Suddenly there rode into view, coming from the head of the string of cars, a wild rider, plying whip and heel to maddened pinto pony.

“Wonota!  Go back!  You’ll be killed!” shrieked Ruth.  And then she added:  “The picture will be ruined if you are hurt.”

Even had the Indian girl heard Ruth’s cry she would have given it small attention.  Wonota was less fearful of the charging ponies than were the punchers and professional riders working for Mr. Hammond.

At least, she was the first to visualize the danger threatening the girls in the motor-car, and she did not wait to be told what to do.  Up ahead the men were shouting and telling each other that Miss Fielding was in danger.  But Wonota went at the charging horses without question.

She forced her snorting pinto directly between the motor-car and the stampede.  She lashed the foremost horses across their faces with her quirt.  She wheeled her mount and kept on beside the motor-car as its driver tried to speed up along the trail.

The mad herd seemed intent on keeping with the motor-train.  Wonota gave the pinto his head and lent her entire attention to striking at the first horses in the stampede.  Her quirt brought squeals of pain from more than one of the charging animals.

She fell in behind the car at last, and the scattering members of the stampede swept by.  Back charged several of the pony riders, but too late to give any aid.  The chauffeur of Ruth’s car slackened his dangerous pace and yelled: 

“It’s all over, you fellers!  We might have been trod into the ground for all of you.  It takes this Injun gal to turn the trick.  I take off my hat to Wonota.”

“I guess we all take off our hats to her!” cried Helen, sitting up again.  “She saved us—­that is what she did!”

“Good girl, Wonota!” Ruth exclaimed, as the snorting pinto brought its rider up beside the motor-car again.

“It was little to do,” the Indian girl responded modestly.  “After all you have done for me, Miss Fielding.  And I am not afraid of horses.”

“Them horses was something to be afraid of—­believe me!” ejaculated one of the men.  “The gal’s a peach of a rider at that.”

Here Helen suddenly demanded to know where Jennie was.

“I do believe she’s burrowed right through the bottom of this tonneau!”

“Haven’t either!” came in the muffled voice of the fleshy girl, and she began to rise up from under enveloping robes.  “Take your foot off my arm, Nell.  You’re trampling me awfully.  I thought it was one of those dreadful horses!”

“Well—­I—­like—­that!” gasped Helen.

“I didn’t,” Jennie groaned, finally coming to the surface—­like a porpoise, Ruth gigglingly suggested, to breathe!  “I was sure one of those awful creatures was stamping on me.  If I haven’t suffered this day!  Such spots as were not already black and blue, are now properly bruised.  I shall be a sight.”