Tad did not lose his presence of mind, though events had been following each other in such quick succession.
Changing the reins to his right hand and bunching them there, he grasped the pommel of the saddle, driving his own pony straight at the kicking, floundering Chunky.
The pony swerved ever so little, Tad's body swept down, and when it rose, his fingers were fastened in the shirt collar of his companion, with Chunky yelling and choking, as he was being dragged over the ground at almost a killing pace.
Tad had no time to do more than hold on to his friend. He dared not stop to lift him to the saddle just then. The flames were roaring behind them and on either side, leaving a long, narrow lane ahead, through which lay their only hope of safety.
"Buck up! Buck up, Chunky!" shouted Tad, himself taking a fresh brace in the stirrups, for the weight of the fat boy's dragging body was slowly pulling Tad from the saddle.
Stacy was howling like an Indian, not from fear, but from anger at the rough usage to which he was being subjected. He did not stop to think that it was the only way his life might be saved—nor that his own pony lay back there in the bunch grass amid the flame and smoke.
Tad knew it.
Now, by a mighty effort Tad righted himself again, and, leaning forward, threw one arm about the pony's neck, trusting to the animal to follow the outward trail to safety of its own accord.
Tad felt a sudden jolt that nearly caused him to slide from his pony on the side opposite Chunky. At the same time, the strain on the lad's arm was suddenly released.
Tad was up on his saddle like a flash. His right hand held the fat boy's shirt, while a series of howls to the rear told him where the owner of the shirt lay.