p and chasing the
scouting-party."

"What are you going to do?"

"Help you do nothing," said Ned, laughing.

He led the way, and Chris limped after him, to find one part of the
terrace turned into a rough observatory with a stone seat, and the
binocular and rifle lying ready as Ned had said.

"I can't see anything of our people, nor yet of the Indians," said
Chris, after a good look round in different directions.

"Oh, no; they keep well hidden."

"No fear of their hiding in any of those cells or on the terraces across
the valley, is there?"

"I dunno; they might," replied Ned; "but they couldn't send an arrow in
here from that distance."

"But we could send bullets. That side's within range," said Chris
thoughtfully.

"Oh yes, and it wouldn't be lucky for one of the scalpers to show
himself, I can tell him; but I say, look at the animals. I went down to
them this morning, and their coats are getting smooth already. The
coarse rich grass here suits them splendidly. If we stop here long
they'll be growing fat."

Chris turned the glass upon the little drove of mules, which were
grazing contentedly enough, and then changed his position to look at the
ponies, which were keeping themselves aloof from their distant
relatives, and cropping away with the thick grass right up to their
knees.

"One--two--three--four--five--six," said Chris, by habit, counting the
mustangs slowly.

"Hallo!" cried Ned. "Hurt one of your eyes?"

"Yes. It was when I came down with that ledge; I got both eyes full of
dust and grit. Why?"

"Because you must be squinting," said Ned.

"Is this another joke?" said Chris, with the glass to his eyes.

"It's no joke," replied Ned, "not to be able to count properly. Try
again."

"One--two--three--four--five--six," said Chris, counting slowly.

"Nonsense! Only five. One of your eyes don't go at all, seemingly."

"I can see them distinctly through the glass," cried Chris, with a touch
of irritability in his tones.--"Why, Ned!"

"What's the matter?"

"There are six."

"Stuff!"

"There are, I tell you. Why, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! My pony's there."

"What! You mean his ghost."

"Ghosts can't eat grass," shouted Chris wildly.

"Why not? Horses' ghosts would when they couldn't get corn."

"It is! It is!" cried Chris, with a sound like a sob in his throat, and
certainly there were tears in his eyes as he handed the glass to his
comrade. "Look! Look for yourself;