orse, unsaddled it and went staggering to the
stable wall with the burden of a stock-saddle much too big for him. He
had to stand on his boot-toes to reach and pull the bridle down over the
ears of Whitefoot, which turned with an air of immense relief into the
corral gate and the hay piled at the further end. Buddy gave him
one preoccupied glance and started for the cabin, walking with the
cowpuncher's peculiar, bowlegged gait which comes of wearing chaps and
throwing out the knees to overcome the stiffness of the leather. At
thirteen Buddy was a cowboy from hat-crown to spurs-and at thirteen
Buddy gloried in the fact. To-day, however, his mind was weighted with
matters of more importance than himself.

"The Utes are having a war-dance, mother," he announced when he had
closed the stout door of the kitchen behind him. "They mean it this
time. I lay in the brush and watched them last night." He stood looking
at his mother speculatively, a little grin on his face. "I told you, you
can't change an Injun by learning him to eat with a knife and fork," he
added. "Colorou ain't any whiter than he was before you set out to learn
him manners. He was hoppin' higher than any of 'em."

"Teach, Buddy, not learn. You know better than to say 'learn him
manners.'"

"Teach him manners," Buddy corrected himself obediently. "I was thinking
more about what I saw than about grammar. Where's father? I guess I'd
better tell him. He'll want to get the stock out of the mountains, I
should think."

"Colorou will send me word before they take the warpath," mother
observed reassuringly. "He always has. I gave him a whole pound of tea
and a blue ribbon the last time he was here."

"Yes, and the last time they broke out they got away with more 'n a
hundred head of cattle. You got to Laramie, all right, but he didn't
tell father in time to make a roundup back in the foothills. They're
DANCING, mother!"

"Well, I suppose We're due for an outbreak," sighed mother. "Colorou
says he can't hold his young men off when some of the tribe have been
killed. He himself doesn't countenance the stealing and the occasional
killing of white men. There are bad Indians and good ones."

"I know a couple of good ones," Buddy murmured as he made for the wash
basin. "It's the bad ones that were doing the dancing, mother," he flung
over his shoulder. "And if I was you I'd take Dulcie and the cats and
hit for Laramie. Colorou might get busy and forget to send word!