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 of Phil’s yellow robe streaming from his hoofs.
The lad’s body was half under the neck of the pony, but he was clinging to the neck and the nose of the beast with desperate courage.
“Get the boy out of there!” thundered Mr. Sparling, dashing up and leaping from his pony. “Want to let him be killed?”
By this time others had ridden up, and some of the real horsemen in the outfit sprang off and rushed to Phil Forrest’s assistance. Ropes were cast over the flying hoofs before the men thought it wise to get near them. Then they hauled Phil out, very much the worse for wear.
In the meantime Mr. Sparling’s carriage had driven up and he was helping the woman in.
“Is the boy hurt?” he called.
“No, I’m all right, thank you,” answered Phil, smiling bravely, though he was bruised from head to foot and his clothing hung in tatters. His peaked clown’s cap someone picked up in a field over the fence and returned to him. That was about all that was left of Phil Forrest’s gaudy makeup, save the streaks on his face, which by now had become blotches of white and red.