“Off to the right, here. All lie low on your own horses now, and no one speak aloud, for there are a score of braves pursuing,” said Buffalo Bill.
The word was passed in a low tone from one to the other, the scouts wheeled to the right, the shadow of the timber along the river was reached, and each man slipped from the back of the animal he rode, pulled off the lariat bridle from his pony, and bounded into the shelter of the trees.
Lashed with the lariats to urge them on, the group of ponies just deserted, though fagged out, ran on down the valley, and suddenly in chase swept half a dozen braves.
“They had gained well on us, but they’ll soon head those ponies off and return up the valley,” said Buffalo Bill.
“It was a successful stampede,” remarked the corporal.
“Yes; now to push along for a few miles, as soon as those braves go back.”
This the braves were not long in doing, going back at a canter and driving the ponies so recently deserted by riders before them, yet with no thought of the reason of the wild stampede.