A low whinny and something like a suppressed curvet was Dick's reply, and it was followed by a sharp exclamation.
"Dick, what's that? What's the matter with Sam Herrick?"
At the same instant Dick was wheeled in an easterly direction and was permitted to bound away to meet a horse and rider who were coming towards him at furious speed.
Hardly three minutes later both reins were drawn so suddenly as almost to compel the two quadrupeds to sit down.
"What's the matter, Sam?"
"Indians, Cal, Indians!"
The news was of an exciting character and was given with emphasis, but neither the voice nor the face of the black-bearded, undersized, knotty-looking man who gave it betrayed the least trace of emotion. It was as if he were mentioning some important but altogether matter-of-course part of a cowboy's daily business. He added, in even a quieter tone and manner, as his horse came to a standstill, "I scored one of 'em. They've kind o' got the lower drove, but mebbe they won't drive 'em far. We can race these hosses into the timber. That's what I came for, and I'm right down glad you're here to help."
Cal's eager young face glowed with something more than health, and his eyes were flashing, but he made an effort to seem as calm and unconcerned as Sam Herrick himself.
"How far away are they now?" he asked, as he followed Sam's quick dash towards the drove of horses.
"Mebbe a mile 'n a half. Mebbe not so much. Mebbe some more. All of 'em, except the braves that took after me, went for hosses and fresh beef, or seemed to. Guess we'll have time."