Bert Rogers came early, riding Flopper. Men hurried from the saloon to
gather round the horse that held the record of beating a "real
race-horse" the summer before. They felt his legs sagely and wondered
that anyone should seem anxious to question his ability to beat
anything in the country in a straightaway quarter-mile dash.

When the Flying U boys clattered into town in a bunch, they were
greeted enthusiastically; for old Jim Whitmore's "Happy Family" was
liked to a man. The enthusiasm did not extend to Glory, however. He
was eyed askance by those who knew him or who had heard of his
exploits. If the Happy Family had not backed him loyally to a man, he
would not have had a dollar risked upon him; and this not because he
could not run.

Glory was an alien, one of a carload of horses shipped in from Arizona
the summer before. He was a bright sorrel, with the silvery mane and
tan and white feet which one so seldom sees--a beauty, none could deny.
His temper was not so beautiful.

Sometimes for days he was lamblike in his obedience, touching in his
muzzling affection till Weary was lulled into unwatchful love for the
horse. Then things would happen.

Once, Weary walked with a cane for two weeks. Another time he walked
ten miles in the rain. Once he did not walk at all, but sat on a rock
and smoked cigarettes till his tobacco sack ran empty, waiting for
Glory to quit sulking, flat on his side, and get up and carry him home.

Any man but Weary would have ruined the horse with harshness, but Weary
was really proud of his deviltry and would laugh till the tears came