They were almost up with the clowns' wagon when the woman was
seen to sway dizzily in her saddle, as the leather slipped
beneath her. Then she plunged headlong to the ground.

Instead of falling in a heap, the circus woman, with head
dragging, bumping along the ground, was still fast to the pony.

"Her foot is caught in the stirrup!" yelled half a dozen men at
once, but not a man of them made an effort to rescue her. Perhaps
this was because none of the real horsemen of the show were near
enough to do so.

Mr. Sparling, however, at the first alarm, had leaped from his
carriage, and, thrusting a rider from his mount, sprang into the
saddle and came tearing down the line in a cloud of dust. He was
bearing down on the scene at express train speed.

"The woman will be killed!"

"Stop him! Stop him!"

"Stop him yourself!"

But not a man made an effort to do anything.

It had all occurred in a few seconds, but rapidly as the events
succeeded each other, Phil Forrest seemed to be the one among
them who retained his presence of mind.

He fairly launched himself into the air as the ugly broncho shot