But the animal was not quick enough. The boy
landed against the broncho with a jolt that nearly knocked the
little animal over, while to Phil the impact could not have been
much more severe, it seemed to him, had he collided with a
locomotive.
"Hang on!" howled a voice from the wagon.
That was exactly what he intended to do.
The cloud of dust, with Mr. Sparling in the center of it, had not
reached them, but his keen eyes already had observed what was
going on.
"G-g-g-grab the woman!" shouted Phil.
His left arm had been thrown about the broncho's neck, while his
right hand was groping frantically for the animal's nose. But
during all this time the pony was far from idle. He was plunging
like a ship in a gale, cracking the whip with Phil Forrest until
it seemed as if every bone in the lad's body would be broken. He
could hear his own neck snap with every jerk.
With a howl Miaco, the head clown, launched himself from the
wagon, too. Darting in among the flying hoofs--there seemed to
be a score of them--he caught the woman, jerked her foot free of
the stirrup and dragged her quickly from her perilous position.
"She's free.
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