expedition against the Indian encampment when you rescued Juarez's sister. Then if I go much further I will get the old fever in my blood and nothing will stop me."

"Well, we'll hang on to you then," laughed Jim.

Perhaps the reader is a stranger to Jim, Tom, myself and the captain, but not if you have read our adventures as recorded in The Frontier Boys on Overland Trail, in Colorado, and in the Rockies.

I relate therein how we located Captain Graves in his log cabin on a plateau in "The Big Canyon," and there we spent the winter.

That is to say, Jim and I did, while Tom went back to visit our folks in York State. Our father, Major George Darlington, lived in the town of Maysville. He had been in the war, and in the early days he had also lived on the frontier. I think he took a pride in our achievements. But our poor mother did not. Mothers are not much in favor of the adventurous life as a rule.

"Here's a good place for a race," cried Jim, "before we get into the foot hills."

"We had better be saving our ponies," growled Tom, "rather than racing them to death. We are a long way from 'The Grand Canyon of the Colorado' yet."

"That's all right, Tommy," replied Jim, "the ponies can rest long enough when we get to the Colorado River. The trouble with you is that you are afraid of being beaten. That's what's worrying you."

"I'll show you," replied Tom, belligerently.

"I will start you," suggested the captain, "where is the finish?"

"The Colorado River," I laughed.

"It's that big pine standing out there alone," said Jim.

"It looks to be a quarter of a mile," said Tom, "but we will probably reach it by evening; this clear air is very deceiving."

We now proceeded to get in line. Our bronchos were as restive as fleas. They were the ponies we had captured from the Indians. Mine was a buck-skin. Tough as rawhide and tireless as a jack rabbit.

Jim's was a light bay with a white face and wall eyed. Three of his feet were marked white. He was a vicious brute at times and only Jim could manage him. But he certainly could run.

Tom's animal was a sorrel with his forefeet white. He was the best looking among the three, but that was not saying much. However for real work they were tireless, and could stand almost anything.

We finally got our ponies in line and the captain held his pistol high over his head.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready," we replied in unison, grasping tight the lines.

Then he fired and our ponies scampered away across the level plain. I got the jump on the bunch but Jim's bay came up with a rush until his nose was even with my horse's shoulder. The ponies entered into the spirit of the occasion all right.

"Go it, Piute," yelled Jim.

Then he put his spurs into Piute's flank and with his own fierce energy he carried him ahead of me.

"Wow! Wow! Coyote!" I yelled, "catch him!"

Coyote certainly went after Piute for fair. Tom was at my heels. The scant prairie dust flew back from the scampering heels of our flying ponies.

It was fun! Wild fun for us and how we enjoyed the speed and the rivalry. I was determined that Coyote should win. The finish was only a hundred yards away.

With all of the energy that I would have put into a foot race I urged Coyote along. It was neck and neck between Jim and me. Tom was out of it, a length behind.

"Whoop la!" I yelled, as I drove my spurs into Coyote's flanks. He responded and with a tremendous scamper of speed he beat Piute to the tree by a neck. We put as much energy into it as though there had been a thousand dollars at stake.

"Well run, boys," said the captain, "who won?"

"I did of course," I replied, modestly.

"Nothing but luck," growled Jim, "in another fifty feet I would have beaten you."

Piute's attainments and qualifications were the one subject on which Jim was tender, in all other directions, he was care free and cheerful.

"You may call it luck if it will do your feelings any good," I said, "but Coyote is the horse if you want to get over the ground."

"Or go up in the air," said Tom.

"Well yes," I admitted, "he is kind of high-spirited, but I would much rather have that sort than one after the rocking horse style."

All that day we rode along the edge of the foothills and to the east of us was the great sweep of plains. We kept a sharp lookout for any signs of Indians, for we were now in the land of the Apaches and they are the most remorseless and cruel of all the Indian tribes. Keen-sighted as the eagle, crafty as the coyote, and bloodthirsty as the tiger.

"Here will be a good place to camp," suggested Tom.

It was the mouth of a small canyon with a growth of pines and cottonwoods intermingled, and a clear stream tinkling down over the rocks.

"No," said the captain, shaking his grey head. "It looks pretty and would be very comfortable, but it isn't safe to make an open camp like that in this county. We will look higher up."

So we rode up the canyon for several miles until we found a more lonely and sheltered place.

"This appears all right, captain," said Jim. "At least for to-night."

"Yes, it will do nicely," he replied, "and there won't be much chance for a surprise."

So we spurred our horses up the rocky side of the canyon over granite boulders until we came to a comparatively level place, where was a growth of pines.

Back of us was the sheer wall of the canyon and below us for two hundred feet or more the steep slope covered with granite boulders, large and small.

It did not take us long to make camp, for we were experienced mountaineers by this time.

We soon had the stuff off from our two Indian pack horses and the fire was started for supper.

"Time to turn in," called the captain soon after the evening meal was finished, and in a short time we were sound asleep in our blankets under the pines. We felt perfectly safe in our cozy canyon. The captain's big wolf hound was the only one of the party left on guard.

He lay a little in front of us, his nose to the ground, near the edge of the rise, looking down the canyon. I was suddenly awakened by the hound. He was standing erect, growling fiercely through his white fangs, and looking below in the canyon. The captain had gotten up while Jim and Tom were still sleeping soundly.

"Do you think it is the Apaches?" I said, in a whisper.

"Hardly," replied the captain. "Santa Anna wouldn't act that way if it was a case of Indians. He would lie low. It may be a coyote."

We stood by Santa, who was quivering all over, his every hair bristling. We could see nothing distinctly as we peered down into the darkness.

"After 'em," ordered the captain, "shake 'em up, Santa!"

At the word the hound sprang down the rocky slope as if he had just been unleashed. The captain and I followed as quickly as we could. I had only my knife in my belt.

When we reached the foot of the hill we heard the sound of a terrible snarling struggle down the canyon a ways.

I ran in the direction as fast as I could go, leaving the captain quite a distance behind. Almost before I knew it I was upon them. A tremendous wolf, to my eyes he seemed almost as big as a horse, had Santa by the throat shaking him like a cat does a mouse.

Giving a yell I sprang to the rescue of the dog. Then in a fury the beast jumped for me with his great snarling teeth. I dodged like a flash and his impetus carried him past me, but in a second he had turned and charged again.

This time I was not quite quick enough and was knocked down and he was standing over me. I could feel his hot, fetid breath. Instinctively I thrust my elbow up as he shot his jaws down for my throat and I struck at him with the knife, bringing the blood.

Nothing could have saved me if Santa had not returned to the attack. He came in like a flash and the wolf had to turn. For a few seconds they fought over me and I was pretty well trampled. The feet of the wolf were