n't blame him for his dislike for the Apache range," interposed
Captain Graves, "for a more undesirable lot of devils are not to be
found in the Southwest."

"You ought to know, captain," remarked Jim, "for you have fought all of
them."

"That's true," he replied, "but my fighting days are about over. I shall
have to leave you boys in a few days and get back to my log cabin on
the plateau in the Big Canyon."

"We all wish you did not have to," said Jim, "I do not know how we will
get along without you."

"You boys can take care of yourselves," he replied. "I saw that in our
expedition against the Indian encampment when you rescued Juarez's
sister. Then if I go much further I will get the old fever in my blood
and nothing will stop me."

"Well, we'll hang on to you then," laughed Jim.

Perhaps the reader is a stranger to Jim, Tom, myself and the captain,
but not if you have read our adventures as recorded in The Frontier Boys
on Overland Trail, in Colorado, and in the Rockies.

I relate therein how we located Captain Graves in his log cabin on a
plateau in "The Big Canyon," and there we spent the winter.

That is to say, Jim and I did, while Tom went back to visit our folks in
York State. Our father, Major George Darlington, lived in the town of
Maysville. He had been in the war, and in the early days he had also
lived on the frontier. I think he took a pride in our achievements. But
our poor mother did not. Mothers are not much in favor of the
adventurous life as a rule.

"Here's a good place for a race," cried Jim, "before we get into the
foot hills."

"We had better be saving our ponies," growled Tom, "rather than racing
them to death. We are a long way from 'The Grand Canyon of the Colorado'
yet."

"That's all right, Tommy," replied Jim, "the ponies can rest long enough
when we get to the Colorado River. The trouble with you is that you are
afraid of being beaten. That's what's worrying you."

"I'll show you," replied Tom, belligerently.

"I will start you," suggested the captain, "where is the finish?"

"The Colorado River," I laughed.

"It's that big pine standing out there alone," said Jim.

"It looks to be a quarter of a mile," said Tom, "but we will probably
reach it by evening; this clear air is very deceiving."

We now proceeded to get in line. Our bronchos were as restive as fleas.
They were the ponies we had captured from the Indians. Mine was a
buck-skin. Tough as rawhide and tireless