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Pony Rider Boys in the Alkali

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<h3> CHAPTER XIV </h3> <h4> FUN IN THE FOOTHILLS </h4> The Professor found difficulty even in driving the lads to their beds that night. When they did finally tumble in and pull the blankets over them they were unable to sleep, between the howling of the coyotes and their laughter over Stacy Brown's new-found talent. "They'll go away when the moon comes up," called the guide when the boys protested that the beasts kept them awake. "Why can't we shoot at them?" asked Stacy. "It will alarm the wild horses," said the guide. "We don't want to chase them off the range. Neither would the horse-hunters like it if we were to begin shooting." "Go to sleep!" commanded the Professor. Then the boys settled down. After a time the moon came up, but instead of quieting the coyotes it seemed to have urged them on to renewed efforts. They grew bolder. They approached the camp until a circle of them surrounded it. Out of Stacy Brown's tent crept a figure in its night clothes. It was none other than Stacy himself. In one hand he held a can of condensed milk that he had smuggled from the commissary department that afternoon. He wriggled along in the shadow of a slight rise of ground until he had approached quite near the beasts. He could see them plainly now and Stacy's eyes looked like two balls. The animals would elevate their noses in the air, and, as if at a prearranged signal, all would strike the first note of their mournful wail at identically the same instant. Suddenly the figure of the Pony Rider Boy rose up before them, right in the middle of one of the unearthly wails. "Boo!" said Stacy explosively, at the same time hurling the can of condensed milk full in the face of the coyote nearest to him. His aim was true. The can landed right between the eyes of the animal. The coyote uttered a grunt of surprise, hesitated an instant, then, with tail between his legs, bounded away with a howl of fear. "Yeow! Scat!" shrieked the fat boy. The whole pack turned tail and ran with Stacy after them in full flight, headed for the desert. Tom Parry, aroused by this new note in the midnight medley, tumbled out just in time to see Stacy disappearing over the ridge. The guide was followed quickly by the other three boys of the party and Professor Zepplin. "Hey, come back here!" shouted Parry. The fat boy paid no attention to him. He was too busy chasing coyotes across the desert at that moment to give heed to anything else. "Get after him, boys! If he falls they're liable to pile on him and chew him up before we can get to him!" commanded the guide. Over the ridge bounded the pajama brigade. The coyotes, frightened beyond their power of reasoning, if such a faculty was possessed by them, were now no more than so many black streaks lengthening out across the desert. The lads set up a whoop as they started on the chase after their companion. "Rope him, somebody!" shouted Parry. "Haven't any rope," answered Tad, with a muttered "Ouch!" as his big-toe came in contact with the can of condensed milk. Laughing and shouting, they soon came up with Stacy, however, because he could not run as fast as the other boys. Tad caught up with him first, and the two lads went down together. In another minute the rest of the party had piled on the heap. "Get up!" shouted Tad. "Somebody's standing on my neck." "Yes, and—and you've pushed my face into the desert," came the muffled voice of Chunky Brown. Laughing and all talking at once, the knot was slowly untied. Two of them grabbed the fat boy under the arms, while a third got between the lad's feet and picked them up, much as one would the handles of a wheelbarrow. In that manner they triumphantly carried Stacy back to the camp. Reaching his tent, they threw the fat boy into his bed. The tall, gaunt figure of the Professor appeared suddenly at the tent entrance. Some of the boys darted by him, the others crawling out under the sides of the tent, all making a lively sprint for their own quarters. "Young men, the very next one who raises a disturbance in this camp to-night is going to get a real old-fashioned trouncing. Not having any slipper, I'll use my shoe. Do you hear?" Not a voice answered him, but as he strode away the moon-like face of Stacy Brown might have been seen peering out at him. Quiet reigned in the camp of the Pony Rider Boys for several hours after that. Yet they were destined not to pass the night without a further disturbance, though the Professor did not use his shoe to chastise the noisy ones. It lacked only a few hours to daylight when the second interruption occurred. And when it arrived it was even more startling than had been the fat boy's chase of the cowardly coyotes. There was a sudden sound of hoof-beats. "Ki-yi! Ki-yi!" shrieked a chorus of voices. A volley of shots was fired as an accompaniment to the startling yells. A moment later and a body of horsemen dashed into camp, which they had easily located by the smouldering camp-fire. The Pony Rider Boys were out of their tents in a twinkling. "Wow!" piped Stacy. Bang! Bang! Two bullets flicked the dirt up into his face. Bud Stevens and his companions were in a playful mood again. "Hey, you! Better look out where you're shooting to!" warned Stacy. Bud let go another volley. "The Professor'll take you over his knee and chastise you with his shoe, if you don't watch sharp," said Stacy. "Come out of that. Where's the kiddie? I want to see my kiddie!" laughed Bud Stevens. By this time, with his companions, he had dismounted, turning the ponies loose to roam where they would. The whole camp, aroused by the shouting and shooting, had turned out after pulling on their trousers and shoes. Tom Parry, piling fresh fuel on the embers of the camp-fire, soon had the scene brightly lighted. There was no more sleep in camp that night. Professor Zepplin accepted the new disturbance with good grace. "We're going to eat breakfast with you," Bud Stevens informed them. "That's right. What we have is free," answered the Professor hospitably. "That's what I was telling the bunch," nodded Bud. "Our chuck wagon'll be along when it gets here. We've got a schooner with six lazy mules toting it down along the edge of the foothills. If it ever gets here we'll stock you up with enough fodder to last you the rest of your natural lives." "A schooner, did you say?" questioned Stacy, edging closer to the cowboy. "Yep; schooner." "Where's the water?" "Say, moon-face, didn't you ever hear tell of a prairie schooner!" Chunky shook his head. "Well, you've got something coming to you, then," replied Bud, turning to the others again. "When do you start your horse-hunt? I presume that's the purpose of your visit here?" asked the Professor. "Yep. Soon as the wagon gets here with the trappings. After breakfast we'll look around a bit. Been some of them through here to-day, I see." "Yes, how did you know that!" questioned Tad. "We crossed the trail just at the edge of the camp here when we came in. Didn't you see them?" "We saw one of them and the tracks of the rest——" "Yes, we—we—we saw the white horse——" "The Angel?" demanded Bud, interested at once. "I don't know whether you'd call it an angel or not. It struck me that it was quite the opposite," laughed Tad. "It was a white stallion, and when I got in its way it just bowled me over and rolled me down the hill——" "The white stallion, fellows," nodded Bud. "I told you so. Come along, kiddie, and show me that trail. I'll tell you in a minute if he's the one." Tad took the horse-hunter to the trail that he had followed up the mountain side. Bud lighted match after match, by the light of which he ran over the confusion of hoofprints. Finally he paused over one particular spot, and with a frown peered down upon it. "That's him. That's the Angel," he emphasized. "Why do you call him that?" "Because of two things," answered Bud. "First place, he's white. That's the color angels is supposed to be, most of 'em says. Then, if you'll look at his hoof-mark, you'll see the frog is shaped like a heart. More angel. Then again—that's three times, ain't it?—he's got a temper like angels ain't supposed to have." "So I have observed," agreed Tad, with a laugh. "And that's why we call him the Angel. We'll get the old gentleman this time or break every cinch strap in the outfit." There was rejoicing among the horse-hunters when they heard that it was indeed the Angel himself whose trail they had come upon. "He's got the finest bunch of horse flesh with him that you'll find anywhere on the desert," averred another. "Old Angel won't travel with any scarecrows in his band. He's proud as a peacock with a new spread of tail feathers." "S'pose you don't know how many there are in the band, eh, kiddie?" questioned Bud. "Twenty-one and a colt," answered Tad promptly. "Oho! So—but Tom Parry told you, of course." "Tom Parry didn't," objected the guide. "Master Tad read the trail himself." "Shake," glowed Bud, extending his hand to Tad. "You're the right sort for this outfit. We'll let you help point the bunch into the corral when we get them going. You'll see stars before you get through with that job—stars that ain't down on the sky-pilot's chart." "It won't be the first time, Mr. Stevens. I've seen enough of them to make a Fourth of July celebration, already." Just after breakfast, to which the camp had sat down at break of day, the horse-hunters began their preliminary work. Bud directed two of his men to work south, two more to ride north, while he would take the center of the range. "What I want," he explained to the boys, "is to find where the wild horses are waterin' these days. They've been around these parts for more than two weeks, so we know they've got a nice cold water hole somewhere." "What were they doing on the desert?" asked Walter. "I thought they had just come across." "No; they were out for a play. That shows they had had plenty to eat and drink. Professor, I think I'll take the kiddie along with me," announced Bud, much to Tad's surprise, and, judging from the expression of the lad's face, pleasure, as well. Professor Zepplin glanced at the guide inquiringly. Parry nodded his head. "He'll be all right." "Yes, you may go, Tad. But be careful. Don't let him get into any difficulties, Mr. Stevens. He's a venturesome lad." "Guess he's able to wiggle out of anything he gets into," grinned the horse-hunter. "Come along; take a hunch on your cinch straps, a chunk of grub in your pocket; then we're ready to find where the Angel washes his face every morning and night." Tad lost no time in getting ready for the trip to trail the wild horses to their lair, and in a few moments the horse-hunters rode from the camp, followed by the envious glances of the Pony Rider Boys. "Wish I were going along," muttered Chunky ruefully, as he turned his back on them and gazed off across the desert. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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