Chip, of the Flying U | Page 7

stables
they thundered, the prisoner bound and helpless in their midst.
Then something happened. A wide-open River Press, flapping
impotently in the embrace of a willow, caught the eye of Banjo, a little
blaze-- faced bay who bore the captive. He squatted, ducked backward
so suddenly that his reins slipped from Slim's fingers and lowered his
head between his white front feet. His rider seemed stupid beyond any
that Banjo had ever known--and he had known many. Snorting and
pitching, he was away before the valiant band realized what was

happening in their midst. The prisoner swayed drunkenly in the saddle.
At the third jump his hat flew off, disclosing the jagged end of a
two-by-four.
The Happy Family groaned as one man and gave chase.
Banjo, with almost human maliciousness, was heading up the road
straight toward Chip and the woman doctor--and she must be a poor
doctor indeed, and a badly frightened one, withal, if she failed to
observe a peculiarity in the horse thief's cranium.
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 in the
saddle.
A smart flick of the whip upon their glossy backs, and the creams
sprang forward at a run. The buggy was new and strong, and if they
kept the road all would be well--unless they met Banjo upon the narrow
ridge between two broad-topped knolls, known as the Hog's Back.
Another tap, and the creams ran like deer. One wheel struck a cobble
stone, and the buggy lurched horribly.
"Stop! There goes my coyote!" cried Miss Whitmore, as a gray object
slid down under the hind wheel.
"Hang on or you'll go next," was all the comfort she got, as Chip braced
himself for the struggle before him. The Hog's Back was reached, but
Banjo was pounding up the hill beyond, his nostrils red and flaring, his
sides reeking with perspiration. Behind him tore the Flying U boys in a
vain effort to head him back into the coulee before mischief was done.
Chip drew his breath sharply when the creams swerved out upon the
broad hilltop, just as Banjo thundered past with nothing left of his rider
but the legs, and with them shorn of their plumpness as the hay
dribbled out upon the road.
A fresh danger straightway forced itself upon Chip's consciousness.
The creams, maddened by the excitement, were running away. He held
them sternly to the road and left the stopping of them to Providence,
inwardly thanking the Lord that Miss Whitmore did not seem to be the
screaming kind of woman.
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,"