a better.

He stopped short, sidled against Weary's horse and snorted. Chip,
in none the best humor with him, jerked the reins savagely and dug
him with his spurs, and Whizzer, resenting the affront, whirled and
bounded high in the air. Back down the grade he bucked with the high,
rocking, crooked jumps which none but a Western cayuse can make, while
Weary turned in his saddle and watched with sharp-drawn breaths. There
was nothing else that he could do.

Chip was by no means passive. For every jump that Whizzer made the
rawhide quirt landed across his flaring nostrils, and the locked rowels
of Chip's spurs raked the sorrel sides from cinch to flank, leaving
crimson streams behind them.

Wild with rage at this clinging cow-puncher whom he could not dislodge,
who stung his sides and head like the hornets in the meadow, Whizzer
gathered himself for a mighty leap as he reached the Hog's Back. Like
a wire spring released, he shot into the air, shook himself in one last,
desperate hope of victory, and, failing, came down with not a joint in
his legs and turned a somersault.

A moment, and he struggled to his feet and limped painfully away,
crushed and beaten in spirit.

Chip did not struggle. He lay, a long length of brown chaps, pink-and-
white shirt and gray hat, just where he had fallen.

The Little Doctor never could remember getting down that bluff, and her
sketching materials went to amuse the jack rabbits and the birds. Fast