"We'll find a way. We shall have to climb the mountain, first."

All hands began clambering up the rocks. To do so they were obliged to follow along the base of the mountain for some distance before they found a place that they could climb.

Reaching the top, the guide examined their surroundings carefully.

"See those little projections of rock slanting down toward the shelf?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, in the old days they probably felled a tree so it would fall on them. The occupants of the cave probably cut steps in the tree trunk over which to travel up and down. The tree has rotted away many years since."

"And we can't get down, then?"

"We'll find a way, Master Walter. I thought I should be able to make a rope ladder that would work, but I see it is not practicable."

"How shall we do it?"

"Try the old way, I guess, Master Tad."

"What's that?"

"The tree."

"But there are no trees near here?"

"Yes, there are, a few rods back. We are all strong and I guess we shall be able to make a pretty fair pair of steps."

Kris Kringle had brought an axe with him. With this he cut some long, straight poles which, he explained, were intended for pike poles such as woodsmen use to roll logs. This done, he began industriously chopping at the tree after deciding upon the exact position in which he desired it to fall.

"It won't reach," declared Chunky, who, with hands in pockets, legs spread wide apart, stood looking up at the flaring top of the great tree.

The guide stopped chopping long enough to squint at the fat boy.

"It'll reach you all right, if you stay where you are," he said, then resumed his vigorous blows.

Stacy promptly took the hint and moved a safe distance away.

"Get from under!" shouted the guide finally. One more blow would send the tree crashing downward.

All hands scrambled for safety. One powerful blow from the axe, and with a crashing and rending, the great tree began its descent. When it struck the onlookers fully expected to see it broken into many pieces, but the bushy top, hitting the rocks first, broke the blow, and the body of the tree settled down gently without even breaking its bark.

"Fine! Hurrah!" shouted the boys.

"It won't reach to the edge. Going to pull it over?" questioned Stacy.

"Not exactly, but we're going to get it there. Perhaps we shall not have it in place in time to explore the caves to-night, but we shall be ready to do so early in the morning. It took our friends longer to do this job, two hundred years or more ago, than it will take us. We have better tools to work with."

"And better bosses," suggested Stacy.

Some little time was consumed in chopping the tree loose from its stump, after which the guide worked the pike poles under the trunk at intervals near the base. The others watched these operations with interest.

"Now here is where you young gentlemen will have a chance to show how strong you are. Each one grab a pike pole," Kringle directed.

"Shan't I go hold the top down?" asked Stacy.

"You just grab a pike pole and get busy!" laughed Mr. Kringle.

"Can't get out of work quite so easy as you thought," scoffed Ned. "This is where we make you earn your supper."

"I don't have to earn it. Had it already."

"There are other meals coming," smiled the Professor.

"Now, heo— he!"

All raised on the pike poles at the same time with the result that the tree was forced down the gentle incline several feet. This was repeated again and again, the boys pausing to cheer after every lift.

The tree being now perilously near the edge of the cliff Kris Kringle called a halt. Next he fastened a rope around the top and another around the base, taking a turn around a rock with each. One boy was placed on each rope, the others at the pike poles, while the guide stood at the edge giving directions.

The tree trunk gently slipped over under his guidance and a few minutes later rested on the projecting rocks, that were just high enough to hold it in place.

"Wouldn't take much to send it over, but I guess it will be perfectly safe," he mused.

"May we go down now?" cried the boys.

"No; I'll make some steps first."

He did so with the axe, chopping out scoop-shaped places for steps, until finally he had reached the rock in front of the cave dwellings.

The tree lay at an easy slope, its bushy top partly resting on the ledge, the latter being some eight feet deep by ten feet wide.

Running up the log Mr. Kringle made another rope fast at the top, throwing the free end over.

"Hold on to the rope while you are going down and you'll be in no danger of falling," he warned.

The boys scrambled down the tree like so many squirrels, the Professor following somewhat more cautiously.

The explorers found themselves not more than twenty feet from the ground.

"Not much of a door yard. Where's the garden?" wondered Stacy, looking about him curiously.

The entrance to the cave dwelling was blocked by a huge boulder, that completely filled the opening. How it had been gotten there none could say. The only possible explanation was that the boulder had been found on the shelf and applied to the purpose of protecting the cave dwellers' home.

"Now we're here, we can't get in," grumbled Ned.

"Nothing is impossible," answered Kris Kringle.

"Except one thing."

"What's that, Master Ned?"

"To hammer the least little bit of sense into the head of my friend, Chunky Brown."

"You don't have to, that's why," retorted Stacy quickly. "It has all the sense it'll hold, now."

"I guess that will be about all for you, Ned," laughed Walter. "At least, Chunky didn't foul the dinner table when he jumped it."

The guide, in the meantime, was experimenting with the boulder, inserting a pike pole here and there in an effort to move the big stone. It remained in place as solidly as if it had grown there.

"There's some trick about the thing, I know, but what it is gets me. Better stand back, all of you, in case it comes out all of a sudden," Mr. Kringle warned them.

All at once the boulder did come out, and it kept on coming.

"Look out!" bellowed the guide.

"Low bridge!" howled Stacy, hopping to one side and crouching against the rocks.

The guide had sprung nimbly to one side as well. The big rock had popped out like a pea from a pod. Instead of stopping, however, it continued to roll on toward the edge.

"Hug the rocks! She's going down!" shouted the guide.

Go down it did, with a crash that seemed to shake the mountain. Rolling to the edge of the shelf, it had toppled over, taking a large strip of shelving rock with it.

"Wow!" howled Chunky;

The other boys uttered no sound, though their faces were a little more pale than usual.

Kris Kringle stepped to the edge, peering over.

"No one will get that up here again, right away," he said.

"The cave, the cave!" shouted Walter.

Everyone turned, gazing half in awe at the dark opening that the removal of the stone had revealed— an opening that had been closed for probably more than two centuries.

CHAPTER XVIII

FACING THE ENEMY'S GUNS

"Do we go in?" asked the Professor.

"Wait, I'll get some light inside first," answered the prudent guide. "Can't tell whether we shall want to go in or not."

He built up a small fire within, then called to the others that they might enter. They crowded in hastily, finding themselves in a fairly large chamber, at the far end of which was a sort of natural alcove in the rocks.

The remnants of a fire still lay at one side, where the last meal of the ancient dweller had probably been cooked. Several crude looking utensils lay about, together with a number of pieces of ancient pottery.

"This is, indeed, a rare find!" exclaimed the Professor, carrying the precious jars out into the light for closer examination.

Chunky, about that time, pounced upon an object which proved to be a copper hatchet.

"Hurray for George Washington!" he shouted, brandishing the crude tool. "The man who never told—"

"We've heard that before," objected Ned. "Give us something new, Chunky, if you've got to talk."

The Professor came in, searching for other curios just as Stacy went out to examine his "little axe," as he was pleased to call it. He tried the edge of it on the ledge to find out if the stone would dull it, but it did not.

"I'll use that to cut nails and wire with when I get back home," decided the boy. "Guess I'll chop my name in the side of the mountain here." Stacy proceeded to do so, the others being too much engrossed in their explorations to know or care what he was about. He succeeded very well, both in making letters on the wall and in putting several nicks in the edge of his new-found hatchet.

He was thus engaged when all at once something struck the axe hurling it from his hand. At the same instant a rifle crashed off somewhere below and to the southeast of him.

"Ouch!" exclaimed the fat boy holding his hand. "Wonder who did that?" His mind had not coupled the shot with the blow on the hatchet.

Bang!

A bullet flattened itself close to his head, against the rock.

With a howl, the lad threw himself down on the ledge.

At that instant Kris Kringle sprang to the opening of the cave.

"What does this mean?" he snapped.

"I don't know. Somebody knocked the axe out of my hand then shot at me."

The guide discovered the trouble right there. A bullet snipped his hat from his head; and, striking the ceiling of the cave-home, dropped to the floor with a dull clatter.

Kris Kringle ducked with amazing quickness. Crawling back into the cave, he reached for his own rifle and then sought the opening, taking good care not to expose himself to the fire of the unseen enemy.

Stacy, on his part, had lost no time in getting to a place of safety inside, though he was prudent enough to crawl instead of getting up and walking in."

"What does this mean? It can't be possible that anyone is deliberately shooting at us?" questioned Professor Zepplin in undisguised amazement.

"If you doubt it step outside," suggested Kris Kringle. "Master Stacy and myself know what they tried to do, don't we, lad?"

"We do."

The fat boy again swelled with importance.

"Look out you don't swell up so big you'll break your harness," warned Ned.

"Better break it than have it shot off," mumbled Stacy.

"Who can it be?"

"I can't say, Professor."

"It's our friends from the fire dance," was Tad's expressed conviction.

"Told you they'd be here," nodded Chunky. "Why don't you shoot at them?"

"Going to, in a minute. Got to find out where they are first."

Now the lads were excited in earnest. Some one was shooting at them, and the guide was going to fire back. This was more than they had expected when they visited the home of the cave-dweller.

"Let me take a crack at 'em," begged Chunky. "I owe 'em one."

"Master Stacy, you will do nothing of the sort," reproved the Professor sternly. "The idea!"

"No; if there's any shooting to be done I'll do it," announced Kris Kringle.

"And Santa Claus isn't shooting with any toy gun, this time," chuckled Chunky.

"Can you see the camp, to know if anyone is there?"

"Yes, but only part of it, Professor. I wish you would all get over into the right hand corner there and lie flat on the floor. I'm going to try to draw their fire so that I can locate them. Can't afford to waste ammunition until we are reasonably sure where our mark is."

The others quickly got into the position indicated.

Placing his hat on one of the pike poles, Kringle slowly pushed it outside.

There was no result, The ruse failed to draw the enemy's fire.

"Oh, they've gone. We're a lot of babies," jeered Ned, jumping up and starting for the opening.

Kris Kringle gave him a push with the butt of the rifle.

"Want, to get shot full of holes? Wait! I'll show you."

The guide sprang up, showing himself out on the ledge for one brief instant then throwing himself flat.

A sharp "ping" against the rocks, followed by a heavy report, told the story. The guide had been not a second too soon in getting out of harm's way, for the bullet would have gone right through him had be remained standing.

Quick as a flash Kringle's rifle leaped to his shoulder, and he fired. He had taken quick aim at a puff of smoke off toward the camp.

Not content with one shot he raked the bushes all about where the puff of smoke had been seen, emptying the magazine of the rifle in a few seconds.

Stacy Brown was fairly dancing with glee.

"Did you hit anything?" asked the boys breathlessly.

"Of course, I hit something; but whether I winged an Indian or not, I don't know. If I did, he probably is not seriously wounded. You'll hear a redskin yell when he's hit bad."

"That one I punched didn't. He was hit hard," volunteered Stacy.

"He didn't have time," grinned Tad. "You were too quick for him."

"Look out! There comes a volley!" warned Mr. Kringle.

The boys, led by the Professor tumbled into the corner in a heap, while the lead pattered in through the opening, rattling with great force like a handful of pebbles.

"They're getting in a hurry," averred the Professor.

"It's growing dark. They want to finish us before then, so we can't play any tricks on them after that. But, if they only knew it, and they probably do, they've got us beautifully trapped. One man below and another at the other end of our tree would be able to keep us here till the springs run dry. If there's only two of them there, as I suspect is the case, they may not want to separate. We'll see, the minute it gets dark enough so that we can move about without being observed."

Some of the sage brush that Kris Kringle had brought down to light up the cave lay outside on the ledge. Using one of the poles, he cautiously raked the stuff inside, heaping it up not far from the entrance.

"What you doing that for?" questioned Stacy, unable to conceal his curiosity.

"You'll see, by-and-by, when we get ready to do something else. You don't think I'm going to stay here all night, do you?"

There was no further firing on either side, though Mr. Kringle showed himself boldly several times.

Finally Tad tried it, and was greeted with a shot the instant he appeared in the opening.

"Must be me they're after," he suggested, with a forced grin, falling flat on the ledge, and wriggling back into the cave.

The twilight was upon them now. The guide had been able to see the flash of the rifle below him, and had taken a quick shot at it when the enemy attempted to wing Tad Butler. Kringle had no means of knowing whether his shot had been effective or not.

"I'm going to try something else in a few minutes, now," the guide told the Professor and the boys, "and I hope you all will do just as I tell you."

"You may depend upon our doing exactly that," answered the Professor.

"I am going to crawl out of here. The rest of you remain here until I call to you to come out, no matter if it is until morning. After I have been gone about ten minutes, light a match and toss it into the heap of sage there, but watch out that you don't get into the light. Throw the match. You're liable to be shot if you show yourselves."

"Why should we make a fire and thus make targets of ourselves?" protested Ned.

"That is to cover Mr. Kringle's retreat," Tad informed them.

"Exactly. Master Tad, you may come along with me if you wish."

Tad jumped at the offer.

"But not a sound. Ask me no questions. Follow a rod or so behind me, and walk low down all the time. If you make a mistake it may result seriously for you and your friends. And, another thing."

"Yes?"

"Should there be any shooting, throw yourself on the ground. You will not be as likely to be hit there."

"I'll obey orders, sir."

"I know it."

"When do we start?"

"I guess we can do so now, as safely as at any time. The rascals will not be likely to be on the mountain just yet, because it is not dark enough. Yes; we'll go now."

Tad waited until Kris Kringle had crawled from the cave, then lay down on his stomach and wriggled out on the ledge.

There were no signs of the enemy and the camp-fire of the Pony Rider Boys glowed dimly down below. Tad, peering off into the gloom, for the moon had not yet risen, thought he saw a figure flit by the fire. He could not be sure, however. He wished he might tell the guide of his fancied discovery; but, remembering the injunction for absolute silence, he said nothing.

By this time, Tad's arms were about the log. From the slight vibration he knew that Kris Kringle was somewhere between himself and the top, yet not a sound did the guide make. Tad made no more, and they would have been keen ears, indeed, that could have detected our friends' presence by sound alone.

When the lad finally reached the top a hand was laid on his shoulder. The touch gave him a violent start in spite of his steady nerves.

"You're all right," whispered the voice of Kris Kringle. "You'd make a good Indian. I want to explain something that I didn't wish the others to hear."

"Yes?" whispered Tad.

"I have only one shell left in my rifle. That's why I wanted you to go along. If, by any chance, the rascals should get me, you lie low. They'll make for the cave, as they know, by this time, that there is only one rifle in the party. The minute they do, should such an emergency arise, slide for the camp and get your gun. You'll know what to do with it. It'll be a case of saving the lives of your companions if it comes to that."

"I understand," answered Tad bravely; and without a quaver in his voice.

"Mind you, I don't think for a minute that it will happen. I can handle these fellows if I get the lay of the land. Keep close enough to hear me."

"That's not so easy."

"No; but you'll know. When I stop you do the same."

CHAPTER XIX

OUTWITTING THE REDSKINS

Kris Kringle moved away without another word. His abrupt departure was the signal for the Pony Rider boy to start, which he did instantly.

In a few minutes Tad was skulking along the top of the mountain, when he ran into the guide again.

Just then the report of a rifle sounded down below them.

"Are they shooting at us?" whispered Tad.

"No; the boys have lighted the fire in the cave. Our friends down below took a pot shot at the blaze. Hope they didn't hit anybody."

"Chunky would be the only one to get in the way, and I imagine the others would hold him back."

"Come this way; we'll go down by a different trail. The redskins are watching the fire in the cave, but they may be keeping an eye on the trail at the same time."

Silently the man and the boy took their way along the rough, uneven path, slowly working down into the valley. They soon reached this, for the range was low there.

Reaching the foothills, the two scouts once more fell into single file, Tad Butler to the rear. He knew that the guide's rifle ahead of him was ready for instant use, and at any second now Tad expected to see the flash of a gun.

The lad was not afraid, but he was all a-quiver with excitement. This stalking an enemy in the dark, not knowing at what minute that enemy might make the attack, was not the same as a stand-up fight in broad daylight. Tad wondered why the guide had not permitted the rest of the party to escape while they had the opportunity. He did not know that Kris Kringle fully expected an ambush, nor that two would stand a better chance to get through and out-wit the savages than would half a dozen of them. The pair had approached nearly to the camp, for which the guide was heading, when suddenly a hand was laid on the boy's arm in a firm grip. Tad knew the guide had seen or heard something.

"What is it?"

"There!"

In the faint light of the camp-fire the lad, gazing where Kris Kringle had pointed, was astonished to see a figure seated at their table. From his motions it was evident that the intruder was stowing away the stolen fool at a great rate.

"Is that one of them?"

"Yes."

"He'll have indigestion, the way he's eating. Hope he doesn't swallow the dishes, too."

"I'm going to find the other one. You crawl as close to the camp as you can with safety. If you hear a disturbance, dive for the tents the instant that fellow starts. He'll move if he hears any noise. Get a gun and hurry to me, but be quiet about it."

"Yes."

"Remember your instructions. I may be able to handle both of them, but if I don't get the missing one at the first crack I shan't be able to take care of them both. You'll have to help me. Got the nerve?"

"I'm not afraid," whispered the boy steadily. "And I've got some muscle as well."

"That's evident. I'm off now."

Tad was left alone. This time he could feel the guide's movements, as the latter slipped away on the soft earth. But in a moment all sound was lost,

"I think I'll crawl up nearer, so as to be handy if anything occurs," decided the lad, creeping along on all fours. He could not see the light in the camp now, but he reasoned that the man at the table was sitting with his back to it, as near as Tad could judge of direction in the dark. The Indian seemed not to fear a surprise.

"That's what comes from overconfidence," grinned the lad.

"I wish I had something to defend myself with," he added after a pause.

Tad had no sooner expressed his wish, than his fingers closed over some object on the ground. He grasped it with about the same hopefulness that a dying man will grasp at a straw.

What he had found was a heavy tent stake, one that Kris Kringle had dropped from his bundle on the way to the cliff dweller's home.

The lad breathed a prayer of thankfulness and crept on with renewed courage.

He proceeded as far as he dared; then, lay still, listening for the noise of the expected conflict between the guide and the other red man.

It came. The sound was like that of a body falling heavily.

Once more the Indian at the table turned his head, listening inquiringly. He made a half motion to rise, glanced at the table, then sat down again and began to eat.

"His appetite has overcome his judgment," grinned Tad. The lad could hear the faint sound of conflict somewhere to the rear of him. He was getting uneasy and began to fidget.

All at once the red man sprang up, starting on a run, trailing Stacy's rifle behind him. He was headed directly for the place where Tad lay flattened on the ground, though the lad felt sure his enemy did not see him.

But when the Indian suddenly sprang up into the air to avoid stepping on the object that lay there, Tad knew that further secrecy was useless. The redskin had jumped right over him, dropping Chunky's rifle as he leaped. The gun fell on the Pony Rider boy and for a second hindered his movements.

But Tad was up like a flash, while the Indian whirled no less quickly, knife unsheathed, ready for battle.

This was where Tad's tent stake came in handy. Without it he would have been in a much more serious fix. It was bad enough as it was.

Without an instant's hesitation the lad brought the stake down on the wrist of the hand that held the knife. The knife fell to the ground, while the Indian, with a half-suppressed howl, sprang at the slender lad. Though the fellow's wrist was well-nigh useless at that moment, he was as full of fight as ever.

Tad stepped nimbly aside and tried to trip his adversary, but the Indian was too sharp to be caught that way.

"If he ever gets those arms around me I'm a goner," thought Tad, taking mental measure of his antagonist.

Suddenly the Indian swooped down, making a grab for the rifle that he had dropped.

As the redskin stooped, Tad hit him a wallop on the head with the tent stake. It must have made the savage see a shower of stars.

At least, it staggered him so he was glad to let the weapon remain where it was. For a few seconds the air was full of flying legs and arms, during which the boy landed three times on the red man, being himself unhurt.

Then the Indian succeeded in rushing into a clinch, and Tad found himself gripped in those arms of steel. Wriggle and twist as be would he could not free himself from their embrace. His adversary, on the other hand, found himself fully occupied in holding on to his slippery young antagonist, giving him neither time nor opportunity effectually to dispose of the slender lad.

Tad was unusually muscular for his years, to which was added no little skill as wrestler. The Indian soon discovered both these qualities. And, at about that time, the lad was resorting to every trick he knew to place the Indian in a position where he could be thrown.

The moment came with disconcerting suddenness, and Mr. Redman uttered a loud grunt as he landed on the ground, flat on his back. With a spring he lifted himself up, and the next instant he had thrown the slight figure of the Pony Rider Boy so heavily that everything about Tad grew black. He felt himself going. Then all at once he lost consciousness.

When finally he awakened, Tad found a figure still bending over him.

Quick as a flash the boy's arms went up, encircling the neck of the man kneeling by him. The next instant the fellow was on his back, with Tad sitting on his chest.

"Here, here! What's the matter with you?" gasped a muffled voice, which Tad instantly recognized.

"Kris Kringle!" he gasped.

"Yes; and you nearly knocked the breath out of me," grinned the guide, struggling to his feet. "Well, you certainly are a whirlwind."

"I— I thought you were the Indian," mattered Tad in a sheepish tone.

"If it had been, there would have been no need for my interference."

"Where is he?"

"Over there, tied up. Both of them are. We'll decide what to do with them when we get the party together."

"Tell me what happened," begged Tad.

The other fellow was so busy watching the cave that he forgot to keep his ears open. I was able to approach him without being detected. When I got near enough I laid the butt of my rifle over his head. No, I didn't hurt him much. Just made him curl up on the ground long enough to enable me to tie his hands and feet.

"About that time I caught the sound of something going on over here. I made a run, suspecting that you were mixing it up with the other redskin. Guess I was just in time, too, for he had you down and was reaching for something—"

"His knife," nodded Tad. "It's somewhere around here now."

"Well, I gave him the same medicine that I had given the other. Now we'd better go and call the others."

"Thank you. I'd have been in a bad fix, if you hadn't come as you did."

"So might I, had you not stopped the second one. We're quits then," said the guide, extending his hand, which Tad grasped warmly.

"I'll call the others, if you wish."

"Yes."

Tad ran over to the base of the cliff, and shouted loudly for his companions. In half an hour the party had gathered about the camp fire, engaged in an animated discussion over the stirring experiences of the evening.

It was decided that the Indians should be placed on their ponies, to which they were to be tied, with hands free and provisions enough to last them until they reached their reservation in the northern part of the state;

The guide restored their rifles to them after first taking their ammunition and transferring it to his own kit.

"I've wasted nearly that much on you," he said. "And, if ever you ride across my trail again, I'll use your own lead on you in a way that will stop you. You won't need bullets like these in the Happy Hunting Grounds, where you'll be going. Now, git!"

And they did. The redskins rode as if a ghost were pursuing them.

"That's the last, we shall see of those gentlemen," laughed Kris Kringle. "To-morrow morning we shall be on our way in peace."

But the trail of the Pony Rider Boys was not to be all peace. Before them— ere they reached the end of the Silver Trail— they were to find other thrilling experiences awaiting them.

CHAPTER XX

TILTING FOR THE SILVER SPURS

Their journey led the young horsemen across the plains, over low-lying ranges, across broad, barren table-lands and down through the bottom lands until the wide sweep of the Rio Grande River at last lay before them.

After the weeks of arid landscape the sight of water, and so much of it, brought a loud cheer from the Pony Rider Boys. The next thing was to find a fording place. This they did late in the afternoon of the same day, and their further journey took them to the little desert town of Puraje.

They camped on the outskirts of the village.

"Here's where we get a real bath. Who's going in swimming with me?" asked Tad.

"I am," shouted all the boys at once.

The Professor and Kris Kringle concluded that they, too, would take a dip, and a merry hour was spent in a protected cove of the big river, where the boys proved themselves as much at home as they were in the saddle.

In the evening, they purchased such supplies as the town afforded. The night passed with-out disturbance, the boys taking up their journey next morning before the sleepy town had awakened.

It was a week later, when, tired and dusty, the outfit pulled up at La Luz, a quaint hamlet nestling in the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. The place they found to be largely Mexican, and it was almost as if the visitors had slipped over the border to find themselves in Mexico itself.

Decorations were in evidence on all sides; bright-colored mantillas, Indian blankets and flags were everywhere.

"Hello, I guess something is going on here," laughed Tad.

"We are in time, whatever it is," nodded the guide. "Probably it's a feast of some kind. You will be interested in it, if that is what it is.

The feast, they learned, was to be celebrated on the morrow with games, feats of strength and horsemanship.

"Do you think they will let us take part?" asked Tad, as the party made camp in the yard of a little adobe church, where they had obtained permission to camp.

"I'll see about it," answered the guide. "There may be reasons why it would not be best to do so."

"Maybe I can win another rifle," suggested Chunky.

"These people don't give away rifles. They're too— too— what do you call it?— too artistic. That's it."

The camp being on the main street of the village, attracted no little attention. After sundown, crowds of gayly bedecked young people strolled up and stood about the church yard, watching the American boys pitching their tents and preparing for their stay over night.

The villagers were especially interested in watching the boys get their supper, which was served up steaming hot within fifteen minutes after preparations had begun. Chunky had bought several pies at the store, which, with a pound of cheese brought in by Ned, made a pleasant change in the daily routine.

Chunky started in on the pie.

Ned calmly reached over and took it away from him; then the supper went along until it came time for the dessert, when Chunky fixed his eyes on the cheese suspiciously.

"See anything wrong with that cheese?" demanded Ned.

"No, but I've got an idea."

"Out with it! You won't rest easy until you do. What's your idea?"

"I was thinking, if I had a camera, I could make a motion picture of that cheese. I heard of a fellow once—"

"That will do, Master Stacy," warned Professor Zepplin.

"Can't I talk?"

"Along proper lines— yes."

"Cheese is proper, isn't it?"

"Depends upon how old it is," chuckled Tad.

"You needn't make fun of my cheese. Here give it to me; I'll eat it."

"You're welcome to it, Ned," laughed the boys.

The fun went on, much to the amusement of the villagers, who remained near by until the evening was well along and the lads began preparing for bed. Next morning the visitors began coming in to town early. There were men from the ranches, Mexican ranch-hands arrayed in bright colors and displaying expensive saddle trimmings. There were others from the wild places on the desert, far beyond the water limits, whose means of livelihood were known only to themselves.

It was a strange company, and one that appealed considerably to the curiosity of the Pony Rider Boys.

The early part of the day was given over to racing, roping, gambling and other sports in which the lads were content to take no part. But there was an event scheduled for the afternoon that interested Tad more than all the rest. That was a tilting bout, open to all comers. A tilting arch had been erected in the middle of the main street, and had been decorated with flags and greens.

The tilting ring, suspended from the top of the arch, was not more than an inch in diameter. The horseman who could impale it on his tilting peg and carry the ring away with him the greatest, number of times, would be declared the winner. Each one was to be given five chances.

The prize, a pair of silver spurs, was to be presented by the belle of the town, a dark-eyed seorita.

The guide had entered Tad in this contest; but, as the lad glanced up at the ring only an inch in diameter, he grew rather dubious. He never had seen any tilting, and did not even know how the sport was conducted.

Kris Kringle gave the lad some instructions about the method employed by the tilters, and Tad decided to enter the contest.

Only ten horsemen entered, most of these being either Mexicans or halfbreeds.

The first trial over, five of the contestants had succeeded in carrying away the ring.

Tad had waited until nearly the last in order to get all the information possible as to the way the rest of the contestants played the game. A pole had been loaned to him, or rather a "peg," they called it, eight feet long, tapered so as to allow it to go through the brass ring for fully two feet of its length.

The Pony Rider boy took his place in the middle of the street, and without the least hesitancy, galloped down toward the ring, which, indeed, he could not even see. When within a few feet of the arch he caught the sparkle of the ring.

His lance came up, and putting spurs to his broncho, he shot under the arch, driving the point of the peg full at the slender circle. The point struck the edge sending the ring swaying like the pendulum of a clock.

A howl greeted his achievement. Tad said nothing, but riding slowly back, awaited his next trial.

The rule was that when one of the contestants made a strike, he was to continue until he failed. He would be allowed to run out five points in succession if he could.

"Rest the peg against your side, and lightly," advised a man, as Tad turned into the street for another try. The man was past middle age, and, though dressed in the garb of a man of the plains, Tad decided at once that he was not of the same type as most of the motley mob by which he was surrounded.

The lad nodded his understanding.

With a sharp little cry of warning, the boy put spurs to his pony. He fairly flew down the course. No such speed had been seen there that day. The northern bronchos that the boys were riding were built for faster work and possessed more spirit than their brothers of the desert.

As he neared the arch, this time, the lad half rose in his stirrups. He knew where to look for the ring now. Leaning slightly forward he let the point of the peg tilt ever so little. It went through the ring, tearing it from its slender fastening and carrying it away.

Loud shouts of approval greeted his achievement.

Once more he raced down the lane, this time at so fast a clip that the faces of the spectators who lined the course were a mere blur in his eyes.

He felt the slight jar and heard the click as the ring slipped over the tilting peg.

"Two," announced the scorer.

He missed the next one. Then the others took their turn. Only one of these succeeded in scoring. He was one of the Mexicans who made such a brave show of color in raiment and saddle cloth.

"That gives the seor and the boy three apiece. Each has one turn left. The others will fall out. If neither scores in his turn, both will be ruled out and the others will compete for the prize," announced the scorer.

The Mexican smiled a supercilious smile, as much as to say, "The idea of a long-legged, freckle-faced boy defeating me!" The Mexican was an expert at the game of tilting as it was practised on the desert.

The man took the first turn. He sat quietly on his pony a moment before starting, placing the lance at just the proper angle— then galloped at the mark. He, too, rose in his stirrups. The spectators were silent.

The ring just missed being impaled on the tilting peg, slipping along the pole half way then bounding up into the air.

The spectators groaned. The Mexican had lost.

Now it was Tad's turn.

He rode as if it were an everyday occurrence with him to tilt, only he went at it with a rash that fairly took their breath away.

Just as he was about to drive at the ring, some one uttered a wild yell and a sombrero hurled from the crowd, struck Tad fairly across the eyes.

Of course he lost, and, for a moment, he could not see a thing. He pulled his pony to a quick stop and sat rubbing and blinking his smarting eyes.

A howl of disapproval went up from the spectators. None seemed to know whether the act had been inspired by enthusiasm or malice. Tad was convinced that it was the latter. His face was flushed, but the lad made no comment.

"You are entitled to another tilt," called the scorer.

To this the Mexican objected loudly.

"Under the circumstances, as my opponent objects, and as we all wish to prevent hard feelings, why not give him a chance as well? If he wins I shall be satisfied."

A shout of approval greeted Tad's suggestion. This was the real sportsman-like spirit, and it appealed to them.

The proposition was agreed to. But again the Mexican lost.

"If the young man is interfered with this time, I shall award the prize to him and end the tournament," warned the scorer.

Though Tad's eyes were smarting from the blow of the sombrero, he allowed the eyelids to droop well over them, thus protecting them from the dust and at the same time giving him a clearer vision.

On his next turn, Tad tore down the narrow lane; he shot between the posts like an arrow, and the tilting peg was driven far into the narrow hoop, wedging the ring on so firmly that it afterwards required force to loosen and remove it.

Without halting his pony, Tad rode on, out a circle and came back at a lively gallop, pulling up before the stand of dry goods boxes, where the young woman who was to award the prize stood swinging her handkerchief, while the spectators set up a deafening roar of applause.

Tad was holding the tilting peg aloft, displaying the ring wedged on it. He made the young woman a sweeping bow, his sombrero almost touching the ground as he did so.

Another shout went up when the handsome spurs were handed to him, which the enthusiastic young woman first wrapped in her own handkerchief before passing the prize over to him. And amid the din, Tad heard the familiar "Oh, Wow! Wow!" in the shrill voice of Stacy Brown.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FAT BOY'S DISCOVERY

"I saw him! I saw him, Tad!"

"Saw who, Chunky?"

"I tell you, I did. Don't you s'pose I know what my eyes tell me in confidence. Don't you to go to contradicting to me."

Stacy had fairly overwhelmed Tad Butler with the importance of his discovery; but, thus far, Tad had not the least idea what it was all about.

"When you get quieted down perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who it is you saw?"

"The man, the man!"

"Humph! That's about as clear as the water in an alkali sink. What man?"

"The one we saw on the train. Don't you know?"

Tad thought a moment.

"You mean the one we heard talking just before we got to Bluewater?" Butler had entirely forgotten the incident.

"Yes; that's him! That's him," exploded Stacy.

"You say that fellow— Lasar, that's his name— is he here!"

"Uh-huh."

"Where?"

"He got off the stage down by the postoffice, just when I was coming up here."

"Was he alone?"

"The other fellow wasn't with him, if that's what you mean?"

"Yes." Tad went over in his mind the conversation the man Lasar had held with his companion, in which the pair were plotting against some one by the name of Marquand.

"Oh, well, Chunky, it's none of our concern. I think we must have magnified the incident. I—"

"He'll bear watching, Tad. He will and it's muh— muh— you understand who's going to do it," declared Chunky, swelling out his chest and tapping it with his right fist.

"All right, go ahead," laughed Tad. "It's time some of us get into more trouble. The Professor will begin to think we've got a fever, or something, if we let two days in succession pass without stirring up something."

"I've got an idea," exploded Stacy.

"There you go. It's coming now."

"I'll go tell the policeman."

"Why, you ninny, there are no policemen here. Perhaps there is a sheriff. Hello, here comes the gentleman who gave me the advice that helped me to win those handsome spurs. He's introducing himself to the Professor and Mr. Kringle. Let's go over."

Forgetting for the moment the subject they were discussing, Tad and Stacy strolled over to the camp-fire.

"O Tad, this is Mr. Marquand, Mr. James Marquand from Albuquerque. He wants to know you. And this is another one of our Pony Rider Boys, Master Stacy Brown," said the Professor, presenting his boys.

"Marquand!" exclaimed both boys under their breaths.

"I am glad to know you, Master Butler. That was a very fine piece of work you did this afternoon. You've steady nerves."

"If there's any credit due it is to you. Your suggestion helped me to win the prize. Without it I should have failed," answered Tad generously.

"Which way are you headed?" asked Mr. Marquand.

"Guadalupes," answered the guide. "The boys want to explore some of the old pueblos."

"And I also," spoke up Professor Zepplin. "I understand there is much of interest in them."

"I should say so," muttered their guest.

"I'd like a few moments to speak with you in private, if you can spare the time," said Tad in a low voice, at the first opportunity.

"At your service now, sir."

"No; not here."

"Then come to my room at the hotel. I'll fix it with the others," said Mr. Marquand, observing at once that the lad had some serious purpose in mind.

"My friend Chunky will go with me, if agreeable to you?"

"That's all right. Professor, if you have no objection I should like to have these two young men go to my quarters with me for a little while. I—"

"Certainly. Don't stay out too late, boys."

"No, sir."

"Wonder what they've got up their sleeves?" muttered Ned, watching the receding figures of his two companions and Mr. Marquand.

"You may talk," smiled the latter after they were well started.

"I'd rather not until we are where we shall not be overheard," answered Tad promptly.

All three fell silent. The boys followed their host to his room, apparently without having been observed. The little village was too full of its own pleasures to notice.

"Be seated, boys. I take for granted that neither of you smoke?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Now, what can I do for you? I am sure you have something of importance to yourselves on your minds."

"Not to us specially. Perhaps to you, though," replied Tad.

"Indeed?"

"We may be foolish. If so, you will understand that we have no motive beyond a desire to serve you."

"That goes without saying."

"Do you know a man by the name of Lasar— Bob Lasar, Mr. Marquand?"

Mr. Marquand started, eyeing both lads questioningly.

"Yes; he is associated with me in a business venture."

"Told you so," interjected Stacy.

"What of him?"

Tad wished he was well out of it all. To be obliged to tell all he knew of Bob Lasar, and to the latter's partner, was rather a troublesome undertaking.

Plucking up courage, Tad briefly related all that he and his companion had overheard on the train as they were approaching Bluewater to all of which their host listened with grave attention and increasing interest.

"The incident probably would not have come back to me again but for certain things that happened to-day," Tad continued.

"Would either of you know Lasar were you to see him again, do you think?"

"My friend Chunky Brown saw him here to-day."

"Saw him get out of the stage in front of this very hotel," nodded Stacy.

"You are right. He is here. Mr. Lasar had stopped off at a near-by town on a personal matter. Can you describe the man whom you saw with him on the train?"

"As I remember him, he was slightly taller than Mr. Lasar, with red hair and a moustache of the same shade."

"Yes, that's Joe Comstock. No doubt about that," nodded Mr. Marquand. "You didn't hear them say what their plan was, then?"

"Not definitely. Only that they intended to rid themselves of you after having obtained possession of your plans for finding the treasure, or at least learning where it is hidden."

"Hm-m-m!"

Mr. Marquand sat thoughtfully silent for several minutes, the lines of his face growing tense and hard. The boys could see that he was exerting, a strong effort to control himself.

"You— you haven't told them your plans?" questioned Tad, in a subdued voice.

"No. I was going to do so to-night, if Comstock had arrived. He may get in yet."

"But you won't do so now— will you?"

"No! I thank you, boys," exclaimed their host, extending an impulsive hand to each at the same time.

"Then— then our information is going to be of some use to you?"

"More than you can have any idea of. You have done me a greater service than you know. I thank you— thank you from the bottom of my heart! Perhaps, ere long I may be able to show my appreciation in a more substantial manner."

Marquand ceased speaking abruptly and began pacing back and forth, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. He was a man of slight build, but strong and wiry. He was well past middle age, erect and forceful. Looking at him, Tad found himself wondering how such a man could have gotten into the clutches of two such rascals as Bob Lasar and Joe Comstock. Tad hoped their host would offer some explanation, while Chunky was nearly bursting with curiosity. Mr. Marquand appeared to have forgotten their presence entirely.

"I think we had better be going now," suggested Tad, rising.

"Wait!" commanded their host. "Sit down! I have something to say to you. Then, perhaps, I'll walk back to your camp and have a talk with the Professor. What sort of man is your guide?"

"He's a very fine man—"

"That's my idea. What you heard on the train is borne out by several little things that have come under my observation within the last few days, but I did not think they would go as far as you have indicated. I will tell you frankly, that I expect the treasure which we hope to find to be a big one. How I happened to take these men in with me, in the search for it, is unnecessary to state. However, I am done with them, now, for good. They know that I have not put my information on paper, or else they might have made an end of me before this."

"Is the treasure near this vicinity, Mr. Marquand?" asked Tad.

"About two days' journey. I expect to find it at or near the ruins of an old Pueblo house. You know they built their homes one on top of another. Some of their adobe houses are six and seven stories high. Even if we locate the place, we may experience great difficulty in finding that of which we are in search. How would you boys like to join me? It will be an interesting experience for you?"

"Help— help you find the buried treasure?" questioned Chunky, his face red with suppressed excitement.

"Yes."

"Great!" chorused the lads.

"I'll talk with Professor Zepplin. Come, we will go over to the camp now."

When Mr. Marquand and the Professor had finished their conference, Tad and Chunky leaned forward eagerly to learn the result.

"Yes," nodded Mr. Marquand; "you're all going to help me find the ancient Pueblo treasure."

CHAPTER XXII

IN HAND-TO-HAND CONFLICT

"I'm done with you, Bob Lasar! And you, too, Comstock!" thundered Mr. Marquand, as the rascals stood at the door of his room some two hours later.

Mr. Marquand had been waiting for them, and with him was Tad Butler, whom he had urged to accompany him back to the hotel that he might be a witness to what took place. Perhaps, too, Mr. Marquand reasoned that his former associates might not take the same attitude toward him in the presence of the boy that they might otherwise take.

The two men had halted in the doorway as Mr. Marquand hurled his decision at them.

Lasar shoved his companion into the room and closed the door.

"Sit down, both of you! So you thought to hoodwink me— to get the secret of the treasure and then put me out of the way, eh? That was your game, was it? Well, it's all off now. I'll have nothing further to do with you."

"Why— why, Mr. Marquand, it's all a mistake!" began one of the pair.

"Perhaps you'll deny having plotted against me on a train on your way to Bluewater."

"I deny ever having tried to put up a game on—"

"Master Tad, did you ever see these men before?"

They turned on the lad quickly. Neither man had previously observed him.

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"On the train, as you mentioned just now."

"And they were plotting my life?"

"So it seemed to me, sir."

"What have you to say to that?" demanded Mr. Marquand.

"That the boy lies!"

Tad's face flushed angrily.

"That'll do," said Marquand, more quietly.

"Then you believe him— you do not believe me?"

"I believe him. I know he has told me the truth. Now, it isn't necessary to explain to you. You deserve no explanation and you'll get none further than what you already have."

"But—"

"No 'buts' about it. I said I was done with you. Now, I want you to get out of my sight! You're a couple of rogues— so crooked that you can't walk straight."

Bob Lasar's face had grown livid with rage. His anger was rapidly getting beyond all bounds. Tad observed it and saw the storm coming. It arrived a moment later when Lasar whipped out a revolver.

Before Mr. Marquand could make a move to draw his own weapon Bob had aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Tad, instantly divining the purpose of the man when he saw his hand fly to the pistol holster under his coat, sprang forward.

There was a deafening report. A bullet buried itself in the ceiling of the room.

Tad had struck up the desperado's arm just in the nick of time, thus preventing a terrible crime. But the end was not yet. There were five more bullets in the cylinder of the weapon, as the lad knew full well.

He grabbed Lasar's arm, hanging on desperately, at the same time trying to get a wrestling hold.

The weapon went off again, this time sending a bullet into the floor.

"Look out for the other fellow!" shouted Tad.

Mr. Marquand already had done so. Comstock had just made an attempt to draw his own weapon when Marquand threw himself upon the man. The two went crashing to the floor, while Tad and Lasar were battling all over the room, the latter's weapon barking viciously every little while.

Lasar was much more powerful than his slender antagonist, but Tad being very quick on his feet managed to keep out of the way of the revolver and at the same time to avoid being thrown.

Suddenly, the boy gave the gun-hand of his opponent a quick twist.

Lasar uttered a sharp exclamation of pain. The revolver clattered to the floor.

Quick as a flash, Tad threw a leg behind the knee of his antagonist, gave it a quick jerk, with the result that Lasar went to the floor with great violence.

By this time, occupants of the hotel were running down the hall, while others were hammering at the door. Lasar had turned the key upon entering the room.

Those within did not have time to listen to the demands of those in the hall, who were demanding admission.

Mr. Marquand, as soon as he got his opponent down, quickly disarmed him.

"Get up!" he commanded. "I don't want to kill you. I ought to do so, but I won't."

He sprang from Comstock, and jerking Tad from Lasar, whom the lad was making heroic efforts to hold down, pulled the fallen rascal to his feet.

"Get out, both of you!" he commanded, covering both his visitors with his weapon.

Lasar, in struggling to his feet, reached for his revolver.

"Drop it or I'll fill you full of lead!"

At that instant, the door burst open and half a dozen men sprang into the room.

Lasar, seeing that he was caught, leaped through the open window. He was followed closely by Comstock. He, too, made a clean leap, landing on the soft ground below.

"What's the meaning of this shooting?" shouted the proprietor, his face flushed with anger.

"Two men tried to murder me," replied Marquand coolly.

"It looks as though you were doing your share of it," snapped the proprietor, noting his guest's belligerent attitude and drawn weapon.

Just then three shots in quick succession were fired from the outside. Two of the bullets narrowly missed some of the men, who had forced their way into the room.

As the third shot was fired, Tad threw one hand to his head; then drew it away grinning.

"Those rascals have evidently gotten a new supply of fire arms," he said.

A bullet had gone through his hair and his scalp burned where the lead had brushed it.

All of the newcomers drew their revolvers and sprang to the window.

"Don't shoot!" cried the Pony Rider Boy; "You'll hit the wrong one. There are a hundred people down there."

"He's right!" shouted Mr. Marquand, pushing his way between the men and the window, at the imminent risk of getting a bullet in his back from either Lasar or Comstock. "Let 'em go. They'll be running for home about this time. They are a couple of scoundrels, sir."

"But the damage. Look at my fine room."

"I'll pay for the damage, and I'll quit your hotel now. I've had enough of the place," retorted Mr. Marquand, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. "How much is it?"

"Well, you see—"

"How much is it?"

"Well, I guess twenty-five would be about right. You see—"

"Here's your twenty-five. Clear out!"

With many apologies the proprietor, accompanied by the others, backed from the room.

"We came pretty near having a fight, didn't we?" Marquand smiled, looking at Tad for the first time since the disturbance began.

"Almost."

"He would have got me if you hadn't knocked up his gun-hand. That's another one I owe you. Well, maybe we'll have a pay day soon."

"You had better go back to camp with me, and bunk in with us to-night," suggested the lad, "We shall want to make an early start in the morning, anyway. I think it will be safer there, too. That pair won't dare come fooling around our camp, knowing they can't trifle with us," added the lad, with a note of pride in his tone.

"I'll do it. Not that I'm afraid of anything that walks on two legs, but the sooner we hitch up the better it'll be. Got room enough?"

"Plenty. Where's your pony?"

"Up near your camp. Come on."

The man and the boy walked from the hotel, the former looking neither to the right nor to the left, Tad observing their surroundings half

suspiciously. He was sure they had not yet heard the last of Bob Lasar and Joe Comstock. In this he was right.

Marquand and the boy had gone no more than ten rods from the hotel, when the report of a revolver was heard, and a bullet fired from the corner of an adobe building passed within an inch of Mr. Marquand's head.

With wonderful quickness the latter drew and sent three shots at the flash.

Whether he had hit any thing or not he did not know.

"Run! I don't want you to get hit," cried the boy's new friend, grasping Tad by the hand and starting off at a brisk pace.

"Bullets don't scare me, so long as they don't hit me," laughed young Butler.

CHAPTER XXIII

MOONBEAM POINTS THE WAY

The moon will be here in a moment."

"What was it the old Pueblo chief said, Mr. Marquand?"

"'When the full of the moon has come and shoots its first arrow over the crests of the Guadalupes, it points the way to the treasure of my ancient people,'" quoted Mr. Marquand.

"I presume that would be taken to mean that, at a certain phase of the moon, one of its beams points to where the treasure is hidden," explained Professor Zepplin. "But what leads you to believe this is the Pueblo village of your particular chief's ancestors?"

"Yes; I don't see why it might not be any of the ruined adobe houses in this valley?" said Ned Rector.

They had journeyed rapidly over mountain and plain to the valley of the Guadalupes, where Mr. Marquand had informed them that he expected to find the treasure. In the three days consumed on the journey, the travelers had seen nothing of either Lasar or Comstock. Evidently the pair had decided to leave the country while they still had the chance, fearing that perhaps Mr. Marquand might invoke the aid of the law to rid himself of them if they remained.

The Pony Rider Boys and their outfit had arrived that afternoon, and during the remaining hours of daylight they had been excitedly exploring the ancient dwellings, most of which were in a dilapidated condition. There was one, however, two stories in height, that was in an excellent state of preservation. In fact it appeared as if it had only recently been vacated. After an examination of all the ruins Mr. Marquand had discovered what led him to believe that this was the structure which the old Pueblo chief referred to in his description of the resting place of the treasure. The chief had said he had never been near the spot. He was the only member of his tribe to whom the secret had been handed down, and he in turn had transmitted it to the white man who now stood within the shadow of the ancient dwelling place.

"I have my reasons for believing this is the place," answered Mr. Marquand, in response to the Professor's question. "If I am wrong, we shall have to wait until the moon rises to-morrow night. Come inside now, and we will close the door."

All hands crowded into the cool chamber, closing the heavy wooden door that barred the entrance.

"Don't see how moonlight can get through solid walls," muttered Stacy. "Ought to leave the door open."

No one answered him. In the darkened chamber, with its peculiar, musty odors, the boys did not feel in the mood for hilarity or even for speech. There was something about their situation that seemed to impress them profoundly.

"Stand over against the wall on the side, so as not to obstruct any light that might possibly get in here," directed Mr. Marquand.

The others moved silently to the side of the room indicated by him. They had stood thus for fully five minutes when an exclamation from Stacy broke the stillness harshly.

"Look! Look!" cried the fat boy.

A slender shaft of light had suddenly pierced the blackness, coming they knew not whence. It was there.

"Must be a pin hole through the wall up near the ceiling," suggested Kris Kringle.

The silver thread shot across the chamber, ending abruptly on the adobe floor some three feet from the back wall.

"That's the spot!" shouted Mr. Marquand triumphantly.

He threw himself on the floor, and with his knife scratched a cross on the spot where the moonbeam rested. Scarcely had he done so when the delicate shaft of light disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

"It's gone," breathed the boys.

"But it has pointed the way."

"And we have followed the silver trail to its end," added Ned Rector poetically.

"Bring the tools!" cried Mr. Marquand.

While they were doing so, he struck a match and lighted the lantern that they had brought with them from their camp in the foothills. His first care was to bar the door with the heavy wooden timber that he had cut and which he now slipped into its fastenings.

A close examination of the floor revealed no marks save those put there by the treasure-hunter's knife.

"This house seems to be built on the solid ground. I do not think you will find anything under it," protested the Professor.

"There are houses under every one of these buildings," answered Mr. Marquand. He held a short, keen edged bar in place, while Kris Kringle swung the maul. Gradually they cut a ring about two feet in diameter about the cross. The material of which the floor had been made had been tempered with the years and was almost as hard as flint.

The steady thud of the heavy maul, accompanied by the click, click of the cutting bar, the dim light, the silent, expectant faces, formed a weird picture in this silent desert place.

After a full half hour of this the two men paused, and stood back, drawing sleeves across their foreheads to wipe away the perspiration.

Stacy Brown walked pompously over to the circle.

"Maybe I can fall through it. If I can't, nobody can," he said, jumping up and down on the spot where they had been cutting.

There followed a rambling sound, and with a yell, Stacy Brown suddenly disappeared from sight. In place of the circle in which he had been standing was a black, ragged hole, from which particles of the mortar were still crumbling and rattling to the bottom of the pit.

"Are you there?" cried Kris Kringle, leaping to the spot, thrusting the lantern down through the opening. "Master Stacy!"

"Wow!" responded the boy from the depths.

"Did it hurt you?"

"How far did you fall?"

This and other questions were hurled at the fat boy, as his companions crowded about the opening.

"I'm killed. That'll answer all your questions," replied Stacy. "Hurry up! Get my remains out of this place."

The rays of the lantern disclosed a short stairway, built of the same material of which the house itself had been constructed.

Mr. Marquand forced himself past the guide and was down the steps in a twinkling. He was followed by the wondering Pony Rider Boys, Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle in short order, for all crowded down through the narrow opening.

Chunky had hit the top step and rolled all the way down. He had scrambled to his feet and was rubbing his shins by the time his friends reached him. His clothes were torn and he was covered with dust.

"Fell down the cellar, didn't I?" he grinned.

But no one gave any heed to him now. Mr. Marquand had snatched at the lantern and was running from point to point of the chamber in which they found themselves. He was laboring under great excitement.

"Here's another opening," he shouted. "We haven't got to the bottom yet."

Another flight of stairs led to still another and smaller chamber below. Mr. Marquand let out a yell the moment he reached the bottom. The others rushed pell-mell after him.

There, with it's top just showing above the dirt was a long iron chest.

"Give me the maul!" shouted the excited treasure seeker.

He attacked the rusty iron fastenings; at last the cover yielded to his thunderous blows and falling on its edge, toppled over to the floor with a crash.

"Somebody's old clothes," chuckled Stacy, peering into the open chest.

The garments, priestly robes that lay at the top, fell to pieces the instant Mr. Marquand laid violent hands on them.

"Look! Look! Was I right or was I wrong?" he cried, beside himself with joy.

There, before their astonished eyes, lay a chest of gold— coins dulled by age, small nuggets and chunks of silver, all heaped indiscriminately in the treasure chest.

"I did it!" shouted Chunky. "I did it with my little feet! I fell in and discovered the treasure!"

The tongues of the Pony Rider Boys were suddenly loosened. Such a shout as they set up probably never had been heard before in the ancient adobe mansion of the Pueblos. Cheer after cheer echoed through the chambers and reached the ears of a dozen desperadoes who were skulking amid the sage brush without.

Professor Zepplin scooped up a handful of the coins and examined them under the lantern.

"Old Spanish coins," he informed them. "Pure gold. And look at these nuggets! Where do you suppose the Indians found them?"

"There are hidden mines in the State," informed Mr. Marquand. "Some of these days they will be discovered. I have been hunting for them myself, but without success. Boys, what do you think of it now? If it had not been for you I might never have seen this sight."

Their eyes were fairly bulging as they gazed at the heap of gold. Chunky squatted down scooping up a double handful and letting the coins run through his fingers. Then the other boys dipped in, laughing for pure joy, more because their adventure had borne fruit than for the love of the gold itself.

"Must be more'n a bushel of it," announced Stacy.

"Those old Franciscans must have been saving up for a rainy day. And it never rained here at all," suggested Ned humorously.

"Shall we count it?" asked Mr. Marquand.

"Just as you wish," replied the Professor.

"Were I in your place, Mr. Marquand, I should get the stuff out of here as soon as possible. You can't tell what may happen. I would suggest that we secure the treasure and be on our way at once. You will want to get it to a bank as quickly as possible. This is one of the things that cannot be kept quiet."

"You are right. Will somebody go over to the camp and get those gunny sacks of mine? I don't want to lose sight of my find for a minute. You know how I feel about it— not that I do not trust you. You know—"

"Surely we understand," smiled Tad.

"And you all have an interest in it— you shall share the treasure with me—"

"No, we don't," shouted the boys. "We've had more than a million dollars worth of fun out of it already."

"Certainly not," added the Professor.

"We'll discuss that later," said Mr. Marquand firmly. "Just now we must take care of what we have found. Who will get the bags?"

"We will," answered the boys promptly.

"No; you stay here. I'll get them," answered Kris Kringle. "Light me up the stairs so I don't break my neck in this old rookery.

One of the boys lighted the way to the next floor, then stepped back into the cellar, where Mr. Marquand was turning over the treasure in an effort to find out if the pile extended all the way to the bottom of the chest.

In the meantime Kris Kringle unbarred the door and threw it part way open. He did it cautiously, as if half expecting trouble.

He threw the door to with a bang, springing to one side, and dropping the bar back into place.

The reason for his sudden change of plans was that no sooner had the door opened than several thirty-eight calibre bullets were fired from the sage brush outside.

Kris Kringle waited to learn whether those in the cellar had heard the shots. But they had not. They were some distance below ground, and their minds were wholly taken up with the great treasure before them.

After a few moments the guide once more removed the bar, first having drawn his revolver in case of sudden surprise. Then he cautiously opened the door an inch or so.

At first nothing happened. The moonlit landscape lay as silent and peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert.

There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead showered into the door.

Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the door shut and barred it.

"Well; I hope that would get you," he muttered.

Hastily retracing his steps he called the party up to the second cellar.

"Did you fetch the sacks?" called Mr. Marquand.

"No, but I've fetched trouble. It's coming in sackfuls."

"What do you mean?"

"We're besieged."

"Besieged?" wondered the Professor.

"Yes; there's a crowd outside, and they've been trying to shoot me up. Must be some of your friends, Mr. Marquand."

"Lasar and Comstock? The scoundrels!" growled Mr. Marquand. "But we'll make short work of them."

"Not so easy as you think There are more than two out there— there's a crowd and they've got rifles. Our rifles are over in the camp. I've got a six-shooter and so have you, but what do they amount to against half a dozen rifles?"

"I'll talk to them, if I can get any place to make them hear," announced Mr. Marquand, starting up the stairs.

"I reckon there's a window on the second floor, but you'd better be careful that you don't get winged," warned the guide.

Mr. Marquand went right on, and the others followed. As the guide had said there was a small window on the floor above the ground, apparently the only one in the house.

Mr. Marquand hailed the besiegers.

"Who are you and what do you mean by shooting us up in this fashion?" he demanded.

"You ought to know who we are, Jim Marquand, and you know what we want!"

"Yes, I know you all right, Lasar, and I'll make you smart for this."

"The place is as much mine as it is yours," answered Lasar. "And I propose to take it! If you'll make an even divvy of what you have found, or expect to find, we'll go away and let you alone. If you don't we'll take the whole outfit."

"Take it, take it!" jeered Marquand. "You couldn't take it in a hundred years— not unless you used artillery."

"Then we'll starve you out," replied the man in the sage brush.

"Look out!" warned the guide.

Mr. Marquand sprang to one side just as a volley crashed through the opening, the bullets rattling to the floor after bounding back from the flint-like walls.

"I guess they've got you, Mr. Marquand. We can't hold out forever. If we had rifles we could pick them off by daylight. But when morning comes they'll draw back out of revolver range and plunk the first man who shows himself outside. Have you any title to this property?"

"Yes. I have bought up a hundred acres about here. The deeds are in my pocket. I guess nobody has a better title.".

"His title is all right," spoke up Professor Zepplin. "I made sure of that before I decided to come with Mr. Marquand."

"Then there's only one thing to be done."

"What's that?"

"Get a sheriff's posse and bag the whole bunch."

Mr. Marquand laughed harshly.

"If we were in a position to get a posse we should be able to get away without one. I think we had better go below. This is not a very safe place with this open window."

"I'll remain here."

"What for, Kringle?"

"Somebody's got to watch the front door to see that they don't play any tricks on us. It's clouding up, and if the night gets dark they'll try to get in."

"How far is it to a place where we could get a sheriff?" asked Tad, who had been thinking deeply.

"Hondo. Fifteen miles due east of here as the moon rises. Why?"

"If I were sure I could find my way, I think I might get some help," answered the lad quietly.

"You!" snapped Mr. Marquand, turning on him.

"If I had a rope. Perhaps I can do it without one."

"I'd like to know how?"

Mr. Marquand was inclined to treat the proposition lightly, believing that such a move as proposed by Tad Butler was an impossibility. Kris Kringle, however, was regarding the boy inquiringly. He knew that Tad had some plan in mind and that it was likely to be a good one.

"The rascals are all out in front of the house, aren't they?"

"Yes, Master Tad. There's no reason why they should be behind the house. They know we can't get out that way; because there is no opening on that side."

Tad nodded.

"Then I can do it."

"Tad, what foolish idea have you in mind now? I cannot consent to your taking any more chances

"Professor, we are taking long enough chances as it is. Unless we are relieved soon, we shall be starved out and perhaps worse."

"What's your plan?" interrupted Kris Kringle.

"See that hole in the roof up there?" Tad pointed.

They had not seen it before, but they did now. A light suddenly dawned upon Kris Kringle.

"Boy, you are the only level-headed one in the outfit. You would have made a corking Indian fighter."

"I'm the Indian fighter," chimed in Stacy.

"You can boost me up to the hole and I'll go over the rear of the house, get to the camp and from there ride to Hondo."

Tad's three companions started a cheer, which the guide sternly put down.

"I can't consent to any such plan," decided the Professor sternly.

The rest reasoned with him until, finally, he did consent, though he knew the lad would be taking desperate chances. Tad understood that as well as the rest of them, but he was burning to be off.

Kris Kringle gave him careful directions as to how to get to the place.

"Take your rifle with you, if you can get it. After you get half a mile or a mile away shoot once. That will tell us you are all right."

"You can help me in getting away from here, if you will do some shooting to cover my escape," suggested Tad.

"That's a good idea," agreed the guide. "You wait on the roof until we begin to rake the sage with our revolvers. Then drop. Take a wide circuit, so that you won't stumble over the enemy."

Tad gave his belt a hitch, stuffed his sombrero under it and announced himself as ready.

The guide stepped under the hole. Tad quickly climbed to his shoulder and stood up like a circus performer. He could easily reach the roof with his hands. A second more and his feet were lifted from the shoulders of the guide. They saw the figure in the opening; then it disappeared.

A slight scraping noise was the only sound they heard.

Tad flattened himself out and wriggled along toward the rear of the roof. Peering over the edge he made sure that there was no one about. He then lay quietly waiting for the shooting to begin.

"Let 'em have it," directed Kris Kringle.

A sudden fusillade was emptied into the sage brush.

Tad swung himself over the edge of the roof, hung on for a few seconds, then dropped lightly to the ground.

CHAPTER XXlV

CONCLUSION

The enemy answered the shots with a volley, and for a few moments a lot of ammunition was wasted while the odor of gunpowder assailed nostrils on both sides.

After that, the shooting died away. As the minutes lengthened into an hour, and no word of Tad's mission had been received, the defenders began to grow restless. They were under a double tension now. Mr. Marquand was pacing up and down the floor.

Suddenly, forgetful of the danger that lurked out there, he poked his head out of the window.

A sharp pat on the stone window frame beside him, after the bullet had snipped off the tip of his left ear, caused Mr. Marquand to draw back suddenly. He stalked about the floor, holding a handkerchief to the wounded ear, "talking in dashes and asterisks," as Chunky put it.

Kris Kringle's face wore a grim smile. He was taking chances of being shot, every second now, but he insisted in holding his place at the side of the window so he could listen and watch.

A thin, fleecy veil covered the moon, but it was not dense enough to fully hide objects on the landscape.

"All keep quiet, now," warned Kris Kringle. "We should get a signal pretty soon."

"I'm afraid something has happened to the boy," muttered the Professor. Then all fell silent.

"There it goes!" exclaimed the guide in a tone of great relief.

The crack of a rifle afar off sounded clear and distinct.

"He's made it. Thank heaven!" breathed Mr. Marquand fervently.

Chunky leaped to the opening, swung his sombrero as he leaned out, and uttered a long, shrill "y-e-o-w!"

A bullet chipped the adobe at his side. Stacy ducked, throwing himself on the floor, sucking a thumb energetically.

"Wing you?" inquired Kris Kringle.

"Somebody burned my thumb," wailed the fat boy.

"It was a bullet that burned you. Served you right too. Somebody tie that boy up or he'll be killed," counseled the guide.

The besiegers could not have failed to hear the shot from Tad's rifle, but it did not seem to disturb them. They evidently did not even dream that one of the party had escaped their vigilance and that he was well on his way for assistance.

The wait from that time on was a tedious and trying one, though each felt a certain sense of elation that Tad Butler had succeeded in outwitting the enemy.

It was shortly after two o'clock in the morning when Kris Kringle espied a party of horsemen slowly encircling the adobe house. The riders were strung out far off on the plain. Those hiding in the sage in front of the house could not see the approaching horsemen.

"There they come," whispered Kris Kringle. "Begin shooting!"

The two men started firing, while the besiegers poured volley after volley through the window.

The posse at this, closed in at a gallop. Their rifles now began to crash.

In a few minutes it was all over. The sheriff's men surrounded the besiegers, placing every man of them under arrest. After this the officers quickly liberated the Pony Rider Boys. Three of the besiegers had been wounded. Among them, was the Mexican whom Tad had defeated in the tilting game a few days before.

When all was over, the boys hoisted Tad Butler on their shoulders and marched around the adobe house shouting and singing. Mr. Marquand decided to go back with the posse, using these men as a guard for his treasure. It was understood that the Pony Rider Boys were to follow the next morning. Before leaving, Mr. Marquand called the Professor aside.

"There is, on a rough estimate, all of sixty thousand dollars in the treasure chest. Had it not been for you and your brave boys I should have lost it. So, when you reach Hondo to-morrow, I shall take great pleasure in presenting to each of you a draft for two thousand dollars."

Professor Zepplin protested, but Mr. Marquand insisted, and he kept his word. After the posse, with their prisoners and the treasure, had started, the Pony Rider Boys, arm in arm, started off across the moonlit meadows toward their camp. It was their last night in camp. Their summer's journeyings had come to an end— a fitting close to their adventurous travels. Not a word did they speak until they reached the camp. There, they turned and gazed off over the plain which was all silvered under the now clear light of the moon.

"It has been a silver trail," mused Tad Butler.

"It has indeed," breathed his companions

"And we've reached the end of The Silver Trail," added the Professor, coming up at that moment. "To-morrow I'll breathe the first free breath that I've drawn in three months."

The boys circled slowly around him and joined hands. Then their voices rose on the mellow desert air to the tune of

"Home, Sweet Home."

A week later saw the wanderers back in Chillicothe. Their welcome was a warm one. Banker Perkins found his once ailing son now transformed into a sturdy young giant.

We shall meet them again in the next volume of this series— in a tale of surpassing wonders— published under the title: "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, the Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch." It will be found to be by far the most interesting volume so far published about the splendid Pony Rider Boys.

The End.