Dick 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 Dick 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 Dick with a malevolent smile.

“Turn white boy loose,” he grunted.

Dick 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 Dick 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!”

Dick 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.

Even Dick realized the danger of this, for the floor of the defile was covered with large, loose stones, over which Spraddle was continually stumbling, for he had come a long way and was tired, besides the added weight of the Indian was more than he was accustomed to carry.

It had grown very dark, and Dick could not see the pony’s ears when he twisted around to look past the Indian.

He knew that it was to be a moonlight night, but the moon was not up yet, and would not be for an hour or more.  In fact, it was doubtful if the light of the moon would penetrate to the bottom of the defile until it was high in the heavens, so deep was the defile and so steep its walls.

Dick had given up wondering and worrying, and had forced himself to be content with his situation, as he knew that he could not better it any.

Suddenly he became aware that the Indian was asleep, for he was drooping in the saddle, and was breathing deeply and steadily.

Now, thought Dick, was the time to escape, if any.  He tried to slip from the pony’s back, but in an instant the Indian was awake, and, reaching around, grasped Dick’s wrist, twisting it until the boy gave a sharp cry of pain.

The Indian slipped from the back of the pony, and again bound Dick’s wrists behind him, and with a grunt climbed into the saddle and urged Spraddle on, slapping him across the face with the end of the rein.

“Don’t you do that,” cried Dick, who never abused Spraddle himself, and couldn’t stand it to see any one else, particularly a dirty Indian, beat his pet.