Chet, however, had made up his mind that they ought to make fairly good time on the trail until they should pass the second line of foothills. Then they would reach the broader plains, on which it was reported the herd of buffaloes had been seen. If the expedition to Grub Stake was to be delayed at all, he hoped it would be delayed only by the huge buffalo and its mates, of which the men about the Silent Sue shaft had spoken. “We don’t want to be fooling around here with a mess of catfish,” he said to Dig, “when we may be able, later, to get a shot at something worth while.” “Oh, Chet!” exclaimed Digby, “you’ve got that buffalo on the brain and nothing else is going to suit you. Bet you we lug these heavy rifles clear to Grub Stake and don’t get a shot.” “Never mind; you’ve captured a deer, Dig,” said his chum soothingly. “And you say you are going to lead it with you.” “So I am!” snapped Dig. “I can be pigheaded just as well as you can.” But something almost immediately happened to cheer Dig up and avert any quarrel between the chums. It was something that held them at the camp by the river for a while, too. As it fell out, breakfast was finished and the pots and pans washed. Their blanket-rolls were repacked and all was ready for saddling, when a torrent of pounding hoofs reached their ears. “Stampede!” yelled Chet, starting for the edge of the grove. “What of—buffaloes?” demanded his friend, following in a more leisurely fashion. Chet first came to the edge of the grove, where he could see back along the trail by which they had come from Silver Run. There was a cloud of dust which shrouded a number of horsemen; but how many were coming, and who they were, the boy could not at first imagine. Then, out of the cloud, as it slowed up, appeared a band of frowsy ponies, most of them piebald. They were ridden by Indians—and rather savage looking ones at that. Chet Havens had never seen so many redmen before, save at a show. They were stripped to the waist and wore only fringed leggings and moccasins. There were feathers in their topknots; yet Chet, seeing them closer, knew that those feathers were not worn because they were “braves” and had killed their enemies in battle. These were only Indian youths out on a frolic or a hunt, none of them being much older than Dig and himself. But how they did ride! They had only a cloth over their ponies’ backs and each rode with a single rein to guide his half wild brute. Each young redskin carried a rifle and they all tossed them up as high as they could reach when they saw the two white boys appear from the riverside. Then, at a signal from their leader, they flung themselves to the far side of their mounts, and circled out from the trail, passing the amazed Chet and Dig, only one hand and a foot of each Indian showing, their ponies still tearing along at a great pace. In wartime the Indians performed this trick, shooting at their enemies under the ponies’ necks.