“No wonder you are surprised,” said Ashton. “Anyone would presume that he would keep such a disgrace to himself. It shows what he is––absolutely devoid of good taste.”
“Is he––What does he look like?” she eagerly inquired.
Ashton shrugged. “Pardon me. I prefer not to talk any more about the fellow.”
Miss Isobel checked her curiosity. “Very well, Mr. Ashton.” She looked around, and suddenly flourished her leathern quirt. “Look––there are Kid and Daddy trying to head us. Come on, if you want a race. I’m going to beat them down to Dry Fork.”
CHAPTER IV
DOWNHILL AND UP
The lash of the quirt fell with a swish on the flank of the girl’s pony. He did not wait for a second hint, but started down the steep slope “on the jump.” Before Ashton realized what was happening, his own horse was following at the same breakneck pace.
Down plunged the two ponies––down, down, down the sharply pitched mountain side, leaping logs and stones, crashing through brush, scrambling or slithering stiff-legged down rock slides. It was a wild race, a race that would have been utterly foolhardy with any other horses than these mountain bred cow ponies. A single misstep would have sent horse and rider rolling for yards, unless sooner brought up against tree or rock.