“Yes, what is it?” urged Tad.

“Nothing much.”

“Never is,” cut in Walter Perkins, a little maliciously.

“I—­ I got an idea the ponies tried to kick holes in the lightning.”

Everybody laughed loudly.  They could well afford to laugh, now that the danger had passed.

“What makes you think that?” asked the guide, eyeing him sharply.

“’Cause they’re dead!”

“What!” shouted the boys.

All hands dashed from the tent, Stacy regarding them with soulful eyes, after which he surreptitiously slipped a biscuit into his pocket and strolled out after them.

CHAPTER XVI

 Chunky’s new idea

Three of the ponies, they found, had been knocked down and so severely shocked that they were only just beginning to regain consciousness.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” demanded Ned, turning on Stacy savagely.

“You wouldn’t let me.  Maybe next time I’ve got an idea, you’ll stop and listen.”

Kris Kringle’s face wore a broad grin.

“Master Stacy is right.  He tried hard enough to tell us,” he said.

Chunky was humming blithely as the party set out next morning.  He was pretty well satisfied with himself, for had he not been through a prairie fire, knocked a savage Apache off his horse, saved himself and his companions, besides having just escaped from being struck by lightning?  Stacy swelled out his chest and held his chin a little bit higher than usual.

“Chunky’s got a swelled head,” said Ned, nodding in the direction of the fat boy.

“Swelled chest, you mean,” laughed Walter.  “Nobody has a better right.  Chunky isn’t half as big a fool as he’d have everybody believe.  When we think we are having lots of fun with him he’s really having sport with us.  And those Indians—­ say, Ned, do you think they will bother us any more?”

“Ask Chunky,” retorted Ned.  “He’s the oracle of the party.”

“I will,” answered Walter, motioning for Stacy to join them, which the latter did leisurely.  “We want to know if you think we’ve seen the last of the Apaches?  Will they bother us any more?”

The fat boy consulted the sky thoughtfully.

“I think there’s some of them around now,” he replied.

“What?”

Stacy nodded wisely.

“Santa Claus ought to have shot them.”

“Why, you cold-blooded savage!” scoffed Ned.  “The idea!”

“You’ll see.  I’d have done it, myself, if I’d had my gun,” declared Stacy bravely.

“Good thing for you that your gun was in camp, instead of in your holster.”

“Yes; I’d have lost the gun when the pony went down.  Poor pony!  Say, Walt,” he murmured, leaning over toward his companion.

“Well, out with it!”

“This pony of Santa Claus’s can jump further than a kangaroo.”