"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.
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