“What in the world is he doing?” Mazie’s mother asked her.
“Driving away Rick’s bad luck,” was the laughing answer.
“Oh, Mazie, you shouldn’t tease him or encourage him that way,” her mother objected.
“He’s got to have something to amuse himself with,” said the girl with another laugh, “and as long as I don’t believe in it, no harm is done.”
“But you shouldn’t let Sartin think you believe in such foolish charms,” went on her mother. “However it’s done, now, but don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” promised Mazie. “But, Oh, I do hope the boys will be all right.”
“Your father seems to think they will be,” said Mrs. Dalton. “Of course it’s a long, and not easy, trip for such young lads, but Mr. Campbell will look well after them, and when they get to Bitter Sweet Gulch, there Uncle Tod will meet them. I guess they’ll be all right.”
As for Rick, Chot and Ruddy they had not the slightest doubt but that they would safely get out west, and there was no end to the many adventures they planned, from learning to be cowboys to visiting the reservations of all the Indians within a hundred miles.
Rick and Chot knew, as do most sensible boys, that the days of Indian hunting and buffalo chasing across the western plains were gone forever. The buffalo, except those on protected ranges, were a thing of the romantic past, and as for the Indians, they were rapidly dying off, and those who remained were on government reservations.
Of course, down toward the Mexican border there were occasional outbreaks of the Yaquis, but from these our friends had nothing to fear, for they were not going that far south. Not that Rick and Chot would have “feared” this contingency. To the contrary they would rather have welcomed it. But it was not to be.