The "vigilantes" drew hastily out of the road and scudded out of sight
down a gully as the creams lunged down the steep grade and across the
shallow creek bed. Fortunately the great gate by the stable swung wide
open and they galloped through and up the long slope to the house,
coming more under control at every leap, till, by a supreme effort,
Chip brought them, panting, to a stand before the porch where the
Old Man stood boiling over with anxiety and excitement. James G.
Whitmore was not a man who took things calmly; had he been a woman
he would have been called fussy.

"What in--what was you making a race track out of the grade for," he
demanded, after he had bestowed a hasty kiss beside the nose of his
sister.

Chip dropped a heavy trunk upon the porch and reached for the guitar
before he answered.

"I was just trying those new springs on the buggy."

"It was very exciting," commented Miss Whitmore, airily. "I shot a
coyote, J. G., but we lost it coming down the hill. Your men were
playing a funny game--hare and hounds, it looked like. Or were they
breaking a new horse?"

The Old Man looked at Chip, intelligence dawning in his face. There
was something back of it all, he knew. He had been asleep when the
uproar began, and had reached the door only in time to see the creams
come down the grade like a daylight shooting star.

"I guess they was breaking a bronk," he said, carelessly; "you've got