The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico Part 29

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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 gra.s.s, 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.