Ted Strong in Montana Part 15

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 horsemans.h.i.+p, 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 s.p.a.ce, so lightly did his feet touch the ground.

Rifle b.a.l.l.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 ma.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 leaders.h.i.+p 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 leaders.h.i.+p, he ordered an advance.