Although she dared not look back, Betty knew that Bob had galloped to the
very edge of the ravine and had now flung himself from his saddle. She
heard his boots slam into the sliding gravel of the hill. He shouted
again--that cheery hail that somehow helped Betty to hold on to her fast
vanishing courage.
"Kick your feet out of the stirrups, Betty!"
What he meant finally seeped into Betty's clouded brain. She realized that
Bob Henderson, her chum, the boy she had learned to have such confidence
in, was coming down that bank in mighty strides, prepared to save her if
it was possible.
The gray horse was struggling and snorting; he was likely to tumble
sideways at any moment. If he did, and Betty was caught under him----
But she was not caught in any such crushing pressure. It was Bob's arm
around her waist that squeezed her. She had kicked her feet loose of the
stirrups, and now Bob, throwing himself backward, tore her out of the
saddle. He fell upon his back, and Betty, struggling and laughing and
almost crying, fell on top of him.
"All right, Betty! All right!" gasped Bob.
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