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.