Once Frank looked back.
“Jove!” he exclaimed.
Almost neck and neck, Steve Fenton and Iva St. Ives were following him. It was plain that the girl was riding with as much reckless abandon as the best of them. It was not an easy thing for her dark-faced cousin to hold his own with her.
“She is a queen!” muttered Frank, as he once more gave his attention to the chase. “I don’t wonder that Harden is stuck on her. And he appears like a fine fellow. I hope he wins her.”
The fox had darted under another fence, and again the dogs were streaming over. Harden followed close, seeking no favors. His horse cleared the fence, and onward he went.
“Firefoot, old boy,” laughed Frank, “you can follow him anywhere he goes.”
Straight at the fence he charged. Firefoot lifted to the couch, settling on his haunches, then going up into the air.
Just then, from some unknown point, a shot rang out, and the black horse pitched forward. Its forward feet struck the rail, and Frank was flung headlong.
Firefoot came down with a crash, and lay still, a bullet in his brain!
And just beyond the fallen horse Frank was curled in a heap upon the hard ground!