Chip, who at that time hadn't a girl--and didn't want one--let Silver
out for another long gallop, seeing it was Weary. Then he, too, gave
up the chase and turned back.

Glory settled to a long lope and kept steadily on, gleefully rattling
the broken bit which dangled beneath his jaws. Weary, helpless and
amused and triumphant because the race was his, sat unconcernedly in
the saddle and laid imaginary bets with himself on the outcome.
Without doubt, Glory was headed for home. Weary figured that, barring
accidents, he could catch up Blazes, in the little pasture, and ride
back to Dry Lake by the time the dance was in full swing--for the
dancing before dark would be desultory and without much spirit.

But the gate into the big field was closed and tied securely with a
rope. Glory comprehended the fact with one roll of his knowing eyes,
turned away to the left and took the trail which wound like a snake
into the foothills. Clinging warily to the level where choice was
given him, trotting where the way was rough, mile after mile he covered
till even Weary's patience showed signs of weakening.

Just then Glory turned, where a wire gate lay flat upon the ground,
crossed a pebbly creek and galloped stiffly up to the very steps of a
squat, vine-covered ranch-house where, like the Discontented Pendulum
in the fable, he suddenly stopped.

"Damn you, Glory--I could kill yuh for this!" gritted Weary, and slid
reluctantly from the saddle. For while the place seemed deserted, it
was not. There was a girl.