“Don’t be scart, Miss Dale,” shouted Lance Petterby. “They won’t hit the fence.”
The pup had been busy worrying the basket. He broke the string that held the cover and Ophelia immediately wriggled out. With another affrighted squawk she scuttled under the lower rail of the fence, into the corral. Down upon the scared hen came the charging gang of ponies. She flew right up into the faces of the leaders.
Instead of breaking evenly and swinging either way to escape collision with the fence, the forefront of the charging herd went up into the air to escape the fluttering Ophelia and—the next instant—the full weight of the mob of ponies dashed against the fence!
Strong as the fence was, two lengths went down before the charge and, squealing with rage and pain, the stampede of ponies burst through.
Dorothy Dale stood, stricken with amazement and horror, directly in the path of the stampede.
CHAPTER XIX
“‘WAY UP IN THE MOUNTAIN-TOP, TIP-TOP!”
Dorothy realized her peril as the fence crashed. She saw the mad bronchos boil out of the opening like water bursting through a dam, but she could not escape.
She found her limbs powerless, and would have sunk to the ground when she attempted to move, had not Lance leaped forward and swept her into the crook of his left arm. His yell—and the throwing of his wide-brimmed hat into the faces of the charging beasts—did not turn them, but the cowpuncher never for an instant lost his presence of mind.
With Dorothy he leaped to the far side of the buckboard, after having flung his hat. One heave of his shoulder sent the lightly built wagon over upon its side. Against this frail barrier the maddened horses came—but not so recklessly as they had charged the fence.