THE RUNAWAY
Without an instant's hesitation, Bob Somers vaulted into the saddle.
His quirt came down with stinging force on the broncho's flank.
Snorting, the animal bounded high in the air--a mad race was on.
A cold air rushed past Bob Somers' face as the ground began to fall
behind at a rate which fairly made his head swim. Leaning almost upon
the broncho's neck, he urged him forward with quirt and voice until the
animal was galloping at a nerve-racking pace. Trees, bushes and rocks
seemed to be falling together, and whirled by in the wildest confusion.
A single misstep, and the rider might be hurled with crushing force to
the ground.
But Bob Somers gave little thought to this. He saw Jack Conroy just
ahead, fighting desperately to swerve the broncho from his headlong
course; and every instant the sorrel was carrying his rider nearer to
the brink of the cliff.
The sight nerved Bob to the most desperate exertions. The blows of
the rawhide quirt fell faster. Frowning brow and grim-set lips told
of a determination which would never give up while the slightest hope
remained. Faster, but not fast enough, tore his broncho.
From behind came the sound of a thundering cavalcade and shouts of
encouragement. A cold chill seemed to strike his heart when the
realization came to him that he was scarcely gaining on the runaway.
"Jump when you get the chance!" he yelled.
As his voice was flung to the breeze, Bob's broncho stumbled, and the
rider, hurled violently forward on the animal's neck, felt its mane
lashing his face. With a supreme effort, he recovered from the jarring
shock.
"J-u-m-p!" he again shouted, in a ringing voice.
"J-u-m-p!" came high above the din of flying hoofs, as the five boys,
perceiving that their leader's tremendous effort was doomed to failure,
yelled with all the power of their lungs.
The cold, clear sunlight shone brilliantly on the whirlwind of dust
and horsemen. Already the edge of the bluff stood before them with
terrifying distinctness, and to the boys bringing up in the rear it
seemed as if nothing now could save Jack Conroy from being dashed to
pieces at the base of the cliff.
The steaming bronchos slackened their headlong pace--the race was over.
Meanwhile Jack Conroy was not as badly scared or helpless as every one
imagined. He quickly saw that it was beyond his power to check the
frenzied sorrel, and knew that his only chance to escape lay in keeping
his wits about him.
Jolted and bumped, he still sawed desperately at the bit and struggled
to keep his seat. Peering through narrowed lids, he kept his gaze
fixed, with fascinated attention, upon the brow of the cliff. A mass of
vegetation slightly to one side rose before him, and not a hundred feet
beyond was the fateful goal.
Within that short space the outcome must be decided. In those moments
of din and confusion, Jack felt his heart beating with painful force.
His eyes were swimming, but his mind had never been more clear or
determined.
"I've done my best to save the idiotic little beast from himself," he
muttered, grimly, "but he's bound to be dashed to pieces on the rocks
below. Now, it's up to me to take a leap for life."
The moment for quick action had come.
Pale faced, but resolute, Jack was slipping his feet out of the
stirrups, when a sudden, astonishing vision confronted his eyes--a huge
dark form had lumbered rapidly out from the bushes directly in the path
of his onrushing horse.
Bewildered, the boy hesitated. Then came a glancing impact which sent
him flying over the broncho's head.