Cal Emmett dug his spurs into his horse and shot by Slim like a
locomotive, shouting profanity as he went.

"Head him into the creek," yelled Happy Jack, and leaned low over
the neck of his sorrel.

Weary Willie stood up in his stirrups and fanned Glory with his hat.
"Yip, yee--e-e! Go to it, Banjo, old boy! Watch his nibs ride, would
yuh? He's a broncho buster from away back." Weary Willie was the only
man of them all who appeared to find any enjoyment in the situation.

"If Chip only had the sense to slow up and give us a chance--or spill
that old maid over the bank!" groaned Jack Bates, and plied whip and
spur to overtake the runaway.

Now the captive was riding dizzily, head downward, frightening Banjo
half out of his senses. What he had started as a grim jest, he now
continued in deadly earnest; what was this uncanny semblance of a
cow-puncher which he could not unseat, yet which clung so precariously
to the saddle? He had no thought now of bucking in pure devilment--he
was galloping madly, his eyes wild and staring.

Of a sudden, Chip saw danger lurking beneath the fun of it. He leaned
forward a little, got a fresh grip on the reins and took the whip.

"Hang tight, now--I'm going to beat that horse to the Hog's Back."

Miss Whitmore, laughing till the tears stood in her eyes, braced herself
mechanically. Chip had been laughing also--but that was before Banjo
struck into the hill road in his wild flight from the terror that rode