Hobson threw up his head, and with sharp ears forward eagerly watched the game he knew so well.

With a quickness incredible to the uninitiated, Phil threw blanket and saddle to place.

As he drew the cinch tight, a shrill cowboy yell came up from the flat below.
One of the band, a powerful bay, had broken past the guarding horsemen, and was running with every ounce of his strength for the timber on the western slope of Black Hill.

For a hundred yards one of the riders had tried to overtake and turn the fugitive; but as he saw how the stride of the free horse was widening the distance between them, the cowboy turned back lest others follow the successful runaway's example.

The yell was to inform Phil of the situation.
Before the echoes of the signal could die away Phil was in the saddle, and with an answering shout sent Hobson down the rough mountain side in a wild, reckless, plunging run to head the, for the moment, victorious bay.