They gave him a hot hour's riding before they finally bunched and went tearing down the river bottom toward the ranch.

Even so, Buddy left two of the wildest careening up a narrow gulch.

He had not attempted to ride after them; not because he was afraid of Indians, for he was not.

The war-dance held every young buck and every old one in camp beyond the Pass.

But the margin of safety might be narrow, and Buddy was taking no chances that day.
When he was convinced that it was impossible for one boy to be in half a dozen places at once, and that the cowboys would be needed to corral the range bunch, Buddy whooped them all down the creek below the home ranch and let them go just as his father came riding up to the corral.
"They're war-dancing, father," Buddy shouted eagerly, slipping off his horse and wiping away the trickles of perspiration with a handkerchief not much redder than his face.