“White boy shut up, or Pokopokowo beat him plenty,” growled the Indian.

“If you dare beat me, Ted Strong will fix you when he gets you,” said Dick hotly.

But the Indian only laughed, and continued to beat poor Spraddle over the face, to the pain and anger of Dick, who, however, realized that he was absolutely helpless.

But Pokopokowo was soon to be paid for his cruelty, and by poor Spraddle himself.

Spraddle, stung by the blows, was stumbling along at a good pace over the bowlders that lay in his way, with the Indian urging him faster all the time.

Suddenly there was a great heave.  Spraddle went down, almost turning a somersault, as his tired feet struck a larger bowlder than he had encountered before.

The Indian, who was dozing again, shot over his head as if from a catapult, and Dick went sprawling forward over the saddle onto the neck of the pony.

Fortunately, the pony righted itself in time to save Dick from a hard fall, and he stayed on Spraddle’s back, talking to him gently.

At the sound of Dick’s voice the pony became quiet, and Dick half sprawled, half fell to the ground.  The boy was in a pretty bad fix, for the Indian had tied his hands securely.  He thought of ways by which he might cut the cord, but it seemed hopeless.  He had heard somewhere of bound men releasing themselves by wearing their bonds asunder against the rough edge of a rock, and determined to try it for himself.

If he could only get his hands free, he might escape yet.  Backing up to the wall of the canon, he felt with his hands for a rock, and soon knew that he was against one.  As he sawed his hands back and forth, he was listening for some sound from the Indian, but heard none.

Could it be that the fall had killed Pokopokowo?

To his joy, he felt the cord part, and his hands were free.  At that moment there came a flood of light into the defile, for the moon had risen overhead.

Lying on the floor of the defile, lay the Indian, with a deep gash across his forehead, where it had struck a sharp rock.  His ugly face was covered with blood, making it additionally hideous.

By the side of the Indian lay Dick’s precious rifle, and he stooped to pick it up.  As he did so, something glistened beside it, and Dick picked it up.

It was the little, round mirror that the Indian had worn around his neck.  Dick pocketed it for proof of his adventure when he should again reach camp, and, picking up his rifle, climbed upon Spraddle’s back, turned him around, and drove down the defile.

When he reached the open valley it was as bright as day, and under his coaxing and kind words the tired little pony, relieved of the Indian’s weight, picked up his feet and set forth at a brisk pace into the west, in which direction Dick knew the cow camp lay.

It was almost daylight when Bill McCall, the cook, roused from his blankets to begin the preparations for breakfast.  He leaped to his feet and listened.