Something must have frightened the animal at that particular moment, for in a flash he flung up his head and dashed off across the fields in the direction of the corrals, with Tavia clinging wildly to his mane.
Dorothy gasped, touched her pony with her spur, and was off like a flash in pursuit.
Anything might have happened, but fortunately nothing very serious did.
The young Mexican who had saddled the animals saw the pony coming, swung to the back of another, and caught the bridle of the running pony as it passed, dragging it to a quivering standstill.
Tavia shifted to a more secure position in the saddle, felt her hair to see how greatly it had been disarranged, and, when Dorothy came up, was smiling winningly at the Mexican.
The latter whispered something in the runaway’s ear, slapped it chidingly on the flank and turned it gently about till it was headed toward the roadway once more.
The pony seemed entirely tractable after that, and the two girls cantered slowly toward the road.
Suddenly Dorothy checked her mount and looked ahead with eager eyes.
“Look Tavia!” she cried. “Some one is coming!”
The rider proved to be Lance Petterby.