en by recent rains,
had to be crossed unhesitatingly, and without the help of bridges. But
all these dangers and difficulties were familiar to him, and he passed
through them unconcerned.

Once when he was riding at fullest speed through the wide valley of
White Eagle Gulch, he was forced to turn aside to avoid a great
straggling herd of buffaloes. He noticed that the ponderous animals
were breathing heavily, and that their flanks were moist with
perspiration. Those at the head of the moving herd were strong and
virile, and in good condition; those towards the rear were thin and
scraggy, and many of these were a long distance in the rear.

"Seems they've been having a stampede," Kiddie reflected. "The weak
ones lagged behind. Looks as if they'd been chased."

Amongst the stragglers was a magnificent bull, striding slowly but
proudly alone. Blood was dripping from a wound in its nearer side, and
deep in the wound was an arrow, buried almost to the feathers.

"Been chased by a band of Redskins," Kiddie assured himself. And he
began to look out for further signs of the possible presence of Indians.

A mile or so farther on he came upon a buffalo lying dead, but there
were no other signs for many miles until he was crossing a stretch of
prairie, where he saw the remains of several buffaloes that had been
flayed and cut up. Nothing but the stripped bones was left.

Shortly afterwards he crossed the trail of the hunters, and he
estimated that the band consisted of about fifty Indians. They had
gone off with their loads of buffalo meat and hides towards the
foothills, in a direction at right angles to his own.

Clearly the Redskins were not out to interfere with the Pony Express.
Nevertheless, Kiddie continued to keep a watchful eye on both sides of
the trail as he galloped along, and also to observe the behaviour of
his mount and of the wild birds.

It was the pony that gave him the first intimation of danger, by a
sudden lifting of the head and restless twitching of the erect ears.
This might well have been occasioned by the near neighbourhood of some
beast of prey--a lynx, a wolf, or even an ordinary coyote.

By itself, it meant little, but it was enough to make Kiddie attentive,
even though he had assured himself that the Indians, or, at all events,
the main body of them, had gone home to their reservation beyond the
Rattlesnake Mountains. There were other signs, however.

The gorge through which he wa