The Frontier Boys in the Grand Canyon.

by Wyn Roosevelt.

CHAPTER I

A RACE

"Your cayuse is quiet as a lamb now, isn't he, Jo," inquired Jim.

"He ought to be by this time," I replied. "You wouldn't expect him to buck all the way through New Mexico, I hope."

"It's funny how he began to act up," remarked Tom, "just as soon as we got out of Colorado."

"Maybe he doesn't like getting away from the country of his own tribe,"

I said; "He's a regular little Injun I can tell you that."

"I can't blame him for his dislike for the Apache range," interposed Captain Graves, "for a more undesirable lot of devils are not to be found in the Southwest."

"You ought to know, captain," remarked Jim, "for you have fought all of them."

"That's true," he replied, "but my fighting days are about over. I shall have to leave you boys in a few days and get back to my log cabin on the plateau in the Big Canyon."

"We all wish you did not have to," said Jim, "I do not know how we will get along without you."

"You boys can take care of yourselves," he replied. "I saw that in our expedition against the Indian encampment when you rescued Juarez's sister. Then if I go much further I will get the old fever in my blood and nothing will stop me."

"Well, we'll hang on to you then," laughed Jim.

Perhaps the reader is a stranger to Jim, Tom, myself and the captain, but not if you have read our adventures as recorded in The Frontier Boys on Overland Trail, in Colorado, and in the Rockies.

I relate therein how we located Captain Graves in his log cabin on a plateau in "The Big Canyon," and there we spent the winter.

That is to say, Jim and I did, while Tom went back to visit our folks in York State. Our father, Major George Darlington, lived in the town of Maysville. He had been in the war, and in the early days he had also lived on the frontier. I think he took a pride in our achievements. But our poor mother did not. Mothers are not much in favor of the adventurous life as a rule.

"Here's a good place for a race," cried Jim, "before we get into the foot hills."

"We had better be saving our ponies," growled Tom, "rather than racing them to death. We are a long way from 'The Grand Canyon of the Colorado'

yet."

"That's all right, Tommy," replied Jim, "the ponies can rest long enough when we get to the Colorado River. The trouble with you is that you are afraid of being beaten. That's what's worrying you."

"I'll show you," replied Tom, belligerently.

"I will start you," suggested the captain, "where is the finish?"

"The Colorado River," I laughed.

"It's that big pine standing out there alone," said Jim.

"It looks to be a quarter of a mile," said Tom, "but we will probably reach it by evening; this clear air is very deceiving."

We now proceeded to get in line. Our bronchos were as restive as fleas.

They were the ponies we had captured from the Indians. Mine was a buck-skin. Tough as rawhide and tireless as a jack rabbit.

Jim's was a light bay with a white face and wall eyed. Three of his feet were marked white. He was a vicious brute at times and only Jim could manage him. But he certainly could run.

Tom's animal was a sorrel with his forefeet white. He was the best looking among the three, but that was not saying much. However for real work they were tireless, and could stand almost anything.

We finally got our ponies in line and the captain held his pistol high over his head.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready," we replied in unison, grasping tight the lines.

Then he fired and our ponies scampered away across the level plain. I got the jump on the bunch but Jim's bay came up with a rush until his nose was even with my horse's shoulder. The ponies entered into the spirit of the occasion all right.

"Go it, Piute," yelled Jim.

Then he put his spurs into Piute's flank and with his own fierce energy he carried him ahead of me.

"Wow! Wow! Coyote!" I yelled, "catch him!"

Coyote certainly went after Piute for fair. Tom was at my heels. The scant prairie dust flew back from the scampering heels of our flying ponies.

It was fun! Wild fun for us and how we enjoyed the speed and the rivalry. I was determined that Coyote should win. The finish was only a hundred yards away.

With all of the energy that I would have put into a foot race I urged Coyote along. It was neck and neck between Jim and me. Tom was out of it, a length behind.

"Whoop la!" I yelled, as I drove my spurs into Coyote's flanks. He responded and with a tremendous scamper of speed he beat Piute to the tree by a neck. We put as much energy into it as though there had been a thousand dollars at stake.

"Well run, boys," said the captain, "who won?"

"I did of course," I replied, modestly.

"Nothing but luck," growled Jim, "in another fifty feet I would have beaten you."

Piute's attainments and qualifications were the one subject on which Jim was tender, in all other directions, he was care free and cheerful.

"You may call it luck if it will do your feelings any good," I said, "but Coyote is the horse if you want to get over the ground."

"Or go up in the air," said Tom.

"Well yes," I admitted, "he is kind of high-spirited, but I would much rather have that sort than one after the rocking horse style."

All that day we rode along the edge of the foothills and to the east of us was the great sweep of plains. We kept a sharp lookout for any signs of Indians, for we were now in the land of the Apaches and they are the most remorseless and cruel of all the Indian tribes. Keen-sighted as the eagle, crafty as the coyote, and bloodthirsty as the tiger.

"Here will be a good place to camp," suggested Tom.