That settled it with d.i.c.k. No coyote that ever trotted the plains could laugh at him, but as this thought came to him he felt the dread of being lost on the prairie, or even having to stay alone in this waste all night.

d.i.c.k had heard the boys talk of the danger of being alone at night, for there were wolves and other animals that would daunt a man, to say nothing of a small boy.

He thought he would follow the coyote only long enough to get another shot at him, and then retrace his way back to the camp. By putting Spraddle through his paces he ought to be able to reach it before dark.

So he set forth again in the wake of the coyote, which was becoming more and more aggravating every minute. Suddenly the coyote disappeared altogether. It had done this before when it had gone down into the trough between two of the great, rolling swales of the prairie, but always it had come into sight again in a few minutes.

This time, however, it did not, and d.i.c.k wondered why.

In a few minutes he understood why, for he found himself at the edge of a coulee which had been washed deep by the storms of many winters.

d.i.c.k looked up and down the coulee for the wolf, and saw a form, gray and lithe, slinking among the bowlders with which it was filled. d.i.c.k forced Spraddle down the steep bank of the coulee, and was soon at the bottom.

Hastily he set after the coyote, but suddenly stopped, for a man stepped from behind a shoulder of rock and clay and caught his bridle.

Spraddle stopped so quickly that d.i.c.k was almost unseated. But he soon recovered himself, and stared in amazement at the man who had thus stopped him.

He was an Indian.

d.i.c.k had often seen Indians in the towns through which the broncho boys had pa.s.sed, and occasionally they had come into the camps they had established on the drive of the herd up from Texas.

But this was the first time d.i.c.k had ever come in contact with an Indian when he was alone. For a moment his heart stopped beating, for he was afraid.

"How?" grunted the Indian.

It was all d.i.c.k could do to reply with a feeble, quavering "How?"

Many times around the camp fire, with the boys all about, when Bud was telling one of his tales of Indians, d.i.c.k had thought what he would do if he ever came in contact with a real, live, sure-enough redskin, and always he had thought how brave he would be. But now that he had actually met one, he felt his nerve ooze away.

However, the Indian was not aware of it, for d.i.c.k had a way of keeping his feelings to himself, and he seldom showed whether he was surprised or angry, although he never hesitated to let his friends know his pleasure at their kindness, or grat.i.tude for what they did for him.

He was looking at the Indian steadily, taking stock of him, and this is what he saw: A broad, dirty face, in which burned two small, narrow eyes. The cheek bones were prominent, and on each one was a spot of red paint. The long, black, coa.r.s.e hair was braided with pieces of otter fur, and covered with an old cavalry cap, in which was stuck a crow's wing feather, and around his neck hung a small, round pocket mirror attached to a red string, by way of ornament.

The Indian wore a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of brown overalls, and his feet were covered with green moccasins, decorated with small tubes of tin, which jingled every time he took a step.

A belt and holster hung at his hip, and the handle of a Colt forty-four was within easy reach.

"White papoose where go?" asked the Indian, showing a row of sharpened teeth.

"Hunt coyote," replied d.i.c.k, in a voice that trembled.

"Heap fool. No catch coyote," said the Indian, reaching over and lifting d.i.c.k's Remington from the saddle.

He sighted it, turned it around in his hand, and then coolly slung it over his shoulder.

"Here, give that to me," said d.i.c.k st.u.r.dily. With this act of theft all his courage came back to him. No dirty Indian should have the rifle Stella had given him.

But the Indian only grinned.

"Me heap brave," said the Indian. "Me Pokopokowo."

He looked at d.i.c.k as if he expected the boy to be deeply impressed.

"I don't care who you are. I want my rifle," cried d.i.c.k.

"Papoose heap fool. Get off pony." The Indian was scowling now, and looked very ferocious, and once more d.i.c.k's courage oozed. The Indian did not seem to be a bit frightened.

As d.i.c.k was slow in descending from the saddle, the Indian grasped him by the arm and jerked him to the ground.

d.i.c.k was as angry as he ever got, but was sensible enough to know that he could not fight the Indian, and that all he could do was to escape as rapidly as possible.

He turned and ran up the coulee.

But he had not gone far when he was overtaken, and knocked flat with a cuff on the side of the head. As he rose slowly with his head ringing, Pokopokowo grasped him by the shoulder, and bound his hands behind him.

In a moment he was back at the pony's side, and was thrown upon its back, but not in the saddle. This was occupied by the Indian, who directed it down the coulee, and in the direction of the mountains.

d.i.c.k Fosd.i.c.k was a prisoner.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

A MESSAGE FROM STELLA.

d.i.c.k had some difficulty in keeping his seat on the pony's back, for he could not hold on to the cantle of the saddle, and Spraddle wabbled dreadfully, as he stumbled among the bowlders in the coulee.

But before long they were out on the prairie again, and d.i.c.k observed that they were headed toward the mountains.

They had several miles to go to reach the mountains, and it was just getting dusk when they entered upon a broad and beautiful valley, which, as it ran east and west, was flooded with the light from the setting sun.

Here the Indian turned in the saddle and looked at d.i.c.k with a malevolent smile.

"Turn white boy loose," he grunted.

d.i.c.k twisted around, and the Indian untied the cord that bound his wrists.

"White boy try to run away, I kill um," said the Indian, showing his teeth in a horrible look of ferocity that chilled d.i.c.k to the bone.

"All right," he said; "I'll not try to run away again."

"Kill um if do," growled the Indian, hissing, at the pony, which is the Indian way of making a pony go forward, and means the same as a white man's "Get up!"

d.i.c.k was dreadfully hungry, but he said nothing, clinging to the cantle of the saddle with both hands, for the pony was now loping.

They had gone up the valley for several miles, when suddenly the Indian turned aside down a dark and narrow defile, still at a lope.