sely, but Jack was a trained rider and
so far the mare had not given her any trouble. She had not realized,
when she came to the round-up, that "Tricks" was one of the ponies that
had been formerly used by the cow-punchers at the round-ups.

Tricks saw the bull break away from the stockade and make its plunge for
freedom at the moment that Jack turned her head and slightly relaxed her
hold on the broncho's bridle.

The pony's fighting blood was up. She did not intend to see a bull
escape when it was her business as a cowboy's pony, to head him off and
turn him back toward the herd. She made a leap forward, running
diagonally across the plain, in order to cross in front of the bull at
the shortest possible distance. For the first time in her experience,
Jack Ralston completely lost control of the horse she was riding; the
pony's headlong rush had been too unexpected. Tricks was a good-sized
broncho with a will of her own and was convinced that she was doing her
duty.

Jack had unfortunately taken off her gloves. People in the West never
ride the hard-mouthed little Western ponies, without thick leather
gauntlets. She pulled on her reins until they cut into her flesh, but
the pony ran on. Still Jack had no idea of not being able to control
her before she got into danger.

No one, except Frank and Olive, saw Jack's wild dash. The cowboys were
riding in and out among the corrals, swinging their long ropes and
forcing the excited cattle back into their enclosures.

"Get back out of the way," Frank commanded Olive quickly. Almost before
she realized what had taken place, Frank Kent was off like a shot after
the flying Jack.

His horse pounded along, but Jack was yards ahead. Frank did not know
what he could do, if he reached Jack. He could only grasp her bridle and
try to stop both of their ponies. At best, if he got ahead of her, he
might be able to shut off the bull's mad charge. There would be only one
way to do it and that would be to let the animal rush upon his horse. He
knew nothing of the cowboys' methods. He had no lasso. He had seen
pictures of Spanish toreadors with their flaming scarlet scarfs. If he
only had as much as a red handkerchief, perhaps he might divert the
bull's course. Of course Frank realized that this would have been a
forlorn hope. But nothing really mattered. Jack's pony continued to
gain on his; he had not a fighting chance of overtaking her.

Frank hardly dared look at Jack. He could see