He had already started to scramble up the high wall of the gully; but the climb was steep and difficult. He seized upon the rope and Chet Havens leaped down from his saddle.
Chet was a strong boy, despite his slender figure. He pulled in the rope, hand over hand, and swung the Indian youth, kicking now and then at the rocks, above and clear of the descending avalanche.
Dig spurred his horse over to the place and leaped down to give his chum a helping hand.
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” he ejaculated. “That redskin sure had a close shave, Chet! What d’you know about it, old man? Whew!”
Chet gave his hand to John Peep and helped him up to their level. The Indian youth was breathless; but his countenance displayed no fear. He gazed down the gulch after the roaring landslide, and shook his head.
“Much danger in that,” he grunted.
“You bet your life!” exclaimed the slangy Digby. “You were never nearer the Happy Hunting Grounds in your life.”
John Peep turned sharply on Digby. “You think it is funny to talk that way to me because I am an Indian,” he said. “I do not believe in any Happy Hunting Grounds any more than you white boys believe you go to a Big Candy-Shop when you die. That is silly.”
“Oh! Ugh!” gasped Dig, surprised. “All right. Needn’t get mad over it, old man.”
With a gravity that seemed quite beyond his years, John Peep turned to Chet. He had not changed colour in the least, nor was he disturbed by his perilous adventure in any way.