More tired than they cared to admit, the young homesteaders lost no time in wrapping up in their blankets, after everything had been made shipshape for the night. But scarcely had they worked themselves into comfortable positions than a terrified whinneying and snorting burst from the horses.
Hastily throwing aside their covering, the boys snatched their revolvers from under their saddles and sprang to their feet.
“What is it, Andy?” they asked, excitedly, as they caught a glimpse, across the campfire, of their companion as he ran to the ponies.
“Bears, I reckon. I haven’t heard a lion cry. But I don’t know.”
A frenzied thrashing and tramping, in addition to the snorting, put an end to any further exchange of opinions, and with one accord the three rushed toward the terrified animals.
“Steady! Steady!” soothed Andy, stepping among them.
But the horses refused to be quieted.
“We’ve got our hands full this time, sure enough! Quick, put your bridles on! You can manage your ponies better. No, don’t unhobble—and hang on for dear life. If one of them gets away, there’ll be no catching him.”
So thoroughly frightened were the animals, however, that it was all Phil and Ted could do to bridle them, but at last they succeeded. Yet they found it no easy task to hold them even then, for they persisted in facing north, whirling back so rapidly whenever the boys turned them as nearly to break away.
“What makes them do that?” gasped Ted, out of breath from his exertions.