The trail of the Indians was easy to follow until dark, and soon after the trapper saw a camp fire and guessed that the Indians had camped. He approached cautiously and saw that the reds had built their camp fire in the mouth of a little blind cañon, into which they had succeeded in heading Hide-rack.
Apparently the horse had given them so much trouble to capture him that they had turned their ponies in to make his acquaintance and perhaps soothe his ruffled temper.
But Hide-rack had evidently decided to form no new acquaintance. As Nomad reached a position from which he could command a view of the pocket, his “horse pard” was just in the act of making an impression on the ponies. The impression they got was of a vicious pair of heels that seemed shooting out in all directions at once.
The Indians, fearing for the legs if not the lives of their ponies, rushed in to take a hand.
Then old Nomad broke loose with a wild:
“Yip-yip-yar-r-r! Hide-rack, give it to ’em, ole hoss! Don’t let no dirty redskin put a hand onto ye! Soak ’em, ole pard!”
And Hide-rack, in response to his master’s voice, did “soak ’em.” He rushed at the Indians like a mad thing, biting, striking, and kicking.
Before they could get out of the way the horse laid out two of the red men and was pursuing the third, who ran like a deer straight through the camp fire, with the vengeful Hide-rack only one jump behind.
The savage dodged among the rocks and escaped, while Hide-rack capered up to Bear Paw with a whinny of delight.
“Ye kicked ther tarnal stuffin’ outen um, didn’t ye, ole pard?” yelled Nomad in high glee, as he cantered back across the plain.