hing was a stealthy footstep. The night was
graying by this time, so that objects might be made out dimly. Tad
stood up, swinging his rifle into position for quick use. For some
moments he heard nothing further, then out of the bushes crept a
shadowy figure.

"Chunky's ghost," was the thought that flashed into the mind of the
young sentry. "No, I declare, if it isn't an Indian!"

It was an Indian, but the light was too dim to make anything out of
the intruder. The Indian was crouched low and as Tad observed was
treading on his toes, choosing a place for each step with infinite
care. The watcher now understood why no moccasin tracks had been
found about the camp, for he had no doubt that this fellow was the
one who was responsible for all the mysterious occurrences in camp
up to that time.

The Pony Rider boy did not move. He wanted to see what the Indian
was going to do. Step by step the red man drew near to the canvas
covered storage place, where they kept their supplies, arms, ammunition
and the like. Into this shack the Indian slipped. Tad edged closer.

"I wonder what he's after this time?" whispered the lad. Tad thrilled
with the thought that it had been left for him to solve the mystery.

His question was answered when, a few moments later, the silent figure
of the Indian appeared creeping from the opening. He had something in
his hands.

"I actually believe the fellow is carrying away our extra rifles,"
muttered the boy.

That was precisely what the redskin was doing. After glancing cautiously
about, he started away in the same careful manner. Tad could have shot
the man, but he would not do it, instead, he raised the rifle.

"Halt!" commanded the Pony Rider boy sharply.

For one startled instant the Indian stood poised as if for a spring.
Then he did spring. Still gripping the rifles, he leaped across the
opening and started away on fleet feet. He was running straight toward
where the ponies were tethered.

Tad fired a shot over the head of the fleeing man, then started in
pursuit. The Indian slashed the tether of Buckey, Stacy Brown's
mustang, and with a yell to startle the animal, leaped on its back and
was off.

"That's a game two can play at," gritted the Pony Rider, freeing his
own pony in the same way and springing to its back.

The shot and the yell had brought the camp out in a twinkling. No one
knew what had occurred, but the quick ears of the guide catching the
poundin