Boys.

CHAPTER III

TWISTED BY A TWISTER

"Turn out!" bellowed the guide, his voice faintly heard above the roar of the storm.

"Run for your lives!" piped the shrill voice of Tad Butler.

"Flat on the ground, every one of you!" commanded the guide.

All the warnings had come a few seconds too late. Ere the boys had awakened sufficiently to realize what was wanted of them there sounded above the roar a report like that of a cannon.

The tents were lifted from over the startled Pony Riders and hurled high into the air. A cloud of sand swept over the boys like an avalanche, burying them, suffocating them, while the resistless coils of the funnel picked them out of the drift and cast them far from the spot where but a few minutes before they had been sleeping so peacefully.

Above the roar they heard the shrill voice of Stacy Brown.

"W-o-o-ow!" he shrieked. His voice appeared to be somewhere in the air over their heads.

Blankets, trappings, together with all the other belongings of the party, shot up into the black funnel and disappeared, while the ponies strained at their tethers, floundering, kicking where they had been hurled on their backs, screaming with fright.

The mad medley continued for only a few seconds, though to the unfortunate lads it seemed to have been tumbling them about for hours.

As suddenly as it had appeared the funnel tore itself from the camp and went roaring off into the hills to the northward.

Staggering to his feet, some distance from where he had been caught, the guide rubbed the sand from his eyes and mouth and stood gasping for breath.

An impressive silence had settled over the scene.

"Hallo, the camp!" he shouted when he had cleared his mouth sufficiently to enable him to do so.

"Hello!" answered Tad Butler far to the right.

"Are the others with you?"

"I don't know."

One by one the others of the party straggled to their feet, choking and coughing.

As if to mock them, the moon suddenly burst forth, shedding a brilliant light over the scene which a few moments before had been the center of a whirling, devastating cyclone.

Not a speck of anything save the white, glistening sand of the desert remained to mark the spot where the camp of the Pony Rider Boys had stood.

They gathered shivering in their pajamas, looking fearsomely into each others' eyes, still dazed from the shock and the fright of their experience.

"Wha—what was it?" stammered Walter Perkins.

"A genuine twister," laughed the guide.

"Twister?" questioned the Professor. "Cyclone, you mean?"

"Yes."

"It was awful," breathed Walter.

"All our things gone, too," mourned Ned ruefully.

"You should be thankful that you are alive," chided the Professor.

"How about the ponies?" questioned Walter.

"They're over there. More scared than hurt, I guess."

"But Chunky—where's Chunky? He isn't here!" cried Tad, suddenly realizing that Stacy Brown was not with them.

"Chunky?" wondered the others.

"Why, I thought he was here a moment ago," said Walter in an alarmed tone. "What can have become of him?"

"Probably went up with the twister," suggested Ned.

"Yes, I heard his voice and it seemed to be right over my head," nodded Tad. "We must look for him."

The lads set up a shout as they started running about

"Better look for him that way," directed the guide, motioning in the direction that the funnel had taken after wrecking their camp.

The boys spread out, calling and searching excitedly over the sand, peering into the sage brush and cactus shadows. But not a trace of Stacy Brown did they find, until they had gone some distance from camp.

A faint call at last answered their hail.

"Hooray! We've got him!" shouted Walter.

"Where are you, Chunky?" called Tad, hurrying forward.

"Here."

"Are you all right?"

"No, I'm dead."

The boys could afford to laugh now, and they did, after calling back to the camp that they had found the missing one.

Half buried in a sand drift they located him. Stacy's head and one foot were protruding above the sand, the only parts of his anatomy that were visible above the heap of white sand beneath which he had been buried.

The Pony Riders could not repress a shout when they came up with young Brown and understood his predicament.

"Get me out of here."

"No; you're dead. You stay where you are," retorted Ned.

Tad, however, grasped the foot that was sticking up through the sand, and with a mighty tug hauled Chunky right through the heap, choking, coughing and sputtering angrily, to the accompaniment of roars of laughter from his companions.

Ned grabbed the boy by the collar, shaking him until the sand flew like spray.

"Wake up! Wake up! How did you get here?" demanded Ned.

"I—I don't know. I—I guess I fell in."

"You fell up this time. That's a new trick you've developed. Well, it's safer. You won't get hurt falling up, but look out when you strike the back trail."

"Wha—what happened?" asked the fat boy peevishly.

"Everything," laughed Tad. "We got caught in a cyclone. We don't know whether you were rolled along with it or carried here. Which was it?"

"I guess I flied," decided Stacy humorously. "But I came down so hard that it knocked all the breath out of me. Where's the camp?"

The boys laughed.

"Ask the wind," replied Ned. "We don't know. Come! We'd better be getting back."

"Yee, I reckon there will be plenty for us to do," agreed Tad. "Can you walk all right, Chunky?"

"I guess so."

"Why not fly? It's easier and quicker. Chunky doesn't need a flying machine. He's the original human heavier-than-air-machine," averred Ned.

The guide had by this time gathered a heap of sage brush, to which he touched a match, that they might the better examine their surroundings.

"Anything left?" called Tad, as with his companions he approached the camp.

"I don't see anything but the saddles and the rifles."

"What, everything gone?" demanded Professor Zepplin anxiously.

"It certainly looks that way."

"Where's my pants?" wailed Chunky.

"All 'pants' have gone up," chuckled Ned.

"And so have provisions and everything else so far as I am able to observe," added Tad.

"Then—then we've got to cross the desert in our pajamas," mourned Walter.

They looked at each other questioningly; then the entire party burst out laughing. They were all arrayed in pink night clothes. Not a stitch of clothing beyond these pajamas did any of them have.

"We must look about and see if we can find any of the stuff," decided Parry, his mind turning at once to the practical side of their predicament. "I hope we find the food at least."

"Yes, I'm hungry," spoke up Stacy.

"No wonder, after the shaking up you've had," agreed the Professor. "Guide, where do you think we'll find our belongings?"

"You are lucky if you find them at all. More than likely they are scattered over the Diamond Range for half a dozen miles."

"May—maybe it'll come back and bring our pants," suggested Chunky, at which there was a loud protest.

All hands formed in line, and with the guide to pilot them, started off in their bare feet, hoping to find some of their belongings. Stacy made the first find. He picked up a can of tomatoes. Ned Rector rescued a can of pickled pigs' feet from the shadow of a sage brush, while their guide discovered a sombrero that belonged to Stacy Brown.

But that was all. They traveled nearly to the foot of the mountains, yet not a scrap did they discover beyond what they already had picked up.

"No use going any further," announced the guide.

"Well, this is a fine predicament," decided Professor Zepplin.

"Nice mess," agreed Ned