All at once, at the opportune moment, his pony forging ahead, the Indian’s hand shot out.  The red, bony fingers were closing upon Tad Butler’s right shoulder, when all at once something happened.

The cringing fat boy rose.  The right hand that had been clinging to the cantle was launched out.  His body, thrown forward at the same time, lent the blow added force.

Chunky’s fist came into violent contact with the Indian’s jaw.  Mr. Redman disappeared from the back of his pony so quickly that, for a second, Stacy could scarcely believe his eyes.

“Y-e-o-w!  W-o-w!” howled the fat boy.  “Beat it for the tall grass, Tad!”

A quick glance behind him, revealed the true state of affairs to Tad Butler.  He dug in the spurs, clinging to the lariat for a few feet, then suddenly releasing it, as the pony leaped away under the stinging pressure of the spurs.

“Duck!  Duck!  They’re going to shoot!” shouted Tad.

CHAPTER XV

 Hit by A dry storm

“There it goes!  Lower, Chunky!”

A rifle had crashed somewhere to the left of them.

Stacy’s curiosity getting the better of him, he had twisted his body around, and was peering back; but he was bobbing up and down so fast that he found it difficult to fix his eyes on any one point long enough to distinguish what that object was.

“Look!  Look!” he cried, when in a long rise of the pony his eyes had caught something definite.

The roped Indian was running for his pony, which he caught, leaping to its back and dashing away madly.

“Hold up!  Hold up!  There’s something doing,” shouted the fat, boy.

Tad swerved a little, turning to his left.  Rifles were banging, and the dust was spurting up under the feet of the savage’s racing pony.

By this time, the second Indian had recovered from the blow that Stacy had landed on his jaw, and he too was in his saddle in a twinkling, tearing madly cross the plain.

Stacy Brown uttered a series of wild whoops and yells.  He knew their assailants were running and that some one was shooting at the Indians, but who it was the fat boy could only guess.

Two ponies suddenly dashed out from the low-lying smoke cloud.  One of their riders was swinging his sombrero and cheering; the other was firing his rifle after the fleeing savages.

“Hooray, it’s Santa Claus,” howled Stacy, fairly beside himself with excitement.  Even Tad caught something of his companion’s spirit of enthusiasm.  He swung his hand and started galloping toward the two horsemen.

“Shoot ’em!  Kill ’em!” howled Chunky.

But Santa Claus merely shook his head, and after refilling the magazine of his rifle slipped it into the holster.

“It would only make trouble and probably cause an uprising if I did.  They know I could have winged them both had I wanted to,” he grinned.  “Well, you boys are a sight.”