Then—how was it done? Liner seemed to stop suddenly, as if turned to stone, and Harden was torn from the saddle of his pony, which shot on without him. He fell heavily to the ground in the very track of the whole mass of onrushing ponies.
A scream of fear broke from Iva St. Ives, who was watching it all, for it seemed that Harden was doomed to be severely injured beneath the hoofs of the ponies—perhaps killed.
Frank was slightly in advance of the others, and, quick as thought, he leaned far over to one side, like a cowboy, and his hand fastened on the belt of the fallen player.
Harden was too heavy for Merriwell to swing back into the saddle, but he carried the young man along till the other players could swerve aside, and he did not drop him till he could stop Coffin Head.
In a moment Harden was on his feet, and, as he sprang up, the spectators broke into loud cheers.
“Thank you, Merriwell!” exclaimed the man Frank had thus cleverly saved by a cowboy trick. “I won’t forget that.”
Then he darted away after his pony, apparently uninjured.
“I know it was a foul trick that flung him from the saddle,” thought Frank. “I wonder why the referee doesn’t declare a foul? Is there some kind of a job in this?”
Then a shout came from his lips as he awoke to the fact that the game was still on, and Diamond had cleverly prevented Fenton from making a goal.
Coffin Head was away after the ball almost before the shout came from Frank’s lips. As if nothing of an unusual nature had happened, the game continued.