“Now will you drop that pistol?” demanded the Pony Rider Boy.

“I’ll drop you!” roared the enraged enemy.

No sooner had he uttered the words than Tad, with a well-directed toss, dropped the stone fairly on the stomach of the man on the ground.

The prisoner uttered a yell that might have been heard a quarter of a mile away.  Ere the yell had died out another stone landed nearly in the same place.  The weapon dropped from the hands of the fellow, falling between his legs where he could not reach it without changing his position materially.  This he tried to do in a series of quick twists and wriggles, though the boys knew from the expression on his face that he was suffering great pain.  It was not surprising, in view of the fact that two rocks, each weighing from eight to ten pounds, had been dropped on his stomach.

The fellow found no opportunity to recover the lost weapon.  Tad was upon him with a rush.  Grabbing the mountaineer’s feet he dragged the man roughly to one side.

“I guess that will be about all for you, my man.  You may push us too far.  I shan’t promise to let you off so easily if you try any more tricks.  Professor, are you much hurt?”

“I—–­I don’t know.  I’m bleeding.”

“Let’s see what he did to you.”

A quick examination developed the fact that the professor had sustained merely a flesh wound.  It was bleeding very little now.  Tad, at the professor’s direction, washed and dressed the wound, binding a piece of cloth firmly about the waist.

“There, I guess you will be all right now.  You may come down, Chunky.  The fun is all over for the present.  How did he happen to get you that way, Professor?”

Professor Zepplin explained how the prisoner had tricked him, declaring his belief in Tad Butler’s statement that the prisoner was a bad man.  The professor no longer urged the release of their prisoner.  Tad smiled mirthlessly.  Perhaps it was better that the professor should have had an object lesson.  He would take no further chances with the fellow after that.  As for the prisoner, he was fairly frothing at the mouth with rage.

Now that the excitement had come to an end for the moment Stacy Brown went about his task of gathering more wood for the fire.  This time he went quite a distance down the canyon, carrying a torch that he might the better find that for which he was in search.

Stacy was busy gathering wood, muttering to himself as was his habit, when all of a sudden he straightened up, conscious that some one was standing beside him.  As he rose the fat boy’s nose nearly bumped into the muzzle of a revolver.  The revolver was backed by a not unpleasant, but stern face.

“Wha---wha-----what---” stammered the fat boy.   “Wh---wh---who---”

“Not a sound, young man, if you value your life.  Who and what are you?”

“I—–­I’m a Pu—–­Pu—–­Pony Rider Boy.”