Perhaps the men were shooting wide, or perhaps the pony was going so fast the bullets couldn't catch him.

Be it said for the threshers they didn't know they were shooting at a boy.
You will admit that being wakened from a sound sleep, shot on to the back of an almost wild colt, and borne across a dark prairie at lightning speed does not tend to make one think clearly.

Whitey had only one lucid thought during that ride.

If any cowpunchers mistook his white-clad figure for a ghost, they couldn't shoot him--he was going too fast.

In a vague way he was thankful for this.
The distance was fourteen miles, and it seemed to Whitey as though he made it in thirteen jumps.