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 jealously close to earth, its rider lying low upon the straining neck—­that was Flopper and Bert.

Close beside, a sheeny glimmer of red, a tossing fringe of white, a leaning, wiry, exultant form above—­that was Glory and Weary.

There were groans as well as shouting when the whirlwind had swept past and on down the hill toward town, and the reason thereof was plain.  Glory had won by a good length of him.

Bert Rogers said something savage and set his weight upon the bit till Flopper, snorting and disgusted—­for a horse knows when he is beaten—­took shorter leaps, stiffened his front legs and stopped, digging furrows with his feet.

Glory sailed on down the trail, scattering Mrs. Jenson’s chickens and jumping clean over a lumbering, protesting sow.  “Come on—­he’s going to set up the drinks!” yelled someone, and the crowd leaped from the fence and followed.