s riding
that way saw him, and one leaned and lifted him from the ground and rode
off with him. Buddy did not struggle much. He saved his breath for the
long, shrill yell of cow-country. Twice he yodled before the Indian
clapped a hand over his mouth.

Father and some of the cowboys heard and came after, riding hard and
shooting as they came. Buddy's pink apron fluttered a signal flag in the
arms of his captor, and so it happened that the bullets whistled close
to that particular Indian. He gathered a handful of calico between
Buddy's shoulders, held him aloft like a puppy, leaned far over and
deposited him on the ground.

Buddy rolled over twice and got up, a little dizzy and very indignant,
and shouted to father, "Shoot a sunsyguns!"

From that time Buddy added hatred to his distrust of Indians.

From the time when he was four until he was thirteen Buddy's life
contained enough thrills to keep a movie-mad boy of to-day sitting on
the edge of his seat gasping enviously through many a reel, but to Buddy
it was all rather humdrum and monotonous.

What he wanted to do was to get out and hunt buffalo. Just herding
horses, and watching out for Indians, and killing rattlesnakes was what
any boy in the country would be doing. Still, Buddy himself achieved now
and then a thrill.

There was one day, when he stood heedlessly on a ridge looking for a
dozen head of lost horses in the draws below. It was all very well to
explain missing horses by the conjecture that the Injuns must have got
them, but Buddy happened to miss old Rattler with the others. Rattler
had come north with the trail herd, and he was wise beyond the wisdom of
most horses. He would drive cattle out of the brush without a rider to
guide him, if only you put a saddle on him. He had helped Buddy to mount
his back--when Buddy was much smaller than now--by lowering his head
until Buddy straddled it, and then lifting it so that Buddy slid down
his neck and over his withers to his back. Even now Buddy sometimes
mounted that way when no one was looking. Many other lovable traits had
Rattler, and to lose him would be a tragedy to the family.

So Buddy was on the ridge, scanning all the deep little washes and
draws, when a bullet PING-G-GED over his head. Buddy caught the bridle
reins and pulled his horse into the shelter of rocks, untied his rifle
from the saddle and crept back to reconnoitre. It was the first time he
had ever been shot at--except in the army po