"You're lucky to be alive," growled Tad. "I'm going to get out of this."
"How?"
"Listen, and you'll know. I'm going to get on the pony; then, as soon as I'm in the saddle, you jump up behind me and we'll start back to camp."
"Not—not through that fire?" protested Stacy.
"No; I don't dare try it. I'm afraid we'd get lost in the smoke and perhaps get burned as well. We'll ride out some distance, then turn to the left and try to go around the burned district."
"What if the Indians chase us?"
"I don't believe they will. They'll hardly dare do that. And, besides, these may be friendly Indians."
"Huh!" grunted Stacy. "They look it."
Tad got up boldly, and without even looking toward the silent red men, began fussing about his saddle, cinching the girths, and straightening the saddle. His last act before mounting was to see that the coils of his lariat were in order.
"All right," announced the lad, vaulting into the saddle.