eeted enthusiastically; for old Jim Whitmore's "Happy Family" was
liked to a man. The enthusiasm did not extend to Glory, however. He
was eyed askance by those who knew him or who had heard of his
exploits. If the Happy Family had not backed him loyally to a man, he
would not have had a dollar risked upon him; and this not because he
could not run.

Glory was an alien, one of a carload of horses shipped in from Arizona
the summer before. He was a bright sorrel, with the silvery mane and
tan and white feet which one so seldom sees--a beauty, none could deny.
His temper was not so beautiful.

Sometimes for days he was lamblike in his obedience, touching in his
muzzling affection till Weary was lulled into unwatchful love for the
horse. Then things would happen.

Once, Weary walked with a cane for two weeks. Another time he walked
ten miles in the rain. Once he did not walk at all, but sat on a rock
and smoked cigarettes till his tobacco sack ran empty, waiting for
Glory to quit sulking, flat on his side, and get up and carry him home.

Any man but Weary would have ruined the horse with harshness, but Weary
was really proud of his deviltry and would laugh till the tears came
while he told of some new and undreamed bit of cussedness in his pet.

On this day, Glory was behaving beautifully. True, he had nearly
squeezed the life out of Weary that morning when he went to saddle him
in the stall, and he had afterwards snatched Cal Emmet's hat off with
his teeth, and had dropped it to the ground and had stood upon it; but
on the whole, the Happy Family regarded those trifles as a good sign.

When Bert Rogers and Weary ambled away down the dusty trail to the
starting point, accompanied by most of the Flying U boys and two or
three from Bert's outfit, the crowd in the grand-stand (which was the
top rail of the stockyard fence) hushed expectantly.

When a pistol cracked, far down the road, and a faint yell came
shrilling through the quiet sunshine, they craned necks till their
muscles ached. Like a summer sand-storm they came, and behind them
clattered their friends, the dust concealing horse and rider alike.
Whooping encouraging words at random, they waited till a black nose
shot out from the rushing cloud. That was Flopper. Beside it a white
streak, a flying, silvery mane--Glory was running! Happy Jack gave a
raucous yell.

Lifting reluctantly, the dust gave hazy glimpses of a long, black body
hugging jealous