On swept the five wagons, but a bit slower, for the drivers were tugging at the reins like madmen, hoping against hope. Morgan’s wagon, driverless, was swaying a bit, for the swing team was acting up again, and Morgan ahead, on a leader! Morgan, however, was fumbling at his belt. The next minute he reached down in a wide swoop of one arm and the crowd thought that he, too, had fallen. He was up again in a twinkling, though he repeated his strange gestures several times. Suddenly, McCarthy saw the flash of a blade, and understood. Even before that, Morgan had freed his mule from the traces. The little black leader leaped out, ahead of the rest of the team, in a race that had never before been equaled on a Colorado rodeo track. The whole crowd cheered wildly. The other leader, Blackie, bewildered by the loss of his mate, hesitated, and then swung to the right, with the crazy swing team following. Flynn’s yell came first and then the crash as Morgan’s unguided hitch messed into Flynn’s grays, and the two careening wagons met with a shower of sparks and splinters and a thud that seemed to make the track tremble. But Morgan, on Imp, was out ahead now, trailing the sorrel runaway. Ashton, still snagged by one foot, had ceased to struggle. McCarthy, the wagon boss, unmindful of the terrible crash of two of his crack hitches, was wondering if Ashton was alive. And if he was, what chance had he now that the sorrel, mule-like, had swerved in toward the rail, directly in the path of Dwyer’s hitch, which seemed to be running away, too? Morgan, urging Imp on, glanced back over his shoulder and estimated his distance. His first idea had been to crowd the sorrel to the upper rim of the track, safe now since the collision of the black and the gray hitches, there to reach down and cut the stirrup strap. The sorrel had spoiled that plan by heading in toward the rail. There was no time to cut the man loose, then dismount and carry him out of the path of the three remaining hitches. There was hardly time for anything--yet Morgan’s mind raced as fast as any mule team had ever raced. He sped ahead and came abreast of the sorrel. The next minute the crowd was treated to a sight seldom seen except in a circus--Morgan had transferred from the black mule to the sorrel, and going at a good gallop! The next minute the teamster’s hat was off, and he was beating the sorrel on the left side of its head. The sorrel turned and headed for the upper edge of the track, still dragging the fallen rider. Then, out of the path of the racers, Morgan tried to stop the sorrel, but the sorrel, with a mouth like a tin bucket, was not stopping--so Morgan stooped swiftly. Again the knife blade flashed in the afternoon sun--and the ordeal for Ashton was over. He lay still, where his mad ride had ended, when Morgan had cut the strap. Morgan, on the runaway sorrel, went on down the track. The nearest spectators swarmed out to lift Ashton.