The two were darting in and out among the racing cowboys and
Overlanders at the imminent peril of running down some one; the
dust was a suffocating, choking cloud except as they rode ahead,
and then only those in the lead were out of the worst of it. The
Overlanders were coughing and perspiring, and the shouting and
shooting at times made conversation well nigh impossible.

"What is this, a wild west show?" cried Elfreda Briggs, riding
toward Grace Harlowe, who was entering into the sport with a zest
that set Hi Lang's head nodding in approval.

"The real wild west, Elfreda. It is not easy to find, but we have
found it in earnest. Oh! Look at that!"

The pursuing cowboy had now roped a hind foot of the pony ridden
by the man who had attempted to lasso Grace Harlowe.

The lariat being attached to the pommel of the thrower's saddle,
the roped pony went down on its nose, violently hurling its rider
to the ground, but the little horse was up in a flash, galloping
away and dragging along the rope which it had jerked free from the
owner's hands and from the saddle pommel.

Not only was it dragging the lasso, but also its cowboy rider,
who, with one foot caught in a stirrup, was being bumped along on
his back over the uneven ground.

Elfreda Briggs, nearest to the fallen cowboy, instantly spurred
her pony after the runaway. She was abreast of it in a moment.