"It will alarm the wild horses," said the guide. "We don't want to chase them off the range. Neither would the horse-hunters like it if we were to begin shooting."
"Go to sleep!" commanded the Professor.
Then the boys settled down. After a time the moon came up, but instead of quieting the coyotes it seemed to have urged them on to renewed efforts. They grew bolder. They approached the camp until a circle of them surrounded it.
Out of Stacy Brown's tent crept a figure in its night clothes. It was none other than Stacy himself. In one hand he held a can of condensed milk that he had smuggled from the commissary department that afternoon.
He wriggled along in the shadow of a slight rise of ground until he had approached quite near the beasts. He could see them plainly now and Stacy's eyes looked like two balls.
The animals would elevate their noses in the air, and, as if at a prearranged signal, all would strike the first note of their mournful wail at identically the same instant.
Suddenly the figure of the Pony Rider Boy rose up before them, right in the middle of one of the unearthly wails.
"Boo!" said Stacy explosively, at the same time hurling the can of condensed milk full in the face of the coyote nearest to him.
His aim was true. The can landed right between the eyes of the animal. The coyote uttered a grunt of surprise, hesitated an instant, then, with tail between his legs, bounded away with a howl of fear.
"Yeow! Scat!" shrieked the fat boy.