"Yessah," maintained the teamster stoutly. "It was the s'prise more'n anythin' else that knocked me off, Cap'n. Felt like a bird, though."
"It was too large, father," protested Jerry. "There ain't no bird as big as that. Mebbe it was an aeroplane."
The officers laughed, but Jerry stuck to it that the "thing" was not a bird. The examination ended in nothing. The boys had brought the mail over with them, so as soon as the ladies had retired the officers went over to the quartermaster's office while the four boys separated for the night.
The next day was a perfect one such as only the New Mexican hills can produce. To the north and west of Fort Bayard stretched a wilderness of deep valleys and mountain peaks as far as the Rio Gila. The Bread Pudding ranch, as the Circle B P was locally known, lay five miles to the east.
After breakfasting, Fred and his mother were driven around the garrison. There was plenty to be seen, and neither Jerry nor Fred realized how the time was flying until Dunk approached.
"Hey, Jerry," called the latter, with some show of indignation. "What's the mater with you? We've been waiting more'n an hour."
After hastily explaining to the older members of the party that they were going over to the ranch for the day, Jerry and Fred accompanied Dunk to the stables. Here they found Fly and Carlito waiting and after saddling up they speedily left Fort Bayard behind.
"Ever ride much?" asked Dunk, seeing that Fred experienced a little difficulty with his saddle.
"Sure, lots!" replied the Cleveland boy.
"Never ran up against this kind of saddle, though. Spanish, ain't it?"