Then her hands closed upon a post. And not caring how she managed it, nor what might be the exposé, she sprang somehow—and fell—and got across just as the bull came crashing into the panel. Then she collapsed in a heap on the ground, while the huge beast roared and foamed in baffled rage a few feet distant.
As Porshinger vaulted the fence farther down, Stephanie recovered herself and, pushing down her skirts, sat up.
"You're not hurt?" he cried breathlessly.
"Not hurt—except in my vanity!" she laughed. "It's punctured badly."
"Just so you aren't punctured," he returned. "It was a close call! You and the bull were right together at the fence—I couldn't tell whether he tossed you over, or whether you jumped. You looked as though——"
"Please forget how I looked!" she smiled. "And hand me my hat. Now if you will you may help me up.—Thank you, Mr. Porshinger."
She was seriously shaken, and he saw it.
"Come over and sit down," he said, leading her toward a rock near by. "You will feel better for a moment's rest."
"No—I'm all right," she answered;—"but I will sit down until I've put on my hat. It's a fortunate thing the fence held. Ough!" she shivered, with a glance at the bull, who was still pawing the ground in baffled rage, and frothing at the mouth. "It was a fearful feeling with those awful horns just behind me, and expecting every instant to be gored and tossed."
"It must have been fearful," he sympathized.