Should he take the chance? He knew that Ted or Bud or any of the boys would do so. Why not he?
If the man was only human a bullet would soon settle the matter. But if he should be a ghost or an emissary of the devil, as Carl strongly suspected, nothing like a ball from a forty-five would do him harm.
This had the effect of staying his hand, and the revolver stopped halfway out of its holster.
Then Carl thought of the boys, and what they would say if they knew that he had not nerve enough to pot the enemy when he met him.
Carl was not the bravest fellow in the world, and he was intensely superstitious.
Again the thoughts of the taunts of the other boys, should they ever know that he lacked the nerve to take advantage of the moment, came to him, and he gulped something hard that rose in his throat, and drew out his revolver.
At that moment the man in black turned and looked over his shoulder, his dead face gleaming white, out of which shone those terrible black eyes.
The revolver stopped suddenly in its upward course, and Carl's jaw dropped as he stared in abject fear at that white and expressionless face.
Then the man in black turned his horrible face once more to the fore, and rode on.
Something inside of Carl seemed to snap, and a great glow of courage swept over him. He fairly hated the sight of the grim rider in front of him, who was taking him he knew not where, and whom he yet dreaded with all his heart.
Up came the revolver again, and, almost before he realized what he was doing, Carl was firing, straight at the back in front of him.
The target could not be fairer, that black mark against the snow.
The first ball struck, for Carl heard the thud of it, as if it had struck and sunk into something soft.
The report of the weapon crashed through the still night, and was carried far on the frosty air, reverberating and echoing back from the distant mountains.
But the creature in whose body the ball had lodged did not seem to know it. The head was not turned, the body did not lurch or sway.
Carl, now blind to everything but the terror that had taken possession of him, fired again and again until every chamber in his revolver was empty, pausing after every shot to note the effect.
That every shot was fair he was sure, for he could hear the sound of the impact of the bullet.
The recipient of the bullets seemed not to know that they had been fired, for he did not hasten or retard the progress of the horse, nor did he take any personal notice that they gave him any discomfort.
But when Carl ceased firing he threw his head backward, looking over his shoulder again, and from that hideous face without nose or mouth came a gurgling noise that was like, and yet not like, laughter.
The laughter was worse on Carl's nerves than the silence, and he felt himself grow sick at heart.
How could he expect to fight or escape from a devil impervious to the balls from a Colt forty-five?
Then, to Carl's amazement and relief, the black horse sprang forward over the snow so swiftly that it seemed as if it was flying rather than running, but this probably was due to the uncertainty and the illusion of the moonlight, and vanished into thin air, leaving Carl staring open-mouthed.
It was several minutes before Carl regained his senses and knew that he was sitting with his revolver in his hand, staring into space and seeing nothing.
Then he rode slowly forward to the brink of a deep coulee.
Here was where he had last seen the phantom rider, for such Carl had at last come to regard him.
Looking to the bottom of the coulee, Carl saw nothing but snow, where he had expected to find a dead horse and rider.
"Ach, vot a country," he wailed. "Vy did I effer come to it? Mutter, I vish you vas here to hellup your Carlos."
Then he heard a groan close at hand and looked about, expecting to see the phantom rider by his side.
A short distance off lay a black splotch on the snow.
It resembled the prostrate form of a man. Had he, after all, killed his horrible enemy? Cautiously he rode toward it. It was a man, and not the phantom, and it looked very much like a cow-puncher, for it was clad in leather coat and chaps, and there was a belt filled with cartridges, and in the snow beside it lay a Colt forty-five.
This at least was human, and Carl climbed stiffly from his saddle and bent over it.
He started back with a cry of surprise.
The man in the snow was his line partner, Follansbee.
That he was not dead was evident, for he groaned occasionally.
It was up to Carl to get him to camp as soon as he could, and when he tried to raise the insensible form he was stopped by a gush of blood from a wound in the breast.
But he heard a shot in the distance, then another, and another.
The boys had heard his shots, and were riding toward him with all speed.
Presently he heard the long yell, and in a few minutes Bud Morgan came dashing toward him at top speed, and soon they were joined by Kit Summers from sign camp No. 2, and the horror of the night was over for Carl.
Follansbee was carried to camp No. 2, where Bud, who was a pretty good cow-camp surgeon, examined his wound. A ball from an automatic revolver had struck him in the breast, but on account of the thickness of the clothing he wore, and the fact that he had on a heavy vest of caribou hide, in the pocket of which he carried a small memorandum book, the ball had penetrated only a short distance.
While he had lost a lot of blood, and the shock of the ball striking had caused him to lose consciousness, he was not seriously hurt.
It did not take Bud long to extract the bullet and stanch the flow of blood, and Follansbee opened his eyes and looked about wildly.
"Where is he?" he cried in terror.
"Whar's who?" asked Bud.
"The man what didn't have no face," cried the cow-puncher.
"Carl chased him avay alretty," said Carl, bending over his partner.
"All right, Carl. You saw him, too, did ye?"
"Sheur I sawed him, mit mine own eyes."
"Then it's all right," murmured Follansbee, sinking back on his bunk. "I wuz afeared the boys wouldn't believe me if I told them what I saw."
When Follansbee sank into a deep sleep, due to his weakness from loss of blood, the three boys sat before the fire while Carl told of his encounter with the faceless man, and of the six shots which he had fired at him and the ineffective bullets which had struck his body.
As the story was told a hush fell upon Bud and Kit. They were deeply affected by the fact that this unknown and terrible menace was upon the range which they were compelled to patrol, and which not even the balls from a heavy weapon could kill.
"I would hardly have believed it if both of you hadn't seen the creature," said Kit. "It sounds too much like a pipe dream."
It was morning before Bud and Carl left Kit's camp and rode to their own. Follansbee was apparently all right, and exhibited no symptoms of fever, for he had the iron constitution of a seasoned cow-puncher, who almost invariably recovers as if by magic from a gunshot wound if the missile does not penetrate a vital spot or splinter a bone.
Follansbee, when he awoke from his sleep, told Kit of his meeting with the "man without a face," as he called the man who had given him his wound.
"I wuz ridin' at a pretty good clip along the line to meet Carl," he began, "when I see a feller standin' waitin' for me by the deep coulee, about three miles south.
"At first I thought it wuz Carl, but soon I see that it wuz too big fer the Dutchman.
"I slowed down a bit, fer I saw it wasn't any o' our outfit. Ye see I had in mind what Ted said about that Sweet Grass Mountain gang, an' I wuz some skittish.
"As I rode along slowly the feller on the black hoss made a sign as if he wanted me to foller him. But I didn't like the stunt, so I stops still an' rubbers at him.
"Two or three times he makes his motions, an' I don't do nothin' but shake my head.
"Kit, that wasn't no human bein'. It wuz ther devil as sure as shootin'. I started to draw my gun, but shucks, I ain't got no chanct ter make a move before thar was a crash, an' a blaze o' flame come from his chest, right about the middle, an' I felt the ball strike me, I heard a queer sorter laugh, like a man bubblin' with his mouth in a basin o' water, an' then I went out, an' all I remember wuz fallin' out o' the saddle."
About noon of that day, Ted and Stella rode over from the ranch house on a tour of inspection, and stopped at Bud's camp, where they were told the story of Carl's strange encounter with the man without a face, to which he listened in troubled silence.
When Carl was through with his story, Ted looked for a long time into the fire without saying anything.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Stella, at last.
"I think it is the work of the Whipple gang," answered Ted.
"But why should they shoot Follansbee?"
"It is a piece of intimidation. Of course, they do not know us. Under ordinary circumstances an apparition like that, followed by the shooting of a man, would cause a panic among ignorant men on a ranch. It is a cinch that the Whipple gang has got it in for us, and this is just the beginning of it. You will soon see other evidences of their work."
"But why should they hev it in fer us?" asked Bud. "We ain't never done nothin' ter them."
"I don't know, but I have several ideas."
"What are they?"
"There are two or three things to be considered. In the first place they have it in for the ranch on general principles. You know Fred Sturgis said in his letter that he and his boys had driven the gang away from the ranch. That is reason number one. Then we are strangers in this part of the country, and they have seen us and have us sized up for a lot of boys, and, therefore, easy marks for them. Again, we have a big bunch of cattle, which Whipple and his bunch think we will not be able to protect against them.
"They may have learned that we are deputy United States marshals. That is enough to condemn us in their eyes. They are all old and fugitive criminals, and if we knew them I think that we would find that they are all wanted in one or more of the States and Territories, and that the aggregate amount of rewards which have been offered for them, dead or alive, would amount to a neat sum. They do not need marshals in this part of the country. There may be other reasons why they will make war on us, which we will learn later, but the ones I have mentioned are sufficient for them to make themselves very troublesome."
"So you think it is war, eh?" said Stella.
"I do, and I think that you will be a shining mark for them when they learn that you are here. For that reason I would warn you to be very careful where you go about the ranch, and especially ask you not to ride about alone, and to keep away from the mountains."
"Oh, dear, and just when I had planned to explore those mountains from one end to the other," said Stella, with a pout.
"Can't help it. You know what would happen if they should catch you and spirit you off as Shan Rhue did in the Wichita Mountains."
"Yes, I know, I'm a lot of trouble to you, Ted, but you know I don't mean to be."
"Of course I know it, but if you run into danger, and expose yourself to the attack of those who are avowedly our enemies, you run the chance of being caught, and then, of course, it is our duty to get you out of trouble."
"Well, I'll be good."
"The attempted killing of Follansbee was no accident," continued Ted. "It was the work of an exceedingly shrewd man, who knows the moral effect of his strange and mysterious appearance."
"Ain't it a ghost?" asked Carl, who had become all swelled up at the thought that he had made a ghost run away from him.
"I should say not."
"Den vy shouldn't mine bullets haf killed him?"
"I'm sure I don't know. That is why I say that he is a remarkably clever man, and it is probably the cause of the power he wields that he is able to do such things. It wouldn't surprise me any if some day we learned that your visitor was none other than the renowned Whipple himself."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Stella.
"What can we do? We wouldn't know a single member of the gang if we were to meet him. We don't know where they hang out, and if we did we know nothing about the Sweet Grass Mountains, and could not go to where they are. All we can do is to watch the ranch house and the cattle as a cat watches a mouse, and if anything more, such as the shooting of Follansbee, occurs, we will have to go on the warpath ourselves. But I don't want to do that. We are out here to winter feed our cattle, and not to fight."
"Shore enuff, but yer kin bet yer breeches I'm not goin' ter let no cave dweller or brush hider tromp onto my moccasins, an' turn ther other cheek ter be tromped on. Ther first feller o' that outfit I cotch sashay in' around me I'm goin' ter take a crack at him."
"Go as far as you like when it comes to an act of aggression on the part of one of them, but don't start anything, Bud, unless you can positively bring it to a successful end."
"I reckon I'm some of a fox myself. They ain't set no trap what I've put my paw inter yet."
Ted and Stella rode on to Kit's camp to see how Follansbee was getting on, and found him doing nicely, but Stella laughed at the bandages Bud had put on the wounded cow-puncher, and insisted on redressing the wound.
Stella was a master hand at bandaging, because she was deft of hand and was naturally sympathetic.
When she had finished with Follansbee, and had sewed his bandages so that he could not rub or drag them off, he said he felt a hundred per cent better already.
Then they proceeded toward the mountains, where the third camp, under the direction of Ben Tremont, was situated.
It was almost the dying of the day when they left Ben's camp. He had not heard of the attack on Follansbee, and Ted made it an occasion to warn Ben against the attacks of the Whipple gang, as he was in the most exposed place, being so near the mountains.
When they turned their ponies' noses toward the south again it was to ride through a part of the herd.
Ted noticed that the cattle were feeding well and that there was plenty of good, rich, well-cured grass, and that it was free of snow in big enough patches to give the cattle ample room to graze.
As they were riding along Stella drew rein.
"What's the matter with that steer over there, Ted?" she asked, pointing to a steer that was dragging one of its hind legs.
Ted looked at the steer in question, which was moving slowly forward.
"See, there's another," cried Stella. "Why, I can see a dozen of them all limping in the same manner."
"That's strange," said Ted. "I wouldn't think anything of it if only one steer had gone lame, but I can't understand a dozen."
They rode slowly toward the lame steers.
"Great guns," exclaimed Ted, bending low in his saddle to examine the steers closely.
"What is it?" asked Stella excitedly.
"This is terrible," said Ted. "If this keeps up we might as well shoot all the cattle and let them lie out here on the prairie the prey to the wolves. We will never get them back to Moon Valley."
Stella looked at him with an expression of consternation on her face.
"These cows and steers have been hamstrung," said Ted, with a tone of suppressed rage in his voice. "Any man who would do a trick like that ought to be shot down in his tracks like a mad dog."
"Hamstrung! I don't understand."
"Some inhuman brute has ridden up behind these crippled animals, and with a sharp knife has cut the tendons or leaders behind the hoofs, or, rather, in the ankles, laming them and preventing them from being able to follow a drive. Where would we be in the spring if any large portion of our beasts were so maimed?"
"What a brutal thing to do!" exclaimed Stella, in indignation.
"Hello, what's that?"
Ted rose in his stirrups, standing and shading his eyes with his hand against the glare of the setting sun on the snow. With the other hand he was pointing off toward the east, where the cattle were milling uneasily.
"Something wrong over there," said Stella.
They rode slowly in that direction to see what was disturbing the cattle.
As they went, Ted was looking for other hamstrung beasts.
"By Jove! this is getting worse and more of it," he exclaimed. "See there! That steer has had the tendons of his leg cut to-day. The wound is fresh. It has hardly stopped bleeding. I wonder——"
But before he had finished the sentence he applied the quirt to his pony and was dashing through the herd, with Stella close behind.
He had seen something strange and out of the way in the milling herd, and while he thought he knew what it was he could hardly believe that it could be true.
As he rode he drew his revolver, and broke it to see that its chambers were filled.
Ted's face was pale and stern, and Stella saw at a glance that he was terribly angry, and had the look in it that she had observed there several times when he had seen animals being used with cruelty.
As he dashed into the milling herd he gave a cry of rage.
At the same moment a man sprang to an upright position in the midst of the cattle, and gave a cry of surprise.
Over his shoulders hung the fresh hide of a cow, with the skin of the head and the horns protruding above his head.
He gave one swift glance at Ted, then threw the hide to the ground and set out at a run through the plunging beasts.
Ted was hampered by the cattle getting in his way, and was not making much progress, but he was beating the horned beasts aside with his quirt.
It was possible even yet that the man who was running from him would escape, and this was what Ted was trying with all his might to prevent.
Ted knew why the man was among the cattle protected from them by his disguise of the cow's hide.
He had been hamstringing them by the wholesale.
In one day the inhuman brute could destroy for range use a whole herd.
In the meantime, the cattle were growing wilder and wilder from the pain caused by the hamstringer's knife, the wild career of the unmounted man among them, and Ted and Stella pressing through them from the rear with shouts and cracking quirts.
"Great Scott! They'll get him!" shouted Ted, reining in his pony.
The furious steers had turned their attention to the man on foot, and were surging about him with angry bellowings, charging upon him, and crowding him.
He was in a very perilous position, and it was only that the cattle were herded so close together that he had not gone down sooner.
But once the cattle got him down he would be gored and trampled to death. Nothing could save him.
Ted and Stella were trying to force their way to his side, but were unable to do so.
Notwithstanding the fact the fellow had been caught in the act of mutilating his cattle, Ted could not see him die without trying to save him.
Now they heard a cry of fear, and saw the man throw his arms up in the air.
The cattle were surging about him with wild and angry bovine cries, and with a great tossing of horns, and leaps into the air.
There were muffled yells of agony from beneath the tossing mass of horns.
"They've got him," muttered Ted. "They are wreaking their own revenge."
"Are they killing him, Ted?" asked Stella.
"They have got him down. The fool he was to go among them on foot. He should have known better."
Ted made another effort to get through the cattle, and at last succeeded in making a lane for himself.
"Stella," he shouted over his shoulder, "you stay where you are! This is nothing for you to see. Better let me attend to this."
Stella was aware that Ted always knew what he was talking about when he warned her away from anything, and she made her way out of the herd.
When Ted got to the spot where he had last seen the man, the cattle were still milling, but were getting calmer, and had no hesitancy in scattering when he rode among them slashing right and left with his quirt and firing his revolver over their heads.
When he had cleared an open space he rode back into it, and instantly recoiled from the sight presented to him.
On the ground lay the hamstringer, a mass of bloody clothes in which were torn flesh and broken bones. He was quite dead, and had been not only gored but had been trampled hundreds of times.
The vengeance of the maimed animals was complete.
Ted bent over the mangled body of the hamstringer and turned him over. Then he leaped back with an exclamation of horror.
He had recognized the miscreant.
It was Sol Flatbush, the traitorous cow-puncher, member of the gang of cattle rustlers and gamblers headed by Shan Rhue, who had run off about five hundred head of cattle of the Circle S brand into the Wichita Mountains in Indian Territory.
But how had Sol Flatbush got into this part of the country? And where was he stopping? It was evident that the cow-puncher and desperado had hamstrung the cattle out of revenge for having been discovered and driven out of the broncho boys' camp.
Now that he was dead, however, Ted lost all his resentment, and was genuinely sorry for the poor chap because of the horrible means of his death.
Ted hardly knew what to do with him. It were better if his friends could take charge of his body and bury it, but where were his friends?
Suddenly a thought occurred to Ted. Perhaps Sol Flatbush, following his instincts and habits, had come north after he and Shan Rhue had been outwitted by the boys at the Hole in the Wall in the Wichita Mountains, and allied himself with the Whipple gang in the Sweet Grass Mountains.
If this were true, the simplest thing to do was to send the body of Flatbush to the gang. It would serve, Ted hoped, as a terrible warning to the other members of the gang not to meddle with the affairs of the broncho boys.
Not far away Ted saw a pony, saddled and grazing quietly.
Mounting his pony, he rode up to it. Tied to the cantle of the saddle was a pair of blankets.
This was the very thing! Ted carried the blankets to where the body of Flatbush lay. Spreading them out, he rolled the remains of Flatbush into them, and bound them securely with a rope.
With some difficulty he lifted the bundle to the back of the outlaw's pony, and bound it securely with a lariat.
Then he tied the pony's reins to the horn of the saddle, gave the beast a slash with his quirt, and it started, snorting and jumping, toward the distant mountains.
Thus was the body of Sol Flatbush sent to his friends.
"What was it?" asked Stella, when Ted, having finished his gruesome task, returned to her side.
"The chap who was mutilating the cattle is dead," he replied. "The bulls turned upon him and gored and trampled him to death."
"Horrible! Do you know who he was?"
"Yes, I recognized him."
"Is that a fact! Who was he?"
"An old enemy of yours."
"An enemy of mine! I didn't know I had one."
"Not really of your own, for no one who knows you could feel any animosity toward you, Stella. But you have enemies through me. Those who would seek to hurt me do so by making trouble for you, knowing that they can hurt me worse by injuring you than they could by torturing me personally."
"That's why you have so often warned me to be careful where I go alone."
"That is why. It is not fair that you should be put to discomfort or in danger of death merely because I make enemies by trying to force men to obey the laws."
"I understand. But who was the man who was killed?"
"Sol Flatbush."
"Sol Flatbush! How does it happen that he is in this country?"
"I'm sure I don't know, unless he and Shan Rhue, after escaping from the Wichita Mountains, came directly here, having previously been members of the notorious Whipple gang."
"Then I suppose we shall see Shan Rhue one of these days. Ted, I'm afraid of that fellow. When they had me in the Hole in the Wall I heard him make the most horrible threats against you."
"Threats don't hurt, Stella. The threatened man lives long. You know the old proverb: 'The man I most fear is he who says nothing, but smiles in your face while he is planning to stab you in the back.'"
They were turned toward the ranch house, and as darkness was falling swiftly, conversation was suspended as they put their ponies to their highest speed, galloping across the snow-covered range toward where they could see the lantern of the house shining like a beacon through the gloom.
For the safety of the boys and the cow-punchers traveling toward the ranch house in the dark, Ted had placed a large lantern on the top of the flagstaff which stood in the front yard, so that it could be seen for miles at night to guide wanderers.
This had been suggested by his experience the first night they had spent at the house.
Those of the boys who were not riding line were stopping at the house, and they were all in the big living room awaiting the coming of Ted and Stella.
When Stella was late in arriving at the house, Mrs. Graham began to grow anxious and worried, and this was communicated to the others.
But when they heard Ted's ringing yell outside, as he and Stella galloped up, there were shouts of gladness inside, and the big door was thrown open, allowing a broad path of light to fall across the prairie, as two cow-punchers came bounding down the steps to take the ponies to the corral.
After supper Ted told of the maiming of the cattle and the death of Sol Flatbush.
It was part of the life at the ranch that bad news of any sort was never told at the table during meals, and if any of the fellows had a grievance or was in trouble he tried to keep that fact out of his face and look as merry as he could while the others were eating. If he wanted to tell his troubles later, and any one was willing to listen, all right and good, but mealtime was glad time where the broncho boys and their friends sat down together.
While they were sitting before the great fireplace after supper, Clay Whipple was looking into the flames with a preoccupied air.
He had been silent all evening, an unusual thing for him, for usually he injected humorously dry comments into general conversations.
"What's the trouble, Clay?" asked Stella, who was always the first to notice when one of the boys was not his usual self.
"Oh, I don't know," said Clay uneasily.
"Reckon he's worryin' some on account o' this yere mountain bandit bein' ther same name as him," laughed a cow-puncher named "Pike" Bander.
"I reckon you're only joshin', Pike," said Clay quietly, but growing a shade paler.
"Why, shore, Clay. Yer didn't think I wuz in earnest?" Pike hastened to say.
Clay's Kentucky blood would not permit him to receive without resentment any reflections against the South or the people of his family, while he could stand any amount of personal joshing without growing in the least touchy or angry.
"Then what's the matter?" asked Ted, as Clay returned to his gloomy contemplation of the fire.
"I'm worried some, that's all," was the reply.
"Tell your troubles to the policeman, that's us."
"Well, I might as well out with it. Only I don't want to appear as if I was gettin' panicky over nothing."
"What is it, Clay? You are so provoking when I am just dying to hear about it," cried Stella with a laugh. "Out with it."
"Injuns!" said Clay explosively.
"Indians!"
Every one around the fire sat up with a jump.
Clay nodded his head slowly without taking his eyes from the fire.
There was silence for a few minutes, for every one was turning this new menace over in their minds.
The danger from Indians in this far-away Northern country was very real. It was not that the Indians would make any open or daring attacks, but that they were lawless and fearless of the authority of the United States, and despised the "buffalo soldiers" at the near-by army posts.
"Buffalo soldiers" is a name of contempt given by the Indians to the negro troops who had been stationed near the Blackfeet and Crow Indian agencies, on account of their curly, woolly hair, which, in the fantastic minds of the Indians, resembled the short, curly hair on the shoulders of the buffalo.
The negro troops were too near their own color to demand much respect from the Indians.
But the danger did not come so much from the reservation Indians, as from the fugitive Indians who had left the reservations and had become outlaws, allying themselves with the white bandits in the mountains, and living by thievery from the ranchmen and sheep-herders.
Some of these Indians had rallied around Running Bear, a young Blackfeet, son of a chief, a graduate of the Indian School at Carlisle, in Pennsylvania.
Running Bear was a young fellow of magnificent physique, for he had been a member of the famous Indian football team of Carlisle that had a year or two previously cleared all white teams from the gridiron.
Running Bear was well educated also, and a man of fine address and manners, when he wished to be so. But he was unprincipled, and when he returned to the tribe lost no time in breaking all the laws imposed by the United States for the government and welfare of the Indians.
This brought him into conflict with the Indian agent, and certain penalties were imposed on him. This he would not stand, and soon persuaded other of the young men of the tribe to mutiny against the agent.
This led to further trouble, and after committing some unforgivable offense against the United States, Running Bear rallied his young men, and they fled the reservation and the ways and protection of the white men, and took to the mountains, where they lived by raiding the ranches in the neighborhood, and maintaining a sort of defensive partnership with Whipple's band of white outlaws.
After a silence, during which every one was turning these facts over in his mind, Ted turned to Clay, and said:
"What about the Indians, Clay?"
"I saw their tracks."
"Where?"
"In the coulee back of the house."
"Near the house!" exclaimed Ted. "That's getting pretty close to home. Did they see you?"
"I reckon they did. I took a shot at one of them, an' he left a red trail in the snow."
"That's bad, Clay. You shouldn't have shot at him."
"Shouldn't, eh? Well, you never saw a fellow from ole Kaintuck that would stand up an' let a man shoot at him without sending his compliments back—if he happened to be packin' his gun at the time."
"Did they shoot at you, then?"
"One of them did. It was like this: I was ridin' in from the west, where I had seen a small bunch of strays which I turned back to the main herd. As I was comin' up to the big coulee I saw something move against the snow. At first I thought it was a grouse, and was just going to take a shot at it when I looked again. Then, by jinks, I saw that it was the head of an Indian shoved up over the edge of the coulee.
"His back was turned to me, and he was watching the house. I pulled in my pony and kept my eye on him for several minutes.
"Then I saw Mrs. Graham come out of the house and stand for a moment on the back porch.
"The Indian rose up and brought a rifle to his shoulder. At that I let out a yell, and he turned to me like a flash, and pulled his trigger. But he was in too much of a hurry, an' the ball whistled over my head.
"I had my gun out, an' blazed away. The Indian yawped as if he had been hit, and disappeared. I got to the coulee as fast as I could, but he had disappeared."
"Was he the only one?" asked Ted.
"I reckon not, for there were any number of moccasin tracks in the coulee, and the footprints of white men or Indians who wore boots. There was a splotch of blood where the Indian had been, and a red trail leading to where there had been ponies. Then I came on to the house."
Ted was thinking deeply. At last he raised his head.
"This has been a day full of things that may mean a great deal to us," he said. "Follansbee has been shot by a member of the Whipple gang, Sol Flatbush was killed after mutilating our cattle, more Whipple gang; and an Indian prowler has been shot, some more of the Whipple gang. Boys, the war is on, and it depends on us whether it is going to last all winter and cause us to lose all our cattle, or whether we are going to be able to stamp it out right now. Which shall it be?"
"I reckon we'd better get busy. It'll be easier ter do the job now than fuss along with it all winter," said Pike Bander, who was an old Northern cow-puncher, and had had lots of experience with the Indians in Montana, the Dakotas, and Wyoming.
"I think you're right, Pike," said Ted. "And now off to bed with you. There'll be something doing to-morrow."
In half an hour the house was dark, and every one was asleep.
The moon which had been shining brightly during the early part of the night had become obscured by a heavy bank of snow clouds, which had been driven over the mountains by a north wind, and it had grown much darker outside.
In his sleep Ted seemed to hear the well-known voice of Sultan, whinnying shrilly. It was a dream, and Ted tossed uneasily. But again and again he heard Sultan's voice. It had a note of alarm in it, and Ted knew that Sultan seldom gave an alarm of this sort unless something serious was the matter. Ted's dream was of Indians, and the call of Sultan was very natural, for the little black stallion hated Indians, and whenever one came within smelling distance of him he grew uneasy and fretful, and always gave voice to his fear.
The dream had such a disquieting influence on Ted that it woke him, and he sat up in bed grinning to himself in the dark to find that, after all, it was only a dream, and that he was safe in bed.
But what was that?
He was awake now, and he distinctly heard Sultan. Then he had heard his pet give a warning, even in his dream.
Leaping from bed, Ted groped around the room, getting into his clothes, without lighting the lamp.
Grasping his rifle from the corner, and buckling on his belt and holster, he left the room.
As he passed Clay's room he entered and shook the sleeping Kentuckian, who was on the floor with a bound. Ted told him of the continued voicing of an alarm by Sultan, and Clay hurriedly dressed.
They passed into the living room, and Ted went to the windows on one side, while Clay went to the other side.
Hidden by the curtains, they stood looking out on the snow-covered plain.
"Hist!" It was Clay trying to attract Ted's attention.
Ted went swiftly to his side.
"What's that down by the corral?" whispered Clay.
Ted looked sharply.
"It's the Indians," said Ted. "They're trying to steal our horses. Sultan knows what he's about. Come on, we'll have to rush them."
Ted heard a rustling noise behind him and turned.
It was Stella, fully dressed, and with her rifle resting in the hollow of her arm.
"I heard Sultan, too," she said. "We'll have to hurry if we're going to save the horses."
"You go back to bed," said Ted. "Yi-yi-yipee!"
His voice rang out in the old Moon Valley yell.
It was like a fire bell to a fireman, and brought the boys out of their beds like a shot, and they scrambled into their clothes and were in the living room with their arms in a jiffy.
In the corral a great commotion was taking place, to judge from the noise that came to them.
At the word of command they rushed through the door, and raced for the corral, turning loose the long yell.
They heard guttural shouts in the distance, and a band of ponies came through the gateway of the corral, scattering over the prairie.
Behind them rushed a band of Indians, who, seeing that there was no further occasion for silence, gave forth whoops of defiance.
Then Ted saw Sultan gallop out, and on his back was an Indian.
This was more than Ted could stand, and his rifle flew to his shoulder. There was a flash and a crash, and the Indian fell to the ground, over which he writhed in agony.
Ted whistled, and Sultan trotted to his side.
The ponies had scattered, and the corral was empty.
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."
Ted turned Bingo over to one of the boys to care for, and crept forward stealthily toward the hill behind which he had seen a thin thread of blue smoke rising in the still air.
No one but an Indian or a trained scout would build so small a fire. A tenderfoot would have made one that roared and sent a vast cloud of smoke toward the sky to attract any enemy that might be in the vicinity.
But an Indian builds his fire in a space not much larger than the hollow of his two hands, and manages to send up smoke that only a trained eye could detect, and at the same time have heat enough with which to warm himself and cook his food, with as little fuel as possible.
As he went forward, Ted was surprised that he came upon no sign of a camp guard.
The Indians evidently thought that the boys would not have the courage to follow them into their own country, and had grown careless.
So much the better. It would give him a chance to learn how they were situated before making an attack.
He crept on his hands and knees to the ridge of the hill, and, removing his hat, peered over the edge.
Below in a small valley he saw about fifty Indians, who, from their dress and their manner of painting their faces, he knew to be of various tribes.
He easily recognized in the band several Blackfeet, six or seven Crows, some Sioux, who had come far north, and to his astonishment a few Southern Indians, such as Caddos, Cheyennes, and Comanches.
This alone was enough to convince him that the Indians were outlaws and renegades, and that they were plunderers and thieves, as well; probably murderers hiding out from the United States troops.
In the circle about the fire he soon discovered the young fellow whose pony he had shot beside the frozen stream.
The young Indian, for he did not appear much older than Ted himself, was holding forth to a number of other Indians.
Probably he was boasting of his pursuit of the white boy, and the unfortunate mishap that brought down his pony and prevented him from bringing a white captive into camp.
Not far away from this group Ted observed a man dressed in Indian garb, who yet did not act like the other Indians. An Indian has a peculiar, slouching walk, while this man strode about with the smarter, quicker, springier tread of a white man.
Presently the supposed Indian drew from his belt a pouch of tobacco and some cigarette papers, and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
Northern Indians do not roll cigarettes; they smoke pipes. It is only the Indians of the Southwest who take their solace from tobacco through the little homemade paper tubes.
"That's a fellow who has been a cow-puncher," said Ted. "He's a white man disguised as an Indian. Probably one of the Whipple gang. I've got my opinion of a white man who will play Indian, and live with the dirty scoundrels," said Ted to himself, with disgust.
He had seen all that was necessary, and had laid his plan of attack in his mind.
Creeping down the hill, he threw his hand in the air as a signal for the boys to come to him, also signaling for silence.
In a few minutes they were by his side, and, while one of the fellows held Bingo safely, Ted sprang into the saddle.
"Now, fellows, we're going to ride around the end of this hill and plump into the Indian camp. The snow will deaden the hoofbeats of the ponies, but keep as still as possible. We'll surprise them, and probably be able to settle the whole thing without firing a shot. But don't bet on it, and keep your hands on your guns, but don't fire until they make the first crack, then rush them and drive them into the hills, and bring down all you can."
With this advice they rode forward by twos, Ted and Ben in the lead.
It did not take long to round the hill, and then, as suddenly as if they had opened a door and stepped into a room, they were in the midst of the Indians.
No such surprising and sudden attack was ever made. The Indians stood as if they were carved of wood as the boys rode up to them, staring open-mouthed.
Only one of them made a break—the young Indian whom Ted had dismounted.
For several moments not a word was said.
Ted saw instantly that the broncho boys had all the best of it, and that the Indians had been taken completely by surprise, for not one of them was armed. Their rifles and guns were either still on their saddles, and the ponies were standing some distance away, or they were stacked beside a ledge of rock twenty or more feet from the fire, where most of them were congregated.
The young fellow whom Ted had foiled stared for a moment with a look of contempt and dislike.
Suddenly he made a rush to where the guns were standing.
"Stop!" Ted's voice rang out sharply. But the youth continued to run.
"Stop, or I'll kill you!" shouted Ted again.
Then an old Indian cried out something, in the tongue of the Blackfeet, and the young fellow halted suddenly and came walking back with a sickly look on his face.
The old Indian who had stopped the youth now stepped a little ways forward, and, holding up his hands in a peace sign, began to talk.
"You are my brothers," he said, "and Flying Sun, the medicine man, welcomes you to our camp."
Ted held up his hands in a sign of peace also, but said nothing.
"He's a darned old hypocrite," said Ben, in an aside to Ted. "He has murder in those little red eyes of his, if ever a man had."
"I'm on to him," said Ted. "Keep your eyes on that bunch, and give it to them if they start anything treacherous."
"My white brothers come with peace for their red brothers. Join us at the fire. Warm yourselves; eat of our meat."
"We are willing to be brothers," said Ted. "But one brother does not steal the ponies from the corral of the other."
"That was the work of the young men, and they are now sorry for it," said the medicine man.
Ted looked at the young fellow whom he had unhorsed, and saw that his face was distended in a sarcastic smile.
"The young brave yonder is the one who led the raid on my corral. He does not look sorry," said Ted, pointing to the offender.
Flying Sun threw a glance in the direction of the young man, and said a few words sharply in the Blackfeet tongue.
"Crazy Cow is young and the son of a chief. His blood is hot within him, and he does not know what he does," said Flying Sun.
Crazy Cow's face at once assumed a look of sadness.
"I have not come for war," said Ted gravely, "but I want to warn you and your tribe that I will not stand for any raids on our ranch. You will find that we are good fighters, and that we can kill just as well as the soldiers. The ranch is ours, and the cattle and horses are ours, and do not belong to the young men of your tribe. They must leave us alone, or we will be compelled to deal out justice to them in our own way, which is a hard one."
"Very well, my brother," said the wily old chief. "We desire to live in peace with our white brothers. Your cattle and horses shall be sacred to our young men."
"I mean this," said Ted, looking at the old man severely. "Keep your young men away from our ranch, or they will be killed."
At this Crazy Cow drew himself up to his full height, and looked at Ted with scorn.
"Two can make killing," he said, in perfectly plain English.
"Perhaps they can," said Ted quickly. "But I want to say to you particularly, that if you are ever seen within the lines of the Long Tom Ranch again you will be sorry that you ever were born. I have said enough. Get on your horses and go. You are now on the ranch. Get beyond it."
The young Indian gave a short, harsh laugh, and strode toward a pony, decorated after the fashion of war ponies with feathers and bits of red flannel woven into his mane and tail.
The other Indians were not slow to follow his example, and soon they were all mounted.
"Now look out for treachery," said Ted in an aside to the boys.
"Keep your eyes peeled, fellows," said Ben, passing the word along back.
"Ride up in open order so that we can surround that bunch if they get gay," said Ted, in a low voice, and the boys rode out and scattered themselves in a long line.
The Indians were bunched pretty well together.
It was a critical moment.
The slightest suspicious move on the part of the boys might have alarmed the Indians and started a fight.
While the boys kept their hands on their weapons not one was drawn.
The Indians rode off to a distance of a few hundred feet, then halted. All had their rifles or guns in their hands, but not in a hostile way.
They were well aware that the white boys were much better armed than they, and were not in a temper to stand any foolishness.
It seemed as if the Indians had stopped to say good-by before riding away into the mountains.
But when they stopped, Crazy Cow rode out from them a short distance and stopped.
"I am Crazy Cow," he said in a boastful way.
This was in the manner of a personal challenge, as if he had said: "Who the deuce are you? Knock the chip off my shoulder if you dare."
Ted looked at him for a moment, for Crazy Cow was staring at him with an impertinent look in his face.
"I don't care who you are," said Ted, who was disgusted with the fellow's airs. "If you were the chief himself, I would tell you to keep away from my cows and ponies. What is the son of a chief? Nothing!"
The tone in which Ted said this was such that the young Indian flushed a deeper red, and grasped his rifle harder.
"I am an educated Indian," said Crazy Cow, "and as good as any white man. This is my country, and I shall go wherever I please."
"Go where you will, except on my ranch. Keep off that."
The Indian shrugged his shoulders.
"I go where I please. You, whoever you are, have no right to prevent me from going anywhere. Who are you to talk to me like that?"
"My name is Ted Strong. I am a deputy United States marshal. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes. I spit on them."
"Well, here's one you won't spit on. That's a cinch. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a man who got his education free from the United States, to talk that way."
"Bah! I hate the United States which robbed my people of their lands, and then made treaties only to break them. Since they have driven me into the mountains they owe me a living, and I'm going to collect it."
"Very well, only be careful how you do it. I have said enough."
"Ted Strong talks big and much, but does nothing. He is a coward who is afraid of the Indian."
"I am not afraid of you. I think I have shown it."
"Yes, but you ran when I surprised you by the stream."
"My pony ran, and to keep from losing him I clung to him."
"It was a good thing for you that he did run. If he hadn't, you would never have gone home again, and the buzzards and vultures, assisted by the prairie wolves, would have you by now."
"Big talk means nothing. You are not a fighter, you are a squaw. You are a fool and a boaster."
"No, I am a chief, and a warrior. I have seen the blood of the white man flow, and I drank it. I am brave."
"You're full of hot air. Run along now; I'm disgusted with you."
"Hah! White squaw afraid to fight. Go back to your camp, and cook the meals and wash the clothes in the tub."
Crazy Cow made motions, of scrubbing at a tub.
At this the other Indians burst into laughter.
"You are but an idle boaster, Crazy Cow. You make much noise like the wind in the trees. That is all it amounts to. You do not make me feel bad by what you say."
Crazy Cow, seeing that he could not get Ted angry with his banter, tried a new tack.
"Hah, little bay pony," he cried, addressing Bingo. "Are you a squaw pony?"
He paused in a listening attitude as if he was paying close attention to what the pony was saying.
"Yes, you are ashamed to be ridden by a squaw who does not fight, but only talks. Come over here, squaw pony, and be ridden by a man."