Supper was a jolly affair, for everyone was in high spirits. The sage hen, contrary to general expectation, was found to be delicious. Chunky begged for the wish bone and got it. He said he'd use it for a divining rod when he wanted to find a little spring.
"Mr. Kringle, I am commissioned by the fellows to ask you a question," announced Tad, after the meal had been in progress for a time.
"Ask it," smiled the guide.
"We thought we'd like to call you Santa Claus, seeing you've brought us so much cheer. Then again, it's your name you know. Kris Kringle is Santa Claus."
"Oh, well, call me what you please, young men."
From that moment on, Kris Kringle was Santa Claus to the Pony Rider Boys.
They had now come to a rolling country, with here and there high buttes, followed by large areas of bottom lands which were covered with rank growths of bunch grass. Traveling was more difficult than it had been, and water more scarce.
It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky.
"There goes the trouble maker," cried Ned. "He's at it again."
The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky's wail had been heard. The others were not far behind.