The Pony Rider Boys in Montana Part 2

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 be 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 compa.s.s 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 b.u.t.tes 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 b.u.t.tes the town was nestling. Tad consulted his compa.s.s, 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 ba.s.s 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 was set determinedly, a vacant expression having taken full possession of his eyes.

"He is going to yawn," announced Walter solemnly. "Stake down the camp."

In spite of his determination not to yield to the impulse of the moment, Ned's mouth slowly opened to its extreme capacity, accompanied by a deep intake of breath.

"Y-a-h-h-h-hum!" he exploded.

"Got you that time. He--he----" Walter's words died away in a long-drawn, gaping yawn.

Ned waited to hear no more. With a yell he projected himself at the fat boy. Stacy, however, observing the move, had quickly rolled to one side. Ned struck the ground heavily.

Stacy was rolling over and over now as if his very life depended upon getting away. He could not spare the time to get up and run, so he continued to roll over and over, making no mean progress at that.

"Go it, Chunky!" shouted Walter in high glee.

The scene, dimly lighted by the smouldering camp-fire, was so ludicrous as to send the boys into shouts of laughter. All were thoroughly awake now. They had made camp at sunset on the banks of the East Fork, of what was known as Fennell's Creek, a broad, deep stream which, joining its companion fork some ten miles further down, flowed into the clear waters of the Yellowstone. Here they had cooked their supper after many attempts, made with varying degrees of success and much laughter. Later they had rolled themselves into their blankets and gone to sleep.

They had been awakened by Stacy Brown's yawns. In a moment each had taken his turn at yawning, but all took the interruption good-naturedly, save Ned Rector. By this time he had grown very much excited. No sooner would he pounce upon the spot where Stacy appeared to be, than the fat boy by a few swift rolls would propel himself well beyond the reach of his irate companion.

"It'll be the worse for you when I do get you," cried Ned.

At that moment Ned tripped over a limb, and, plunging headlong, measured his length on the ground.

The sympathy of the camp was with the rolling Chunky.

"Get a net," shouted Walter.

"No, rope him, Ned. That's the only way you ever will catch him,"

jeered Tad.

Both boys were dancing about their companions, shivering in their pajamas and uttering shouts of glee.

"He's a regular high roller," said Tad.

"No, not a high roller," answered Walter.