The round-up was almost finished, and, so far, Emerson Mead had won
the day. Backed always by his two friends, he had compelled the
recognition of every general claim which had been made, and in most of
the daily quarrels his side had come out victor.
Toward the end of the round-up, Mead and two _vaqueros_, accompanied
by Tuttle and Ellhorn, had worked all day, getting together a
scattered band of cattle, and at night had them bunched at a water
hole near the edge of his range. The next day they were to be driven a
few miles farther and joined with the droves collected by the Fillmore
Company's men and by two or three of his neighbors for the last work
of the spring round-up. In the evening one of the cow-boys was sent to
the ranch house with a message to the foreman, and a little later the
other was seized with a sudden illness from having drunk at an alkali
spring during the day. Mead, Tuttle and Ellhorn then arranged to share
the night in watches of three hours each with the cattle. Mead's began
at midnight. He saddled and mounted his horse and began the monotonous
patrol of the herd.
There were some three hundred steers in the bunch of cattle. They lay,
sleeping quietly, so closely huddled together that there was barely
room for them to move. Occasionally, one lying at the outer edge got
up, stretched himself, nibbled a few bunches of grass, and then lay
down again. Now and then, as one changed his position, a long, blowing
breath, or a satisfied grunt and groan, came out of the darkness. When
Mead started his horse on the slow walk round and round the sleeping
herd the sky was clear. In its violet-blue the stars were blazing big
and bright, and he said to himself that the cattle would sleep quietly
and he would probably have an uneventful watch. He let the horse poke
round the circle at its own pace, while his thoughts wandered back to
his last visit to Las Plumas and hovered about the figure of
Marguerite Delarue as she stood beside her gate and took little Paul
from his hands. With a sudden warming of the heart he saw again her
tall figure in the pink gown, with the rose bloom in her cheeks and
the golden glimmer in her brown hair and the loving mother-look in her
eyes as she smiled at the happy child. But with a sigh and a shake of
the head he checked his thoughts and sent them to the mass-meeting and
the days he had spent in the jail.
Presently it occurred to him that his watch must be nearly over and he
looked up at the Great Dipper, swinging on its north star pivot. Then
he smiled at himself, for it seemed scarcely to have changed position
since he had mounted his horse. "Not an hour yet," was his mental
comment. Clouds were beginning to roll up from the horizon, and he
could hear low mutterings of thunder and among the mountain tops see
occasional flashes of lightning. Soon the sky was heavily overcast,
and the darkness was so dense that it seemed palpable, like an
enveloping, smothering cover, which might almost be grasped in the
hands, torn down and thrown away. Mead could not see the horse's head,
so, letting the reins lie loosely on its neck, he allowed the animal
to pick its own way around the circle.
The cattle began to show signs of nervousness, and from the huddled
mass there came sounds of uneasy movements. Mead urged his horse into
a quicker walk and with one leg over its neck as they went round and
round the herd, he sang to them in a crooning monotone, like a
mother's lullaby to a babe that is just dropping into dreamland. It
quieted the incipient disturbance, the rumbling thunder ceased for a
time, and after a little moving about the cattle settled down to sleep
again.
Suddenly, without forerunner or warning, a vivid flash of lightning
cleft the clouds and a roar of thunder rattled and boomed from the
mountain peaks. And on the instant, as one animal, hurled by sudden
fright, the whole band of cattle was on its feet and plunging forward.
There was a snorting breath, a second of muffled noise as they sprang
to their feet, and the whole stampeded herd was rushing pell-mell
into the darkness. They chanced to head toward Mead, and he, idling
along with one leg over his saddle horn, with a quick jab of the spur
sent his pony in a long, quick leap to one side, barely in time to
escape their maddened rush. A second's delay and he and his horse
would have been thrown down by the sheer overpowering mass of the
frenzied creatures and trampled under their hoofs, for the horn of a
plunging steer tore the leg of his overalls as the mad animals passed.
Away went the herd, silent, through the dense blackness of the night,
running at the top of their speed. And Mead, spurring his horse, was
after them without a moment's loss of time, galloping close beside the
frightened beasts, alertly watchful lest they might suddenly change
their course and trample him down. They ran in a close mass, straight
ahead, paying heed to nothing, beating under their hoofs whatever
stood in their way.
They rushed crazily on through the darkness which was so intense that
Mead's face seemed to cleave it as the head cleaves water when one
dives. He galloped so close to the running band that by reaching out
one arm he could almost touch one or another heaving side. But he
could see nothing, not a tossing horn nor a lumbering back of the
whole three hundred steers, except when an occasional flash of
lightning gave him a second's half-blinded glimpse of the plunging
mass. By hearing rather than by sight he could outline the rushing
huddle at his right hand. And watching it as intently as if it had
been a rattlesnake ready to strike, he galloped on by its side in a
wild race through the darkness, over the plain, up and down hills,
through cactus and sagebrush, over boulders and through treacherous,
tunneled prairie dog towns, plunging headlong into whatever might be
in front of them.
From the rushing herd beside him there came the muffled roar of their
thousand hoofs, overtoned by the constant popping and scraping of
their clashing horns. The noise filled his ears and could not quite be
drowned even by the rattling peals of thunder. Swift drops of rain
stung his face and the water of a pelting shower dripped from his hat
brim and trickled from his boot heels. The beating rain, the vivid
flashes of lightning and the loud peals of thunder drove the maddened
creatures on at a still faster pace. Mead put frequent spurs to his
horse and held on to the side of the mob of cattle, bent only on going
wherever they went and being with them at the dawn, when it might be
possible to get them under control.
They plunged on at a frenzied gallop through the darkness and the
storm, and when at last the sky brightened and a wet, gray light made
the earth dimly visible, Mead could see beside him a close huddle of
lumbering, straining backs and over it a tangle of tossing and
knocking horns. The crowding, crazy herd, and he beside it, were
rushing pell-mell down a long, sloping hill. With one keen, sweeping
glance through the dim light and the streaming rain he saw a clump of
trees, which meant water, at the foot of the hill, and near it a herd
of cattle, some lying down, and some standing with heads up, looking
toward him; while his own senseless mass of thundering hoofs and
knocking horns was headed straight toward them.
With a whooping yell he dashed at the head of the plunging herd, sent
a pistol ball whizzing in front of their eyes and with a quick, sharp
turn leaped his horse to one side, barely in time to escape the hoofs
and horns of the nearest steer. They swerved a little, and making a
detour he came yelling down upon them again, with his horse at its
topmost speed, and sent a bullet crashing through the skull of the
creature in the lead. It dropped to its knees, struggled a moment,
fell over dead, and the herd turned a little more to the right.
Spurring his horse till it leaped, straining, with outstretched legs,
he charged the head of the rushing column again, and bending low fired
his revolver close over their heads. Again they swerved a little to
the right, and dashing past the foremost point he sent a pistol ball
into the eye of the leader. It fell, struggling, and with a sudden
jerk he swung the horse round on its hind legs and struck home the
spurs for a quick, long leap, for he was directly in the front of the
racing herd. As the horse's fore feet came down on the wet earth it
slipped, and fell to its knees, scrambled an instant and was up
again, and leaped to one side with a bleeding flank, torn by the horns
of the leading steer. The startled animals had made a more decided
turn to the right, and by scarcely more than a hand's breadth horse
and rider had escaped their hoofs. The crazy, maddened creatures
slackened their pace and the outermost ones and those in the rear
began to drop off, one by one, grazing and tailing off behind in a
straggling procession. Another rush, and Mead had the mob of cattle,
half turned back on itself, struggling, twisting and turning in a
bewildered mass. The stampeding impulse had been checked, but the
senseless brutes were not yet subdued to their usual state.
Glancing down the hill to the clump of trees, he saw men rushing about
and horses being saddled. Shouting and yelling, he rushed again at the
turned flank of his herd, firing his pistol under their noses, forcing
the leaders this time to turn tail completely and trot toward the rear
of the band. The rest followed, and with another furious yell he
swerved them again to the right and forced them into a circle, a sort
of endless chain of cattle, trotting round and round. He knew they
would keep up that motion until they were thoroughly subdued and
restored to their senses, and would then scatter over the hillside to
graze.
He had conquered the crazy herd of cattle, but four horsemen were
galloping up the hill, and he knew they were part of the Fillmore
Company's outfit. He reloaded his revolver, put it in its holster,
and rode a little way toward them. Then he checked his horse and
waited, with his back to the "milling" herd, for them to come near
enough to hail. Through the lances of the rain he could see that
one of the men was Jim Halliday, the deputy sheriff from Las Plumas,
who had arrested him on the night of the mass-meeting. Another he
recognized as the Fillmore Company's foreman, and the two others
he knew were cow-boys. One of these he saw was a red-headed,
red-whiskered Mexican known as Antone Colorow--Red Antony--who was
famous in all that region for the skill with which he could throw the
lariat. His eye was accurate and his wrist was quick and supple, and
it was his greatest pride in life that the rope never missed landing
where he meant it should.