“That’s better than burning out your fires, and it’s quicker too—­”

All at once, Chunky uttered a terrible howl.  His pony had stepped into a hole and gone down floundering in the long grass, Chunky himself having been hurled over the animal’s head, landing several feet in advance.

“Help!  Help!”

The rest was lost as the fat boy’s face plowed the earth filling mouth, eyes and nostrils.

Tad did not lose his presence of mind, though events had been following each other in such quick succession.

Changing the reins to his right hand and bunching them there, he grasped the pommel of the saddle, driving his own pony straight at the kicking, floundering Chunky.

The pony swerved ever so little, Tad’s body swept down, and when it rose, his fingers were fastened in the shirt collar of his companion, with Chunky yelling and choking, as he was being dragged over the ground at almost a killing pace.

Tad had no time to do more than hold on to his friend.  He dared not stop to lift him to the saddle just then.  The flames were roaring behind them and on either side, leaving a long, narrow lane ahead, through which lay their only hope of safety.

“Buck up!  Buck up, Chunky!” shouted Tad, himself taking a fresh brace in the stirrups, for the weight of the fat boy’s dragging body was slowly pulling Tad from the saddle.

Stacy was howling like an Indian, not from fear, but from anger at the rough usage to which he was being subjected.  He did not stop to think that it was the only way his life might be saved—­ nor that his own pony lay back there in the bunch grass amid the flame and smoke.

Tad knew it.

Now, by a mighty effort Tad righted himself again, and, leaning forward, threw one arm about the pony’s neck, trusting to the animal to follow the outward trail to safety of its own accord.

Tad felt a sudden jolt that nearly caused him to slide from his pony on the side opposite Chunky.  At the same time, the strain on the lad’s arm was suddenly released.

Tad was up on his saddle like a flash.  His right hand held the fat boy’s shirt, while a series of howls to the rear told him where the owner of the shirt lay.

Tad groaned.  Pulling his pony fairly back on its haunches, he dashed back where Stacy lay kicking, entangling himself deeper and deeper in the bunch grass.

Had Tad not had presence of mind they both might have perished right there.  He was off like a flash.  With supreme strength, he grasped the body of his fallen companion, raising him into the saddle.

“Hold on!” he shouted.  “Don’t you dare fall off!”

Stacy clung like a monkey to a pony in a circus race.

“Y-i-i-p!” trilled Tad.  He had no time to mount.  Already he could feel the hot breath of the flames on his cheek.

The broncho was off with a bound.

“Tad!  Tad!” cried Chunky in sudden alarm, now realizing that he was alone.  “Whe—­ where are you?”