“We don’t want to be fooling around here with a mess of catfish,” he said to Dig, “when we may be able, later, to get a shot at something worth while.”
“Oh, Chet!” exclaimed Digby, “you’ve got that buffalo on the brain and nothing else is going to suit you. Bet you we lug these heavy rifles clear to Grub Stake and don’t get a shot.”
“Never mind; you’ve captured a deer, Dig,” said his chum soothingly. “And you say you are going to lead it with you.”
“So I am!” snapped Dig. “I can be pigheaded just as well as you can.”
But something almost immediately happened to cheer Dig up and avert any quarrel between the chums. It was something that held them at the camp by the river for a while, too.
As it fell out, breakfast was finished and the pots and pans washed. Their blanket-rolls were repacked and all was ready for saddling, when a torrent of pounding hoofs reached their ears.
“Stampede!” yelled Chet, starting for the edge of the grove.
“What of—buffaloes?” demanded his friend, following in a more leisurely fashion.
Chet first came to the edge of the grove, where he could see back along the trail by which they had come from Silver Run. There was a cloud of dust which shrouded a number of horsemen; but how many were coming, and who they were, the boy could not at first imagine.
Then, out of the cloud, as it slowed up, appeared a band of frowsy ponies, most of them piebald. They were ridden by Indians—and rather savage looking ones at that.