The bronchos, in the confined space, were fast becoming unmanageable. They started to buck and rear, dangerously close to the prickly leaves.
Bob, with a firm hand, wheeled his pony sharply about.
"We'll have to get out of this," he said, grimly. "It wouldn't be a bit healthy to take a header in among that mess."
Dave, leading his packhorse after him, was now crashing down the slope, and the others, with quirts and voices, succeeded in bringing their bronchos under partial control.
When they pulled up some distance below for a moment's rest, all seven were smarting from the effects of collisions with numerous obstacles.
"I wonder what I ever did to these trees, to have 'em treat me like this," chirped Dick.
"It's a dangerous landscape, son," laughed Bob, rubbing his shoulder.
"That last crack I got completed the first hundred dozen," grumbled Jack. "An' more to come! Whoa—whoa, you silly duffer. Quick, Sam—get out of the way, or this idiotic bronc'll sail right over top o' you."
Jack was passing through some anxious moments as Sam frantically tried to turn. His bronco threshed wildly about, threatening to pitch him headlong. Just as he began to have melancholy visions of what might presently happen, the other managed to get out of his way.
"Hello, fellows—this way!" came over the air in Dave Brandon's cheery voice. "I can see the top of the hill from here."