Then the pinto got busy. It was an arrow!
There were several more, and one of them clipped the pommel of the saddle before Featherbed thought of his orders to fire once on sight of disturbed grass or a moccasin track on bare ground; or, upon sighting an Indian, to fire three times.
Then he let go with his Springfield in the supposed direction of the enemy, and headed for the trail, which he readily found, and soon caught up with the mess-wagon which always formed the rear guard with one whacker, the night herder inside, and the extra herd horses tied behind. Featherbed met Watson galloping toward the rear.
"What is it, boy?" he shouted.
"They got a piece of my Texas pommel," he replied, "but I don't know where the arrow came from. I'll go back and see."
He wheeled his pony to go and would have been off to take up his station a thousand yards from the trail had not Watson said, laughingly:
"You're crazy—wait a minute till I send word up ahead to corral."
"You (to the mess wagon driver) untie them hosses, saddle 'em up and wait for Blucher Brown and Archer; they'll be back in a minute."
Featherbed, as the sun peeped over a rise in the land, waited impatiently. So did the pony, for the miserable Indian-bred cuss had a good nose that was keen to the smoky smell of an Indian, or to the odor of another horse, especially of his own breed, and he was all animation and ready to go.
When the party finally got away Watson, turning to Featherbed as they galloped side by side along the high spots near the back trail, said: