“Pair of budding warriors, all right; an’ awful important.  Somebody must ‘a’ told them they had brains,” Mr. Cassidy muttered.  “They’re just at the age when they knows it all an’ have to go ’round raising hell all the time.  Wonder when they jumped the reservation.”

The Indians, seeing Mr. Connors arguing with his prostrate horse, and taking it for granted that he was not stopping for pleasure or to view the scenery, let out a yell and dashed ahead at grater speed, at the same time separating so as to encircle him and attack him front and rear at the same time.  They had a great amount of respect for cowboys.

This manoeuvre was entirely unexpected and clashed violently with Mr. Cassidy’s plan of procedure, so two irate punchers swore heartily at their rank stupidity in not counting on it.  Of course everybody that knew anything at all about such warfare knew that they would do just such a thing, which made it all the more bitter.  But Red had cultivated the habit of thinking quickly and he saw at once that the remedy lay with him; he astonished the exultant savages by straddling his disgruntled horse as it scrambled to its feet and galloping away from them, bearing slightly to the south, because he wished to lure his pursuers to ride closer to his anxious and eager friend.

This action was a success, for the yelling warriors, slowing perceptibly because of their natural astonishment at the resurrection and speed of an animal regarded as dead or useless, spurred on again, drawing closer together, and along the chord of the arc made by Mr. Connors’ trail.  Evidently the fool white man was either crazy or had original and startling ideas about the way to rest a horse when hard pressed, which pleased them much, since he had lost so much time.  The pleasures of the war-trail would be vastly greater if all white men had similar ideas.

Hopalong, the light of fighting burning strong in his eyes, watched them sweep nearer and nearer, splendid examples of their type and seeming to be a part of their mounts.  Then two shots rang out in quick succession and a cloud of pungent smoke arose lazily from the edge of the arroyo as the warriors fell from their mounts not sixty yards from the hidden marksman.

Mr. Connors’ rifle spat fire once to make assurance doubly sure and he hastily rejoined his friend as that person climbed out of the arroyo.

“Huh!  They must have been half-breeds!” snorted Red in great disgust, watching his friend shed sand from his clothes.  “I allus opined that ’Paches was too blamed slick to bite on a game like that.”

“Well, they are purty ’lusive animals, ’Paches; but there are exceptions,” replied Hopalong, smiling at the success of their scheme.  “Them two ain’t ’Paches—­they’re the exceptions.  But let me tell you that’s a good game, just the same.  It is as long as they don’t see the second trail in time.  Didn’t Buck and Skinny get two that way?”