Dorothy lay beneath his body, her arm flung out, her face turned upward to the sky. She was as still as death and a sinister red spot grew upon her forehead—grew and widened while two tiny rivulets of blood ran down her cheek.
For a moment Tavia stared down at her chum as though paralyzed. She dared not move for fear her action might excite the shivering pony and cause him to move only the fraction of an inch.
“But I must get down,” she told herself dully, as though in a terrible dream. “Any minute the pony may move. Anyway—oh, Dorothy! Dorothy!”
Slowly and with infinite care she let herself down from the saddle on the opposite side from her chum, speaking gently to the pony, patting his neck, urging him to stand quietly.
But the gallant little beast needed no urging. He knew as well as Tavia that a human life depended on his ability to remain absolutely still.
Except for the nervous quivering of his muscles he stood like a horse carved out of rock as Tavia lifted her chum from her perilous position and laid her gently on the grass beside the trail.
The thunder was more frequent, more deafening in its increasing nearness. The rain continued to pour down in a great torrential flood.
Tavia’s hair had come down and was clinging soddenly to her face and neck. She had to push it back before she could look at Dorothy, shake her, wildly call her by name, beg her sobbingly to open her eyes and look at her.
The blood was still coming from the cut in Dorothy’s forehead, but aside from that vivid blotch of color, her face was deadly pale.
Tavia sought for and found a clean handkerchief in the pocket of her riding coat. With this she sought to staunch the wound. The handkerchief became red and sodden and still the wound bled freely, sickeningly.