CHAPTER XXX.

NIGHT ON THE COLORADO.

“What’s the matter?  What has happened?” cried Jack.

“Is it Indians?” cried Dick, who had a lively imagination.

“Something grabbed my foot,” declared Tom.

“Grabbed your foot?” repeated Jack.

“Well, maybe, nibbled at it, would be better,” replied Tom.  “It isn’t hurt, but I was awakened by it.  I guess the thing, whatever it was, must have been scared away.”

“What could it have been?” came from Dick.

“Perhaps it was a bear,” suggested Tom.

“A bear, nonsense.  I guess it was all imagination,” scoffed Jack.  “You ate too much at supper, Tom.”

“It was not imagination, I tell you,” retorted Tom indignantly.  “I felt it just as plainly as anything.”

“Well, I don’t see what——­” began Jack and then he broke off.

From outside the tent had come an appalling crash of tin dishes, followed by unearthly grunts and squeals.  The uproar was terrific.  It sounded as if every piece of tinware in the camp was being hurled and battered around.

“What under the sun——?” gasped Jack.

“It’s Indians; they’ve attacked the camp,” cried Dick.

A weird screech split the night.  Jack seized up a rifle.

“Come on, boys,” he cried, but it might have been noticed that Dick was not particularly alert in following.

Zeb and the professor rushed out of their tents and their shouts added to the confusion.  There was a bright moon and by its light Jack saw a small, peculiarly-shaped animal charging about blindly here and there.  The next minute he saw, too, that the creature’s head was caught fast in an enameled cooking pot.

It rushed about and uttered the muffled squeals that had attracted their attention.  Jack raised his rifle and fired.  The creature fell dead at the first shot.  Zeb and Jack rushed up to it.

“A badger!” exclaimed Zeb, “and he’s got his greedy head stuck fast in that mush cooker.”

“And in charging about trying to get it off he’d made a wreck of our pantry!” exclaimed Jack, looking at the tin utensils scattered in every direction about the wooden box in which they were kept.

“It must have been that badger that came sniffing at my toes,” said Tom.

“Or maybe it was Indians,” laughed Jack, looking slyly at Dick, who was glad that they couldn’t see how red he turned.

“Indians?” exclaimed the professor guilelessly.  “Were there any Indians about?”

“Dick thought he saw some,” explained Jack with a chuckle.

The dead badger was pulled out of the pot into which it stuck its head to lick out the remains of some oatmeal that had adhered to its side, and the boys went back to bed.  But they did not sleep much after the uproar into which the camp had been thrown, and were glad when it began to grow light.