“Look out!” The words, shouted at the top of the fat boy’s voice, were so thrilling that Tad leaped back instinctively.

“See here, don’t make a fool of me, too.  What’s the matter with you?  Come down out of that.”

“I can’t.  He’ll get me.”

“What will get you?  Nothing will get you, you ninny!”

“The lion will get me.”

“Have you gone raving mad on the subject of lions?” jeered Butler.

“Look, if you don’t believe me.  He’s up here.  He’s trying to get a bite out of me.  Shoot him, as you love me, Tad; shoot and shoot straight or I’m a dead one.”

For the first time since his arrival on the scene Tad began to realize that Stacy was not having fun with him.  Something really was up that tree—–­something besides a Pony Rider boy.

“You don’t mean to tell me there’s a cat up there-----”

“Yes, yes!  He’s over there on the other side.  Shoot, shoot!”

“I haven’t my gun with me.”

The fat boy groaned helplessly.

“I’m a dead one!  Nothing can save me.  Tell them I died like a man; tell them I never uttered a squeal.”

Tad had sprung around to the side of the pinyon tree indicated by Chunky.  Up there on a bushy limb, clear of the heavier foliage, lay a sleek, but ugly looking cat, swishing its tail angrily.  First, its glances would shoot over to Stacy Brown, then down to Tad Butler.  The lion, as Tad decided on the spot, had gone into the tree to hide from the dogs as had the one that had been shot on the canyon wall the previous afternoon.  This time the proposition was a different one.  Both boys were in dire peril, as Tad well knew.  At any second the cat might spring, either at him or at Stacy.  And neither boy had a gun in his hands.

Tad’s mind worked with lightning-like rapidity.  It was a time for quick thinking if one expected to save one’s skin from being torn by those needle-like claws.  Butler thought of a plan.  He did not know whether there were one chance in a million of the plan working.  He wanted that lion a great deal more than the lion wanted him.  He was going to take a desperate chance.  An older and more experienced man might not have cared to try what Tad Butler was about to attempt.

The Pony Rider boy’s hand slipped down to the lasso hanging from his belt.  He was thankful that he had that.  The lasso was always there except when he was in the saddle, when it was usually looped over the pommel.

“Chunky, yell!  Make all the noise you can.”

“I am.  Wow-ow-wow.  Y-e-o-w wow!”

“That’s right, keep it up.   Don’t stop.   Make faces at him, make believe
you’re going to jump at-----”

“Say, anybody would think this were a game of croquet and that I was
trying to make the other fellow miss the wicket.   Don’t you think-----”

“I’m trying to get you to attract his attention-----”

“I don’t want to attract his attention.  I want the beast to look the other way,” wailed the fat boy.  “I want to get out of here.”