will probably find it, fellows," said Ted. "The
Indians ride in different directions. Whenever you hit a trail follow
it, but go slow and keep your eyes peeled for an ambuscade. You will
find that eventually all the trails will lead to the same place. If we
are in luck, we will find them before they go on into the mountains, and
we may have a skirmish. I hope, however, that we will be able to settle
the matter without resorting to any shooting. Uncle Sam is mighty touchy
about any one killing his Indians except his soldiers, no matter what an
Indian does. We'll probably all come together where the Indians are.
Kit, you ride with me. You other fellows choose your partners. Bud, take
good care of Stella."

"You kin bet yer active an' useful life I will," said Bud, as he and
Stella galloped off together.

Bud and Kit rode away to the north, while the other broncho boys spread
out in pairs over the prairie.

Ted had been riding an hour without crossing a track.

"There's no use going in this direction any longer, Kit," he said.
"They've probably gone farther to the west. I guess we'd better strike
off that way, and take a chance of cutting them somewhere over there."

They had paused on the bank of a small frozen stream lined with willows,
and Ted had dismounted to walk up and down the bank to find a place
where he could break a hole in the ice to water the ponies.

"You'll have to rope Bingo and hold him when I go to get on," he said to
Kit before he got down.

"All right," said Kit. "I'd get down and cut that hole in the ice
myself, only my arm might give me trouble again. I've got to be mighty
careful of it yet."

As Ted was looking for a safe place to lead the ponies down to the
stream, with Bingo's bridle reins hanging over his arm, he was startled
by a snort from the brute, and a sudden back pull.

He looked over his shoulder at the pony to see what was the matter with
it.

Bingo was standing with his head high, his ears pointed forward, his
nostrils as red as if they were lined with red silk, and the whites of
his eyes like pieces of chalk, snorting as if in terror.

Ted read the symptoms instantly.

"He smells Indians," he muttered to himself.

He looked around for Kit, and saw him far down the stream, struggling
vainly with the pony he was riding, which was running away in a panic of
fear.

Kit was an expert and dauntless horseman, and not one of the broncho
boys except Ted could excel him in hors