Books: The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico
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Frank Gee Patchin >> The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico
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"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?"
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