The little cavalcade in the coulee fired a spectacular volley into the air and swept down the slope like a dry-weather whirlwind across a patch of alkali ground. Through the big gate and up the road past the 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.