"I can feel myself gettin' cracked an' swiped by about a hundred dozen branches already," remarked Conroy, with a dubious glance at the hill. "Whoa—whoa! W-h-o-a, I s-a-y!"
Conroy's pony was hard to manage; suddenly he whirled about, crashing against the side of Dave's packhorse with unpleasant force, then backed toward the water's edge.
"Look out, broncho-buster!" yelled Tim. "This isn't swimming weather."
Jack brought his quirt down with stinging force, and the broncho, snorting angrily, leaped forward, landing with a jolt which almost unseated his rider.
"Confound the vicious little beast!" cried Jack, red-faced and flustered.
Bob Somers' broncho had already started up the hill, fighting bravely to force a passage through a mass of underbrush. In places trees grew so close together as to leave scarcely room enough to pass between; and frequently only quick and skilful dodging enabled them to escape low-hanging branches. Once Dick Travers was almost swept from his saddle by a sturdy limb which he imprudently tried to thrust aside.
Not long after, a yell came from Tommy Clifton. "Wow! My, oh, my, but that stung!" he sang out, as a branch pushed forward by the Rambler in advance suddenly came back and lashed his shoulder. "Look out, Jack; it'll swipe you, too."
The ascent soon became steeper and more open. The character of the soil seemed to change; showers of earth and stones rattled noisily down the slopes. Presently the bronchos were jammed together in the greatest confusion, the way being blocked by a great mass of broad-leafed prickly pears.
"Great Scott! Now we're all at sea on land," chirped Sam. "Gee! What queer-looking plants!"
"I could manage if I didn't have this confounded little packhorse to bother about," grunted Dick.