table began to rain down on them in a perfect shower. A can of condensed milk emptied itself on the head of Professor Zepplin, while a hot biscuit lodged inside the collar of Santa Claus's shirt.

"Wow! Oh, wow!" howled the fat boy, falling off his pony in the excess of his merriment and rolling on the ground.

CHAPTER XVII

IN THE HOME OF THE CAVE DWELLERS

Ned Rector sat up just in time to meet the wreck of the descending table. Down he went again with Stacy's howls ringing in his ears.

A firm hand jerked Rector free of the debris as Kris Kringle laughing heartily hauled Ned to his feet. At the same moment Professor Zepplin had laid more violent hands on the fat boy, whom he shook until Stacy's howls lost much of their mirth. About this time Tad and Walter rode in, having hurried along upon hearing the disturbance in camp.

"Stacy Brown, are you responsible for this?" demanded the Professor sternly.

"I'm more to blame than he is," interposed Ned.

"No, I— I had an idea," chuckled Stacy, threatening to break out into another howl of mirth.

"Next time you have one, then, you will be good enough to let me know. We will tie you up until the impulse to make trouble has passed."

Tad and Walter could not resist a shout of laughter. Kris Kringle was not slow to follow the example set by them, and all at once Professor Zepplin forgot his dignity, sitting right down amid the wreck and laughing immoderately.

Ned washed his face, and when, upon facing them, he exhibited a peeled nose and a black eye, the merriment was renewed again.

Supper was a success, in spite of the fact that many of their dishes were utterly ruined, as well as some of the provisions. But the lads gathered up the pieces and made the best of a bad job. Fortunately they carried another folding table that they had had made for their trip, and this was soon spread and a fresh meal prepared.

"Well, have you two been getting into difficulties also?" questioned the Professor, after they sat down to supper.

"No; we've been exploring, Walter and I," answered Tad.

"Exploring?"

"Yes. We discovered something that I should like to know more about."

"What is that?" asked Kris Kringle, looking up interestedly.

"We were over yonder, close to the mountains, which are straight up and down, and half way to the top, we saw three or four queerly-shaped rocks that looked like houses or huts. Did you ever see them, Mr. Kringle?"

"No; but I think I know what you mean. They must be some of the cave dwellings of the ancient Pueblos, or perhaps as far back as the Toltecs. They built their homes in caves on the steep rocks for better protection against their enemies."

"And nobody ever discovered these before?" questioned. Walter. "How queer!"

"Perhaps these dwellings, if such they are, have been seen by many a traveler, none of whom had interest enough in the matter to investigate. Then again, they may have been fully explored. There's not much in this part of the country that prospectors have not looked over."

"May we explore these caves, Professor?" asked Tad.

"Please let us?" urged Walter.

"I see no objection if Mr. Kringle will be responsible for you. I rather think I'll look into them myself. I'll confess the idea interests me. Are they easy to get at?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Tad.

"Santa Claus will show us the way," interrupted Stacy enthusiastically.

He was frowned down by the Professor.

"Why not start now?" urged Tad.

The guide consulted the sun.

"We might. It lacks all of three hours to dark."

There was much enthusiasm in camp. The idea that they were to visit some unexplored caves, dwellings of an ancient people, filled the lads with pleasant expectancy.

Before starting, Mr. Kringle sorted out some strong manila rope and several tent stakes all of which he did up into two bundles. Then he filled the magazine of his rifle, throwing this over his shoulder.

"What's that for?" questioned Ned.

"The gun?"

"Yes."

"Can't tell what we may run into in a cave, you know."

After a final look at the camp all hands set out for the place indicated by Tad. It was only a short distance, so they decided to walk.

Reaching the base of the mountain they gazed up.

"Yes, those are cave dwellings," declared Kris Kringle. "And they are still closed. Probably they haven't been opened in two hundred years."

"I'd hate to live there and have to go home in a dark night," mused Chunky.

"Yes, how did they get to their houses?" wondered the other boys.

"The question is, how are we going to get near enough to explore them? How shall we get up there, Mr. Guide?" asked the Professor.