After thanking the sheriff for his courtesy, Grace hurried back to the hotel. The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the journey. Ike Fairweather, now fully informed as to the immediate plans of his party, got away with the wagon on time, and two hours later the Overton girls started on their second journey into the gorgeous mountains that stand sentinel along the Old Apache Trail. The ponies they were riding were a bit lively at the start, especially the one ridden by Grace, as the party galloped out of the town. Emma Dean was making heavy weather of it, bobbing up and down like a chip on the sea, until Grace, fearful that Emma would fall off, rode up beside her for a word of caution.
“Sit your saddle firmly, and do not try to resist the motion of your horse. Move with him, or, rather, permit your body to follow his movements,” advised Grace. “There! You see you can ride.”
“I know, but it bumps me almost to death. How far do we have to ride? This beast isn’t a bit like my pony.”
“Thirty miles or thereabouts.”
“Oh—h—h!” wailed Emma. “Look at Hippy!”
They had barely cleared the town and emerged into the open country when Hippy Wingate’s apparently docile pony suddenly came to life. The animal whirled and started back toward Globe, whereupon Hippy used his crop vigorously. Instantly, the pony began to buck in the most approved western broncho style, and Hippy was more often in the air than on the saddle.
The Overton girls reined in and watched the lieutenant’s battle, offering suggestions and advice that might have been helpful had the lieutenant had time to listen.
Hippy had had no experience with bucking ponies, and, as a result, he was becoming more and more confused from the terrible jolting he was getting.
“Hang on, Hippy, my darling,” encouraged Nora in a shrill voice.
“There he goes!” gasped J. Elfreda Briggs.