He stopped at the place where the trail forked, tossed his crinkly
mane triumphantly and looked back. Freedom was sweet to him--sweet
as it was rare. His world was a roomy box stall with a small, high
corral adjoining it for exercise, with an occasional day in the little
pasture as a great treat. Two miles was a long, long way from home,
it seemed to him. He watched the hill behind a moment, threw up his
head and trotted off up the trail to Denson's.

Chip, galloping madly, caught a glimpse of the fugitive a mile away,
set his teeth together, and swung Blazes sharply off the trail into
a bypath which intersected the road further on. He hoped the Little
Doctor was safe at Denson's, but at that very moment he saw her ride
slowly over a distant ridge.

Now there was a race; Denver, cantering gleefully down the trail, Chip
spurring desperately across the prairie.

The Little Doctor had disappeared into a hollow with Concho pacing
slowly, half asleep, the reins drooping low on his neck. The Little
Doctor loved to dream along the road, and Concho had learned to do
likewise--and to enjoy it very much.

At the crest of the next hill she looked up, saw herself the apex of
a rapidly shortening triangle, and grasped instantly the situation;
she had peeped admiringly and fearsomely between the stout rails of
the little, round corral too often not to know Denver when she saw him,
and in a panic turned from the trail toward Chip. Concho was rudely
awakened by a stinging blow from her whip--a blow which filled him with
astonishment and reproach. He laid back his ears and galloped angrily--
not in the path--the Little Doctor was too frightened for that--but