“Seems like we’ll have to pass that by, Billie, because nobody knows. Just who he is, and why he keeps so shy, is more’n I can guess. Perhaps some day he’ll come out into the open, and let us see who we’ve got to thank. If you asked me to give my best guess now, I’d say he’s one of those same punchers Donald was making friends with yesterday. He’s keeping it up just for a lark, to sort of bother us. There’s no accounting for some people’s sense of what they call humor. He may think it’s the best joke he ever had to do with, just keeping us guessing.” “Well, I only hope that some day I’ll be able to tell him how much we think of him for watching out for us like he has,” ventured the fat chum, looking all around as he spoke, as though half hoping he might see a laughing, sun-burned face projecting from behind nearby rocks, waiting to be invited to join their circle; but nothing of the kind was visible. Adrian happened to think of something just then, and spoke to Donald, who, not being engaged at that particular moment, arose, and slipped inside the tent. “Whee! I wonder none of us thought of doing that before now!” burst from Billie, showing that he had noticed the movement, and instantly jumped to some conclusion concerning the same. There was heard a sound from within, as though Donald might be turning things over in a hurried search. Then they heard him give vent to a low ejaculation that somehow sent a thrill of expectancy through both the chums without. Immediately Donald came rushing into the outer air. He was gripping something in one of his hands, and half holding the same aloft, while his face was indeed a study, being both triumphant and grim at the same time, a curious combination indeed. There was no need for him to shout aloud, and tell the others what he had discovered secreted under some of their traps in the tent; for both Adrian and Billie had eyes, and could see for themselves. It was the sacred belt of the old Zuni medicine man, which they had seen fastened about his waist only an hour or two previous, and which he undoubtedly valued above all price, as a part of his ensignia of office—the magical belt which was believed by his people to have come down to him from the home of the Great Manitou in the Happy Hunting Grounds of the red men in the other world. Billie tried to say something, but although his jaws were seen to work, only a queer gasping sound proceeded from between them. His very breath seemed to have been taken completely away by the astounding nature of the discovery made by the other chum, inside their tent. It was not so bad with Adrian. He could command his speech, though almost as much staggered as poor Billie at sight of the Indian belt. “They didn’t lose any time in getting busy, did they, Donald?” was what first came into his mind to say.