The pony snorted some more, and then Featherbed, finding his blunt pointed spurs were not getting him anywhere, unsheathed his butcher-knife and pricked his cayuse on the back. He tried to buck, but he wore a double cinch--one fore and one aft--and it kept him on all fours. Things were getting worse and the voices of the bullwhackers yelling at their teams grew fainter and fainter as the outfit slowly but surely put distance between Featherbed and his companion, when there was a sound that resembled the dropping of a stick in the water preceded by a distinct swish as if it had been thrown through the air like a boomerang. Then the pinto got busy. It was an arrow! There were several more, and one of them clipped the pommel of the saddle before Featherbed thought of his orders to fire once on sight of disturbed grass or a moccasin track on bare ground; or, upon sighting an Indian, to fire three times. Then he let go with his Springfield in the supposed direction of the enemy, and headed for the trail, which he readily found, and soon caught up with the mess-wagon which always formed the rear guard with one whacker, the night herder inside, and the extra herd horses tied behind. Featherbed met Watson galloping toward the rear. "What is it, boy?" he shouted. "They got a piece of my Texas pommel," he replied, "but I don't know where the arrow came from. I'll go back and see." He wheeled his pony to go and would have been off to take up his station a thousand yards from the trail had not Watson said, laughingly: "You're crazy--wait a minute till I send word up ahead to corral." "You (to the mess wagon driver) untie them hosses, saddle 'em up and wait for Blucher Brown and Archer; they'll be back in a minute." Featherbed, as the sun peeped over a rise in the land, waited impatiently. So did the pony, for the miserable Indian-bred cuss had a good nose that was keen to the smoky smell of an Indian, or to the odor of another horse, especially of his own breed, and he was all animation and ready to go. When the party finally got away Watson, turning to Featherbed as they galloped side by side along the high spots near the back trail, said: "If yer not afraid, pull out ahead with that pony and lead the way." Featherbed pressed the Rowell spur to the pony's side and he responded like a real cow-pony, much to Featherbed's surprise, and before Watson could gather his breath to call the youngster back he led them by 200 yards. Finally he did manage to yell between his laughter: "Hold on, you danged idiot--I didn't mean--" But he didn't finish the sentence, although he continued yelling, this time expressing himself to the effect: "My hoss has been creased in the neck--dismount, give me your hoss and lead mine back to the outfit; we'll take care of these galoots."