"If yer not afraid, pull out ahead with that pony and lead the way."
Featherbed pressed the Rowell spur to the pony's side and he responded like a real cow-pony, much to Featherbed's surprise, and before Watson could gather his breath to call the youngster back he led them by 200 yards. Finally he did manage to yell between his laughter:
"Hold on, you danged idiot—I didn't mean—"
But he didn't finish the sentence, although he continued yelling, this time expressing himself to the effect:
"My hoss has been creased in the neck—dismount, give me your hoss and lead mine back to the outfit; we'll take care of these galoots."
Featherbed protested, but it was no use, and he returned and joined the whackers who had corralled and gathered the bulls inside the wagons, forming two half circles on a high spot near the trail. There were several other horses in the outfit, so Featherbed quickly slipped the boss' fine $200 rig on the back of a buckskin of the cow-puncher variety and sped back to the scene of action.
But it was all over. The sneaking Indians had disappeared, and the only evidence of their presence was a spot of crumpled grass behind a knoll where several of them had lain in complete safety while they tried to send Featherbed to the Happy Hunting Ground.
The sun was too high for the Indians, so they disappeared, skulking at safe distance to wait for darkness and perhaps other prey.
Featherbed, after another shift of mounts and saddles and bridles, again took his post 1,000 yards from the trail, smoked his pipe, munched his sandwiches and drank the spring water.
At ten o'clock camp was struck for the mid-day stop close to a creek of sweet cold water that ran through some small hills covered with stunted pines, a few miles from a range of black mountains out of the bad lands and sand.