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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.
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.
"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.
"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."
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.
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.
"Don't be too sure. The ground is quite damp here. Try your rod, young man." "Chunky held the divining rod over the excavation, whereupon it drew down with even greater force than before. "Dig," directed the guide. They did so with a will. "Here's water!" shouted Kris Kringle. They crowded about the hole, amazement written on every face.
Kringle. "Fire dance." "Tell me about it?" Tad did so, the host listening with grave face until the recital was ended. He shook his head disapprovingly. "And this this Indian that you knocked down was he an Apache?" "I don't know. I think so, though. He had on a peculiar head dress "That was one of them," interrupted Mr. Kringle, with emphasis.
Oh, wow!" howled the fat boy, falling off his pony in the excess of his merriment and rolling on the ground. Ned Rector sat up just in time to meet the wreck of the descending table. Down he went again with Stacy's howls ringing in his ears. A firm hand jerked Rector free of the debris as Kris Kringle laughing heartily hauled Ned to his feet.
"You'll change your mind when you taste it, young gentlemen. It depends upon the cooking entirely. A sage hen may be a delicious morsel, or it may not," answered Mr. Kringle, with a grin.