“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.