It was unlocked and gave way beneath the pressure, and the two practical jokers went through it and out upon the hard floor of the prairie.
They were rolled about in a cloud of dust, and had they not been of something more than ordinary composition they would have suffered from broken bones.
But as it was both picked themselves up unhurt.
The Steam Man had gone on fully one hundred yards before Frank Reade, Jr., perceived that his companions were missing, and at once closed the throttle and brought the Man to a halt.
“Serves the rascals right,” muttered Frank, as he saw them pick themselves up from the dust. “They are always skylarking, and no good comes of it.”
Frank had stopped the Steam Man. He waited for the two jokers to pick themselves up and return to the wagon.
But at that moment a thrilling thing occurred.
Barney and Pomp had fallen near a clump of timber.
From this with wild yells a band of mounted Sioux Indians now dashed.
They were a war party—painted and bedecked with feathers, and in the full paraphernalia of war.