was that of an Indian, his sinewy limbs draped in a blanket of gorgeous hue, and astride of a thin, active-looking calico pony. For an instant the piercing eyes of the red man and the white boys met, and then, with a strange cry, he wheeled his pony and vanished over the rim of the depression.
"Was that an Indian?" gasped Tubby, for the figure of the red man had appeared and vanished so swiftly that it seemed almost as if it might have been a delusion.
"Moqui, very bad Indian," grunted the Mexican, who seemed nervous and fearful all of a sudden.
"Oh, I thought maybe it was a jack-in-the-box," said Tubby, with a cheerful grin, which froze on his face, however, as suddenly as it had come.
The rim of the water hole was surrounded by twenty or more wild figures, the companions of the solitary horseman. They had appeared as if by magic.
CHAPTER IV.
SILVER TIP APPEARS
The interval of silence which succeeded to the discovery that they were surrounded by Moquis was the most trying any of the party had ever known. Resistance was useless, for each of the Indians carried a rifle of modern make, and even had the boys been armed, they could not have defended themselves.
"What do you want?" demanded Rob at length, of an Indian who, judging by his ornate feather headdress, seemed to be the chief of the party.
"White boys go to mountains?" demanded the chief.
"Yes. We are going to the Harkness ranch," rejoined Rob, a trifle more boldly, as there did not seem to be any active antagonism in the chief's tone.
"White boys got money?"
"It's a hold up!" gasped Tubby.
"Say, hold your tongue for once, can't you?" snapped Merritt angrily.
"Yes, we have some money. Why?" inquired Rob.
"We want um."
It was a direct demand, and as the boy hesitated, a grim look spread over the chief's face. Rob, like the others, carried most of his money in a belt about his waist, but each lad had a few bills in his wallet and some small change in his pockets.
"Say, what is this – Tag Day?" demanded Tubby, as the chief, having solemnly taken all Rob's small change, drew up in front of the stout youth and extended his dirty palm.
"All right," said the fat boy, hastily digging down into his pocket, as the red man stared steadily at him. "Here's all I've got. Take it, Chief What-you-may-call-um, and I hope whatever you get with it chokes you."
Fortunately for Tubby, the chief did not understand this, or it might have fared badly with the irrepressible youth. Merritt's turn came next, and then Jose, with many lamentations, surrendered a few small silver coins.
"All right. You go now," said the chief, as with a shrill, wild yell he dug his naked heels into his pony's sides, and the little beast plunged up the steep bank. Echoing his shrill cries, the other Indians joined him, and the body of marauders swept off across the foothills at a rapid pace.
"So that's the noble red man, is it?" demanded Tubby. "Hum! back home we'd call them noble panhandlers."
"What did they want the money for?" asked Rob of the Mexican, who was still wringing his hands over the loss of his pocket money.
"Moqui's go snake dance. Moocho red liquor," explained the guide from across the border.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Rob. As he spoke, his eyes fell suddenly on a small piece of paper the Indian chief had dropped when he rode up the steep side of the water hole. He picked it up and opened its folds carefully. It appeared to be a scrap torn from a notebook, and the boy stared as his eyes fell on the name "Clark Jennings, His Book."
"Say, fellows, look here," he cried excitedly, as he perused some writing on the other side. "That sneak I gave the razzle-dazzle to yesterday is in this."
"What, Clark Jennings?"
"The same. Listen!"
From the side of the paper which bore the writing Rob read as follows:
"'They will be near the water hole at noon. All three have money.'"
"Well, what do you make of it?" asked Tubby in a puzzled tone. "I don't see the connection, quite."
"It's plain enough. I've heard that these Indians are placid enough if they are not interfered with and given money. That fellow Clark knew they were somewhere hereabouts – you remember he asked Harry about them yesterday. He and Jess Randell left Mesaville early, so as to meet them and bribe them to hold us up."
"But can the Indians read English writing?" asked Tubby.
"Yes. Most of the present generation have been to government schools and are comparatively well educated."
"Hooray for education!" shouted Tubby. "They sure are promising scholars."
There came a sudden shout from above.
"Hey, what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow? You've been gone almost an hour."
Harry Harkness stood at the edge of the dip, looking down at the excited boys.
"An hour isn't the only thing that's gone," wailed Tubby; "all our change has gone, too."
When the laugh at Tubby's whimsical way of putting it had subsided, the situation was explained to Harry, who agreed that there was nothing to be done.
"We had better be pushing on as fast as possible, though," he said; "there's no knowing when those fellows may wake up to the fact that we have more money about us and come back after it."
A hasty lunch was cooked and eaten, and the mules watered with a bucket of water each. This done, the team was once more hitched, and Jose, who had in the meantime dropped off to sleep again, awakened. But as the Mexican cracked his whip, and his long-eared charges began to move, a sudden surprise occurred. From a little dip ahead a horseman suddenly appeared and hailed the boys.
He was a tall, bearded man in regulation plainsman's costume, and his sun-burned face was shielded by a broad sombrero. On his face was a look of determination and self-reliance. As the boys looked at him they felt that here was a man of action and character.
"Hullo, strangers," he said, checking the splendid horse he rode, as the mules came to a stop. "Have you seen anything of any Moquis hereabout?"
"Why, yes," responded Rob; "they – "
"Saw us to the extent of all our small change," put in Tubby.
"Mine, too!" wailed the Mexican. "Mucho malo Indiano."
"What! you have been robbed by them?"
"Feels that way," said Tubby, patting his empty pockets.
"That's too bad," said the man. "I am Jeffries Mayberry, the Indian agent from the reservation. I am trying to round those fellows up without making a lot of trouble over it, and having the papers get hold of the story and print exaggerated accounts of an uprising. They are really harmless if they don't get hold of liquor."
"Or money," put in Tubby.
"Well,
