Chet Havens had never seen so many redmen before, save at a show. They were stripped to the waist and wore only fringed leggings and moccasins. There were feathers in their topknots; yet Chet, seeing them closer, knew that those feathers were not worn because they were “braves” and had killed their enemies in battle.
These were only Indian youths out on a frolic or a hunt, none of them being much older than Dig and himself. But how they did ride! They had only a cloth over their ponies’ backs and each rode with a single rein to guide his half wild brute.
Each young redskin carried a rifle and they all tossed them up as high as they could reach when they saw the two white boys appear from the riverside. Then, at a signal from their leader, they flung themselves to the far side of their mounts, and circled out from the trail, passing the amazed Chet and Dig, only one hand and a foot of each Indian showing, their ponies still tearing along at a great pace. In wartime the Indians performed this trick, shooting at their enemies under the ponies’ necks.
Dig had brought his gun, and when he heard the “E-i! e-i! e-i!” of the Indian yell he was a little scared.
“What kind of a game is this?” he wanted to know of Chet. “By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! those yelling galoots look as though they meant business.”
“Shucks, boy!” said Chet, “you know there are no more wild Indians.”
“Huh! if those fellows are not wild, what are they? And whew! how they can ride!”
“That’s John Peep in the lead,” Chet said. “Though what he’s doing away over here I can’t imagine.”
“Huh! I’ll get even some way!” threatened Digby. “Scaring a fellow out of half a year’s growth!”
The cavalcade came back, the sweat-streaked faces of the riders grinning. Dig said to his chum: