Part 25 (1/2)

”Breakfast. He's just found out it's breakfast time,” jeered Ned.

”Can't have no breakfast,” growled Old Hicks. ”Breakfast is et.”

”Excepting what's on the ground,” added Mary Johnson. ”What's he yelling about?”

”Something's gone twisted,” decided Champ Blake. ”Think so, Noisy?”

”Uh-hu,” agreed the silent one. All eyes were fixed on Chunky. He was gesticulating wildly and pointing back to the hills from which he had just come.

”I believe they are after us, and in broad daylight, too,” snapped Mr. Simms. ”Get your ponies. Be quick! Ride fast. Don't let them get near the sheep.”

Thus admonished, the sheepmen sprang for their saddles. The boys followed suit at once, leaving only the Professor and Old Hicks to look after the camp.

A bunch of sheep had trotted to a water hole hard by the camp, a faithful shepherd dog following along after them to see that they returned to the main flock as soon as they should have satisfied their thirst. The sheep were now between Chunky and the camp. So intent was he on attracting the attention of the men that he failed to observe the small flock in his path.

Neither did the sheepmen notice it. If Old Hicks did, he did not care what happened either to the sheep or to the boy to whom he had taken such a violent dislike.

”Wow! Wow! Wow!” screamed the boy in a shrill, high-pitched voice.

”What's the matter?”

”Where are they?”

”How many of 'em?”

These and other questions were hurled at Chunky as he dashed straight toward the camp.

He pointed back to the foothills.

”They're there, he says,” shouted the foreman. ”Come on. Spread out so as to cover the herd. Don't you let a man get through our lines.”

Their ponies were stretched out with noses reaching for some unseen object, as it seemed. They swept past the lad within hailing distance, riding hard, while he continued to reach for home.

Stacy had turned to look back at the racing sheepmen, when his pony drove biting and striking right into the flock crowded about the water hole, for the ponies liked the sheep no more than did the cook.

The broncho went down like a flash, hopelessly entangled with the bleating, frightened animals. But Stacy did not stop. That is, he did not do so at once. The lad had shot neatly over the broncho's head, describing a nice curve in the air as he soared.

Pock!

His head landed with a m.u.f.fled sound.

”Ouch! Help!”

A loud, angry bleat followed his exclamation. The lad's head had been driven with great violence against the soft, unresisting side of a Merino ram.

The Merino went down under the blow. But his soft fleece had saved the boy from serious injury, if not from a broken neck.

”I fell off,” cried Stacy, struggling to his feet, running his fingers over his body, as if to determine whether or not he had been hurt. ”I--I didn't see them. Th--they got in my way.”