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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.
"What's the matter, gone crazy over there!" called Tad. "Anybody would think you had from the racket you are making." Stacy did not answer. He had not even heard Tad speak to him. His eyes, bulging with fear, were fixed on the flap. What he saw was a long black snout poked through the slit in the canvas, and just back of that a pair of beady, evil eyes. "Y-e-o-w!" yelled Stacy.
When, however, the smoke lifted, giving him a momentary view, he saw that the gap was rapidly closing. All at once his attention was drawn from the closing gap. "Yeow ! Yeow! Yeow! Y-e-o-w!" A series of shrill, blood curdling yells from out the pall of smoke and flame at the rear, bombarded his ears. At first he thought it was Indians; then the improbability of this being the case came to him.
Even the sheep on the range near by paused in their grazing to gaze curiously campward; the herders off in that direction shaded their eyes against the sun and tried to make out the cause of the disturbance. "Y-e-o-w!" encouraged the cook, waving a loaf of bread above his head and dancing about with a more pronounced limp than usual.
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.
"Y-e-o-w!" yelled the lad in a high-pitched, piercing voice, intended to confuse his enemy. And it served its purpose well. As the men leaped upon him, Tad raised himself to all fours, his back slightly arched. In this position he ran on hands and feet like a monkey, darting straight between the legs of the man with the beard.
Just as they got started with the meal, a volley of shots sounded up the valley and a band of half a dozen cowboys, yelling, whooping and shouting came racing down on the Jessup ranch. With a wild "y-e-o-w!" they circled the roast ox, then bringing their ponies up sharply, threw themselves from their saddles and greedily attacked the portions that were quickly handed out to them.
He felt that he would land safely, providing he did not turn again and land on his head instead of his feet. It was a chance very liable to happen, as he knew from his experience of a second before. They heard him coming, but did not catch the significance of it. "What's that!" exclaimed Bluff, springing up in alarm. "I don " "Y-e-o-w!" Tad had uttered the shrill scream.
The sounds seemed to come from all directions at once. "What's that?" "Me not know." "Somebody's running a pony. I hear it coming. It's headed right for that bunch of crazy savages. Probably an Indian gone mad." It was not an Indian who was the cause of this new disturbance, as the lad discovered almost immediately afterward. "Yip, yip! Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!"
Tad, glancing back apprehensively saw what had happened. He wheeled his pony like a flash, but not quickly enough to save his companion from falling. Phil Simms was roped from his pony, landing heavily in the dust of the street. "Y-e-o-w!" chorused the cowboys. Shame! Shame on you!" cried Tad Butler indignantly.
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