Dig, running after him, yelled “Whoa!” until he almost lost his voice, but to no purpose. The blanket roll became unfastened and it whipped Poke over the flanks. One article after another was spewed from the roll, and after striking the frightened horse, bounded off into the trail or beside it. A can of condensed milk hit a boulder and burst. A skillet was kicked into the air as Poke ran, and when it was found there was a hole through it as big as one’s fist. “By all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland! That creature never will stop.” “Get on my horse, Dig,” begged his chum. “All right. But unhitch all that truck. I’ll take your lariat.” “Going to lasso Poke?” demanded Chet, still much amused. “I don’t care if I hang him,” declared Dig, leaping on the bay horse, and whirling him into the trail. Dig was a splendid rider. No matter how hard-bitted the horse was he rode, he always made a good appearance in the saddle. The black horse could outrun the bay; but Poke lacked the guidance of his master’s hand. He was still going at a heavy gallop, and Hero gained upon him at every leap. The camp equipment was still dropping out of Dig’s blanket-roll, and as long as that occurred Poke would undoubtedly run. Dig rose up in Hero’s stirrups, uncoiled the rope, and prepared to cast it over the black’s head when he got near enough. Meanwhile Chet came on behind, loading himself down with the scattered camp outfit and the rifles. He was soon too heavily laden to travel fast; besides, he had to stop now and then to laugh. Poke gave his master a two-mile chase, and then Dig roped him and brought the black horse back with him at the end of the lariat. “I’d trade him for a cast-off pair of boots, and then swap the boots for a broken-bladed jackknife,” grumbled Dig, who always made frightful threats against Poke when the black horse had misbehaved. “Whew! I thought I’d have to walk all the way to Grub Stake by the way this villain started.” Chet was choked with laughter again. Dig turned on him sternly. “Say! what’s the matter with you now?” he demanded. “What are you laughing at?” “I—I wonder if that—that buf—buffalo you thought you saw is still—still running,” cried Chet, holding his aching sides. CHAPTER XII—A MAVERICK In spite of the delay, the boys had made good progress on the Grub Stake trail when they stopped for a bite at noon. They were well through the foothills, the tall mountain in which were located the silver mines above Silver Run, was behind them, and the trail had become only a faint trace, yet easily followed because of the nature of the country. Now and again they had obtained glimpses of the open plains through the gullies between the wooded hills—here a great stretch of lawn covered with short buffalo grass; yonder an open piece of country strewn with brilliant flowers.