"Well," said Frank, as they finally met, "I was beginning to get worried about you, even though I knew you could manage a horse all right. It was a lively run, I should say," as he glanced at the foam-streaked flanks of the gloss black.
"As fierce a dash as I ever want to take," answered Bob, patting his horse gently.
"Did you find out what ailed him?" asked the other.
"After I'd spent some time trying to keep from being thrown, I did."
As he said this Bob drew the thorn from his pocket, and held it before Frank, who took the vicious little thing in his hand.
"I thought so," he muttered. "That's Peg's idea of getting even with us; the coward!"
"But you don't mean to say Peg did that?" exclaimed Bob, astonished.
"Well, not with his own hand. He wouldn't know how, you see; but he had a Mexican cowboy along with him who is up to all these tricks—Spanish Joe. When we were busy in that store, he crept up and fixed this thorn under your saddle. Of course, as soon as you sprang into your seat, your weight just drove one of these tough little points in deeper. And, as the horse jumped, every movement was so much more torture. Get onto it, Bob?"
"Sure I do; and I guessed all that while riding back. But tell me, why did he pick out my horse, instead of your Buckskin?" asked the Kentucky boy.
"Look back a little. Who was it gave Peg his little tumble when he was striking that child? Why, of course it was nobody but Bob Archer. I saw Peg standing on the porch of the tavern as I galloped after you; and give you my word, Bob, he had a grin on his face that looked as if it would never come off. Peg was happy—why? Because he had just seen you being carried like the wind out of town on a bolting nag. And I guess he wouldn't care very much if you got thrown, with some of your ribs broken in the bargain."