“Who you mean—­ Santa Claus?”

“Yes.”

“They’re closing in now,” said Stacy.

“Take your hands away from my waist.”

“But I’ll fall off, Tad.”

“Slip one hand through under my belt and take hold of the cantle with the other.  Sit as low as you can so as not to get in my way.”

Stacy obeyed his companion’s directions without further comment, but he was all curiosity to know what was going to happen next.

The Indians were drawing nearer every second now.  The boys could see the expressions on their evil faces, intensified by the streaks of yellow and red paint.

“They look as though they’d stuck their heads in a paint pail,” was Chunky’s muttered comment.

The blankets fell away from the racing savages, flapped on the rumps of the bobbing ponies for a few seconds and then slipped to the ground.

A rifle was reposing in each man’s holster, as Tad observed instantly.  He was thankful to note that the guns were not in the hands of the Indians.

The lad’s right hand had dropped carelessly to the saddle horn, the fingers cautiously gathering in the coils of the lariat that hung there.  The red men did not appear to have observed his act.

“Lie low!” commanded Tad, scarcely above a whisper.

Stacy settled down slowly so as not to attract attention.

One horseman shot directly across Tad’s course, striking the lad’s pony full in the face as he did so, and causing the animal to brace himself so suddenly as to nearly unseat both boys.

Tad’s rope was in the air in a twinkling.

A warning shout from the second Indian, who was just to the rear of them, came too late.  The rope shot true to its mark and the first savage, with back half-turned, had failed to observe it coming.

The great loop dropped over his head.  The pony braced itself and Tad took a quick turn of the rope about the pommel of his saddle.

The result was instantaneous.  The Indian was catapulted from his saddle with arms pinioned to his aide.

“Ye-ow!” howled Chunky; unable to restrain his enthusiasm.

Tad did not even hear him.

“Look out!  Here comes the other one!” warned the fat boy.

But Tad was too busily engaged in keeping the line taut about the roped Indian.  The fellow was struggling on the ground, fighting to free himself, while the boy with the rope was manoeuvring his pony in a series of lightning-like movements that made the fat boy’s head swim.

“Take care of him, Chunky!!  I can’t,” gasped Tad.

Stacy’s eyes took on a belligerent expression as the second savage bore down upon them, with knees gripped tightly against the side of his pony, half raising himself above the animal’s back, reins dropped on the pony’s neck.  The Indian was guiding his mount by the pressure of legs and knees alone.

The angry redskin was making futile attempts to get into a position where he might grab the active Tad.  He did not seem to take into account the cringing figure behind the boy who had roped the other Indian.