THE WAR PARTY.
The Indians had fled in every direction.
They had been foiled in their purpose of running the ponies off in a
band, as they had intended, by Ted's fortunate discovery of the raid.
How to gather the ponies together again was the question that puzzled
Ted, for the broncho boys had no mounts with which to pursue the
would-be thieves.
It was not long before the light appeared in the east, and by that time
Ted had ridden to Bud's sign camp, and thence to camp No. 2, and had
four more horsemen to assist him in the pony round-up.
These worked unceasingly, riding the snowy prairie, picking up the
ponies which the Indians had not been able to round into a bunch to
drive to their rendezvous in the mountains.
The attack upon them had been so sudden that they had taken no heed of
where they were going. It was every man for himself, with the broncho
boys' bullets for the hindmost.
About noon Ted and the boys from the sign camps rode up to the ranch
house, driving before them a band of about twenty ponies which they had
found grazing on the prairie or seeking the shelter of the coulees.
Not a sign of the marauding Indians had they seen.
"Boys, as soon as we can get something to eat we're going after those
Indians," said Ted, dismounting and going into the house. "We've got
mounts for nearly all of us, now. A guard will be left at the house,
then we'll get on their trail. We can't afford to let this thing go.
Those Indians must be taught a lesson, so that they will get over the
idea that they can run in on us and take what they want just because we
are boys."
"That's ther way ter talk," exclaimed Bud Morgan heartily. "Give 'em
what's comin' to 'em, an' give it to 'em good an' plenty."
"I guess it won't be any snap to find them now," said Ben.
"They've scattered. But we can trail them. They'll leave a track like
that of a moose, it will be so wide. They're in the hills somewhere,
laying for another opportunity to raid the corral. They need ponies to
ride, and beef to eat, and they have got the idea into their heads that
we were sent out here to cater to their wants. It's our business to fool
them."
"Oh, hurry up," cried Stella. "I'm so anxious to get started I'm all in
a flutter."
"Who said you were going?" asked Ted, with a smile. "This is no pleasure
trip. Trailing and fighting Indian outlaws is no matinée."
"I should say not," said Stella coolly. "But it's work for the broncho
boys, and I'm one of them. Bud has promised to teach me the art of
following an Indian trail, and there never will be a better time than
this."
Ted could only shrug his shoulders, as he turned away to see if McCall
was hurrying dinner. He knew that he would waste time arguing with the
spirited young woman, who was as good a cowgirl as he was a cowboy, and
for one of her sex quite as courageous.
So eager were the boys to be off that they fairly bolted their food, and
rushed to the corral to saddle their cayuses.
Then they saw to their arms, and each took his rifle in the boot of his
saddle.
Sultan had had such a hard day's work since daylight, rounding up the
scattered ponies, that Ted left him in the corral, and decided to ride a
fresh horse. The only serviceable animal he could find was the worst
riding beast on the place, a vicious, half-broken Texas pony, which had
to be roped and held before the rider could mount.
This, however, made little difference to Ted, who could ride anything
that would fit a saddle.
While he held the saddle ready to throw it on Bingo's back Bud roped and
held the rearing, raging, bucking beast, who was busy kicking holes in
the air with his wicked heels.
After maneuvering around the corral several times, Ted managed to dodge
the flying hoofs long enough to slip the saddle and tie the latigo.
Then it was up to him to mount.
Whenever he approached Bingo from the rear, dancing around to escape the
pony's battery, and got to the side where he could grasp the horn of his
saddle, Bingo would wheel in a circle away from him as if he was
fastened to a pivot.
The performance was getting monotonous, for the boys were standing
around in a ring waiting to start.
Ted was getting impatient also at the fool antics of the pony.
"Stop your fooling," he said to Bingo. "When I do land on your back I'll
make you sorry you didn't stand still, my bucko."
He stepped back several feet and stood looking at the pony, who, with
ears flattened and the whites of his eyes showing, stood still also,
waiting for further developments.
He didn't know exactly what was coming, but wanted to be ready for it,
whatever it was to be.
Suddenly Ted gave a short, swift run, leaped in the air, and before
Bingo could gather himself for a plunge, Ted was astraddle of the
saddle.
Bingo remembered his part then, but he was too late, for simultaneously
he felt the sting of the quirt across his shoulder, and the prick of the
spur in his flank.
A horse can think of only one thing at a time, while a mule can pay
attention to the mule-skinner's lash and think of forty-seven varieties
of devilment at the same time.
In trying to keep his mind on the sting of the quirt and the prick of
the rowels at the same time, Bingo got rattled.
He leaped high into the air, intending to fall backward, and crush his
rider. But Ted had been there before many times, and as he went up a
stinging blow across Bingo's withers brought him down in a hurry.
Then he did some more plunging, but the spur in his side, and Ted's firm
seat, soon convinced him that it was wasting time to fool with Ted, and
he set off at a gallop across the prairie.
With a ringing cheer the boys followed, and soon caught up with him.
When they were together again, Ted paired the boys off to scout.
"I'll tell you how you will probably find it, fellows," said Ted. "The
Indians ride in different directions. Whenever you hit a trail follow
it, but go slow and keep your eyes peeled for an ambuscade. You will
find that eventually all the trails will lead to the same place. If we
are in luck, we will find them before they go on into the mountains, and
we may have a skirmish. I hope, however, that we will be able to settle
the matter without resorting to any shooting. Uncle Sam is mighty touchy
about any one killing his Indians except his soldiers, no matter what an
Indian does. We'll probably all come together where the Indians are.
Kit, you ride with me. You other fellows choose your partners. Bud, take
good care of Stella."
"You kin bet yer active an' useful life I will," said Bud, as he and
Stella galloped off together.
Bud and Kit rode away to the north, while the other broncho boys spread
out in pairs over the prairie.
Ted had been riding an hour without crossing a track.
"There's no use going in this direction any longer, Kit," he said.
"They've probably gone farther to the west. I guess we'd better strike
off that way, and take a chance of cutting them somewhere over there."
They had paused on the bank of a small frozen stream lined with willows,
and Ted had dismounted to walk up and down the bank to find a place
where he could break a hole in the ice to water the ponies.
"You'll have to rope Bingo and hold him when I go to get on," he said to
Kit before he got down.
"All right," said Kit. "I'd get down and cut that hole in the ice
myself, only my arm might give me trouble again. I've got to be mighty
careful of it yet."
As Ted was looking for a safe place to lead the ponies down to the
stream, with Bingo's bridle reins hanging over his arm, he was startled
by a snort from the brute, and a sudden back pull.
He looked over his shoulder at the pony to see what was the matter with
it.
Bingo was standing with his head high, his ears pointed forward, his
nostrils as red as if they were lined with red silk, and the whites of
his eyes like pieces of chalk, snorting as if in terror.
Ted read the symptoms instantly.
"He smells Indians," he muttered to himself.
He looked around for Kit, and saw him far down the stream, struggling
vainly with the pony he was riding, which was running away in a panic of
fear.
Kit was an expert and dauntless horseman, and not one of the broncho
boys except Ted could excel him in horsemanship, but with his wounded
arm he could not bring the brute under control.
"That settles it with me," muttered Ted. "I'm going to have a time
getting on the back of this beast, for he will be worse than ever now
that he has scented Indians."
He heard a noise behind him, and wheeled.
Coming out of the willows a few hundred yards away were a score of
Indians, painted for war and all armed with rifles.
With a hasty movement the leader of the broncho boys loosened his
revolvers and glanced to see if his rifle was ready for instant use.
The Indians had stopped, as much surprised as Ted, and stood staring at
him in a stupid sort of way.
Ted saw that if he was to escape being murdered now was his chance, and
turned to his pony.
As he did so the Indians let out a whoop that frightened Bingo almost
into a fit, and, wheeling suddenly, he dashed away, almost dragging the
reins from Ted's grasp.
But as he did so Ted was by his side, running with one hand clutching
the long mane.
It was rough running over the rocks and hummocks with which the bank of
the stream was strewn, but Ted seemed to fly through space, so lightly
did his feet touch the ground.
Rifle balls were now singing through the air above Ted, and on every
side, which only served to increase the speed with which Bingo was
running away from his enemies, the Indians.
Bingo had been trained in New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas to regard the
Indian as his natural enemy, and whenever he smelled one it was his most
earnest desire to get as far away as possible in the shortest space of
time.
This was fortunate for Ted also.
While it was not an easy matter for Ted to mount while the pony was
wheeling away from him, Ted was well educated in the cavalry drill as
used at West Point, and mounting a running horse was one of the easiest
of the many equestrian tricks with which he was familiar.
When he thought he was far enough away from the Indians not to afford
them too good an aim for his body, he placed his hand on the cantle of
the saddle, gave a smart upward spring, and the impetus of his running
and the pony's speed took him through the air like a bird, and he
settled in the saddle as easily, almost, as if he would have sat down in
a chair.
As he reached the saddle he, for the first time, threw a glance over his
shoulder.
The Indians were in full pursuit, yelling like madmen.
They were led by a young fellow dressed in a yellow buckskin shirt
elaborately beaded, and trimmed with fringe, while on his head was a
bonnet of eagle feathers, which trailed far behind him as he dashed on
far in advance of his followers.
"Here's a chance to stop that chap," said Ted, swinging around in his
saddle and throwing his forty-five over his shoulder.
The six-shooter cracked, and as the smoke floated away Ted saw that his
bullet had gone where he intended it to go.
The pony on which the young Indian was riding stumbled and staggered
forward a few feet, then dropped.
That brought the party to a halt, and Ted, turning his face forward,
galloped on.
Kit had succeeded in mastering his pony and had brought it to a halt,
and, as the report of Ted's revolver reached his ears, he turned and
rode rapidly in that direction.
As the two boys came together and found that they were unharmed and that
the war party of Indians had been halted, they dove into a coulee,
followed it a short distance, and climbed again to higher ground.
The Indians were no longer in sight, and they set off at a gallop toward
the west.
For half an hour they rode, when Ted suddenly pulled his pony to a stop.
On a rise far away he saw a black, slowly moving mass, which, at first,
he had taken to be a band of buffalo, but when it strung out he
discovered that it was a party of men on horseback.
As the sun was behind the riders, Ted could not distinguish whether or
not they were Indians or whites, as he could have done if the sun had
been shining upon them.
"If it's Indians I don't want any more of it," he said.
"I don't think they are Indians," said Kit. "Those fellows sit
straighter than Indians. I believe they are either our own boys, or
cavalry from the post."
"I believe you are right," said Ted. "Let's fire a few shots to attract
their attention, and then ride to them."
The shots were fired, and presently they heard several faint reports,
and knew that they had been heard and answered.
In a few minutes they had ridden to where the party was standing on the
ridge of a rolling hill.
They were the broncho boys under the leadership of Ben Tremont. They had
all come together on a broad trail that pointed toward the foothills in
the north, and, as they rode, had picked up one pair of scouts after
another.
"Where are Bud and Stella?" asked Ted, running his eye over the party.
"Haven't seen anything of them," said Ben, "although we have been
keeping a lookout for them. They rode farther to the west, and probably
will pick us up later. I think this trail leads into the hills, and that
we will find the Indians in camp not far away."
This was Ted's belief also, and, taking the leadership, he ordered an
advance.
"Halt!" Ted Strong had stopped his pony, and with his hand shading his
eyes, was looking steadily to the front.
"What is it?" asked Ben, riding to his side.
"Smoke over the top of that hill right in front of us."
Ted did not take his eyes from the spot.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "The bunch of Indians who chased me have taken
a short cut and beaten us in. I saw a band of Indians cross in front of
us, and one pony carried double."
"Then we have caught up with them."
"I think so. Hold the boys here, I'm going forward to scout. When I
signal, come forward as fast as you can ride."