Rested, and on not too difficult a trail despite the snow, the mules set a brisk pace. Joe let them have their way, watching them only casually. Mules had what some people--who knew a little about them but seldom drove them--called a sense of humor. Others, better acquainted with mules, knew that they were merely full of deviltry. They did delight in confounding their drivers but they liked to have the advantage of any situation. It was a lot easier to snarl a harness when they were hitched to a plow than it was with a wagon tongue between them, and they knew it. Only occasionally, when the driver became too lax, did they try any tricks when they were pulling a loaded wagon. Mike, who had padded steadily behind or at one side of the wagon, bounced ahead suddenly. He bristled, and a deep snarl rumbled in his chest. Keeping in the tracks of the cavalry patrol, he ran about fifty feet down the trail and halted. Joe stopped the wagon. "Call your dog," he told Tad. "Gee! What's comin'?" "I don't know. Call your dog." Tad whistled. Reluctantly, stopping every few paces to look over his shoulder, Mike came back to the wagon. Joe handed Tad a piece of rope. "Better tie him." "Aw, Pa. Suppose--" "Tie him." Tad jumped into the snow and tied the rope around Mike's neck. Still bristling, tightening the rope, Mike strained down the Trail. Joe watched closely. Mike was an enthusiastic hunter as long as he hunted nothing larger than jack rabbits. He was not afraid of bigger game but he was smart enough to know that some things were too big for him, and therefore he paid little attention to them. Obviously he now scented either something that he wanted to hunt or something that offered prospects for a rousing battle, and presently the mules scented it too. They lifted their heads, cocked their ears forward, and watched ahead. Joe glanced at the rifle, and made sure of the exact location of his powder horn and bullet pouch. Presently three Indians mounted on small brown horses came around the knoll that had hidden them and advanced toward the wagon. Two nondescript dogs trailed them. Joe took the reins in his left hand, leaving his right free should whatever happen next demand action. He looked keenly at the approaching riders. They were wild, proud, startling. They wore full-length buckskin trousers, moccasins, and buffalo-skin coats. Fur hats were pulled over their black hair. They sat their little horses with an easy, insolent grace that few white men ever achieve. Their one concession to white men's ways was the long rifle that each carried over his saddle bow.