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. Let go!" he roared to the boy holding the pony.

But by this time Phil had fastened his right hand on the pony's
nostrils, and with a quick pressure shut off the animal's wind.
He had heard the warning cry. The lad's grit had been aroused,
however, and he was determined that he would not let go until he
should have conquered the fighting broncho.

With a squeal of rage, the pony leaped sideways. A deep ditch
led along by the side of the road, but this the enraged animal
had not noticed. Into it he went, kicking and fighting, pieces