couldn't throw your rope down
on the pink-eyed one and trip him. I'll get him out for you."
"You will do nothing of the sort. I can rope my own stock."
After having obtained another lariat, Tad, not deeming it wise to
attempt to try to pick up the rope that the animal was dragging about
the corral, once more took his station, while the cowman began milling
them around the enclosure by sundry shouts and prods.
There was much kicking and squealing.
"Now cut him out!" shouted Tad.
The cowboy did so. Pink-eye was beating a tattoo in the air with his
heels. He was occupying a little open space all by himself at that
moment.
The rope again curled through the air. Tad gave it a quick undulating
motion after feeling the pull on the pony's neck, and the next moment
the little animal fell heavily to his side.
"Woof!" said the pony.
"Come out of here!" commanded the lad, jerking the animal to its feet
and starting for the exit.
The pink-eyed broncho followed its new master out as if he had been
doing so every day for a long time.
Tad picked out a spotted roan for Stacy Brown, to which he gave the
appropriate name of "Painted-squaw". Bad-eye, was considered an
appropriate name for Ned Rector's broncho, while Walter drew a
dapple gray which he decided to call Buster.
After choosing a well broken animal for the Professor, and picking out
a suitable pack horse, the boys announced that they were ready for the
start. An hour or so was spent in getting provisions enough to last them
for a few days, all of which, together with their camp equipment, was
strapped to the backs of the ponies.
It was now three o'clock in the afternoon. Ahead of them was a thirty
mile journey over an unknown trail.
"I think we had better have a guide to take us out to the foothills until
we shall have found our permanent guide," said the Professor.
"No, please don't," urged Tad.
"We are plainsmen enough now to he able to find our own way," added
Ned. "It's a clear trail. We can see the Rosebud Range from here. That's
it over there, isn't it, Mr. Simms?"
"Yes," replied the banker. "All you will have to do will be to get your
direction by your compass before you start, and hold to it. You will not
be able to see the mountains all the time, as the country is rolling and
there are numerous buttes between here and there."
"Any Indians?" asked Stacy apprehensively.
"You may see some, but they will not bother you," laughed the banker.
"I shall hope to have you all spend next Sunday with us at my ranch;
then we can discuss our plans for your joining my outfit."
"How far is it from where we are bound?" asked the Professor.
"Not more than twenty miles. Just a few hours' ride."
Filled with joyful anticipations the little party set out, headed for the
mountain ranges that lay low in the southwest, some thirty miles distant.
Contrary to their usual practice, they had taken no cook with them,
having decided to rely wholly on their own resources for a time at least,
which they felt themselves safe in doing after their many experiences
thus far on their summer vacation.
The little western village was soon left behind them. Turning in their
saddles, they found that it had sunk out of sight. They could not tell
behind which of the endless succession of high and low buttes the town
was nestling. Tad consulted his compass, after which the lads faced the
southwest and pressed cheerfully on.
The Pony Rider Boys were fairly started now on what was to prove the
most exciting and eventful journey of their lives.
CHAPTER II
YAWNS PROVE DISASTROUS
"Yah-h-h hum." Stacy Brown yawned loudly. "Yah-hum," breathed
Walter Perkins, half rousing himself from his nap.
"Ho-ho-hum," added the deep bass voice of Professor Zepplin.
"Yah--see here, stop that!" commanded Ned Rector, suddenly raising
himself to a sitting posture. "You've done nothing but stretch your
mouth in yawns ever since we reached Montana. See, you've waked up
the whole camp."
"Ho-hum," said Chunky.
"Say, what ails you?" demanded Tad, putting down by supreme force
of will, his own inclination to yawn.
"I--I guess--yah--it must be the--the mountain air. Yah-hum," yawned
the fat boy.
Pink-eye coughed off among the cedars.
"What means all this disturbance, young gentlemen?" demanded the
Professor.
"It's Chunky and the bronchos yawning," Ned Rector informed him.
"So did you," observed Stacy Brown.
"Did what?"
"Yawned. See, see! Your mouth's open now. You're going to yawn this
very second You----"
His taunts were lost in the shouts of the Pony Riders. Ned Rector's face
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