"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.
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