The horse had staggered over the top. The pace once more increased. Tom’s fears, however, were not renewed for he discovered that they had worked their way considerably nearer to one side of the herd.
“If the little fellow can only keep on his feet a few minutes longer, we’ll be free of this bunch,” he reflected joyously. “Hello——”
A dense mass of tangled underbrush on the sloping side directly below him formed a barrier which forced the horses to scatter on either side.
And then, by the irony of fate, just when safety lay in his grasp, his pony’s hoof caught in a projecting root, and as though struck by a bullet he dropped to the ground.
CHAPTER XVII
A NIGHT IN THE OPEN
Only Tom Clifton’s presence of mind saved him from taking a headlong plunge down the slope. He had just managed to slide nimbly over the mustang’s neck when a veritable pile of horses stumbled over his steed’s prostrate body. With a quick spring the lad reached that point of safety—the underbrush.
Yes, he was actually safe at last. All the mustangs but his own had scrambled up, and on all sides, singly and in groups, were racing down the slopes, growing fainter every moment.
He hadn’t realized how hard it was raining. The water seemed to be coming down in sheets, thudding, beating and splashing; forming into little rivulets, which wound in twisting passageways to the base of the hill. The thunder was still rolling too, and every few instants the glare of lightning rent the darkness and revealed what lay behind the rain.
“Poor little duffer!” exclaimed Tom, all his thoughts on the horse which still lay where it had fallen. “I do hope to goodness he isn’t badly hurt.”
He sprang up the slope to the side of the mustang.