Amoshee, otherwise John Peep, thought well of the scheme, it was plain. But meanwhile Digby Fordham and the other Indians had been hatching out something entirely different.
It was already nine o’clock, but Dig was not ready for the trail yet. He had been bragging with the Indians about ponies and riding. Now they had to prove out each other’s prowess.
“Oh, Dig!” complained Chet. “We’ll never get away.”
“Be still!” grinned his chum, knowing what was really troubling Chet. “That old bull buffalo will wait for you, don’t fear.”
“Hush!” warned Chet again.
He had learned from Amoshee that the party of Indian lads was going north on this hunting trip. He did not believe they had heard anything about the herd of buffaloes, and he did not propose to tell them.
Few hunters crossed these valleys and hills at this time of year, and only two men whom he knew of had chanced upon the buffaloes. Neither had been prepared to stalk the beasts, and Chet hoped that nobody else had been along the Grub Stake trail beside which the buffaloes seemed to be feeding.
Meanwhile the Indians were catching their ponies. They did not hobble them as the white boys did, but picketed them out at the end of their lariats. The scrubby little beasts did not look either fast or trustworthy; but Chet and Dig knew what they could do.
They had seen Indians perform on horseback before. With but one line twisted about the pony’s lower jaw, and without even a cloth on its back, an Indian can ride and perform evolutions that are really remarkable.
On the great lawn outside the grove in which they had camped, the Indian youths performed all manner of tricks. Amoshee was one of the best, for on the back of a pony he was the equal of any of his mates. His shortened leg did not count against him there.