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Updated: May 9, 2025
"There," answered the Indian, pointing up the bank whence they had just come. The boys looked at each other in wondering silence. "What do you think is the meaning of the visit, Eagle-eye?" asked the Professor. The Shawnee shrugged his shoulders. "Mebby hungry." "That is a sensible explanation of the visit," decided Professor Zepplin.
The camp was in instant confusion. In their haste to prepare for action, the table was upset and its contents piled in a confused heap. Old Hicks was roaring out his displeasure, the foreman was shouting out his orders, while Professor Zepplin was seeking to make himself heard in an effort to give directions to his charges. Suddenly the voice of the foreman was heard above the uproar.
"I'll load him on like a sack of meal. He'll get a good shaking up, but it won't hurt Dunk. He's too tough to be bothered by a little thing like that. We'll land him in the calaboose in El Paso by the day after to-morrow. Where are you folks going?" "We planned to do the Guadalupes, then go on down to the Rio Grande," answered Professor Zepplin. Withem reflected.
"Wait till you hear my plan, sir," urged Butler. "We will hear it. Proceed." "Out yonder about a quarter of a mile from the base of the rocks is a depression in the plain. If we can reach it we shall be safe " "Yes, if we can reach it," repeated Ned. "In doing so we should be shot in all probability," objected Professor Zepplin. "I think not, sir." "Explain what you mean?"
"What for?" "I want to put the brute out of his misery. Please do!" "There are no more shells in it." "Then load it. I'm going to get Pink-eye. Hurry, hurry! Can't you see how the miserable creature is suffering?" The lad darted away for his pony, while Professor Zepplin, sharing something of the boy's own feelings, hurried to his tent and recharged his weapon.
Professor Zepplin roared out a similar inquiry and sprang from his bed of boughs. He fell out into the open in his haste, but the night was so dark that he was unable to make out a single object. He could hear the two boys yelling at the rear of their tent, struggling and fighting to free themselves from the grip on their ankles. The hauling ceased suddenly.
Professor Zepplin sat up in his cot, listening intently. Something had awakened him suddenly, but just what he was unable to decide. "Be quiet over there, young men," he admonished, adding in a lower tone, "I'm sure I heard some one moving about." The camp of the Pony Rider Boys lay wrapped in darkness, the camp-fire having long since died out.
There will be no need for you to sit up." "All right," answered Ned and Walter at once. "I think perhaps Master Tad is right. We had better go to bed. I would suggest, however, that one of you roll up in his blankets outside here, so that he can hear if Master Tad calls," suggested Professor Zepplin. "That's a good idea. I'll do that, with your permission, Professor," offered Ned Rector promptly.
Without the least change of expression the Indian thrust the chunk into his mouth and permitted it to lie there, bulging out the right cheek. "Do you think this man will do, sir?" asked Professor Zepplin, turning to the store-keeper. "He will have to if you want a guide. He is the only fellow here who has ever acted in that capacity, so far as I know." "We would prefer to have a white man."
Instantly the peaceful scene was changed into a pandemonium of yells. Down came the tent poles, the canvas rising and falling as if imbued with sudden life. Professor Zepplin, startled by the racket, roused himself and sprang from his own tent. Observing the erratic actions of the tent in which the boys had been sleeping, he instantly concluded that something serious had happened.
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