THE STAMPEDE
The sight drove all thoughts of the raging storm from Bob Somers’ mind.
Directly in the path of the headlong rush of fear-stricken animals they
were in imminent danger of being run down and trampled under foot.
Again and again he yelled his warning. Would Tom realize his danger
in time? Then self-preservation demanded that he himself act on the
instant.
No longer did he hold “Whirly-gig” in check. His quirt came down with
stinging force upon the animal’s flank. With a loud snort he leaped
ahead.
Bob Somers, striving to cut across the front of that line of racing,
plunging horses, urged him on with both voice and spurs. It was a wild
and thrilling ride in the raging storm. The lad was forced to take
desperate chances; for any instant he realized that his horse might
stumble in the springy, water-soaked soil.
[Illustration: ONCE MORE HE TURNED]
Daring to swing partly around in his saddle he saw a picture which
made his brow knit in lines of desperation. And even when he turned
away, his brain still seemed to retain a terrifying impression of
outstretched necks, of flying hoofs, of wildly tossing manes and tails.
“Get up, old boy! Get up!” he yelled hoarsely.
Even in those nerve-racking moments he strove to discover some signs of
Tom Clifton. But his efforts were all in vain.
Terror made “Whirly-gig” pound along at such a terrific pace that it
required all of the Rambler’s skill as a rider to keep from being
jolted headlong from the saddle.
Once more he turned. An instantaneous glance over his shoulder made him
utter a yell of triumph; the race was almost won, he was gaining. It
nerved him to renewed exertions. Another last desperate spurt and the
little mustang carried him to the goal of safety and beyond; while the
wild, frightened steeds of the plains swept on, heads lowered, manes
and tails still lashing, until the steadily falling curtain of rain
first dimmed their forms, and then hid them from view.
With feelings of thankfulness, Bob Somers pulled up his steaming horse.
Then forebodings on Tom’s account attacked him. Where was he? How had
he fared?
The rain drove hard against his staring eyes, the wind howled about
him; but for the moment he had thoughts only for his companion. The
Rambler he knew was a plucky, resourceful chap, cool in times of
danger, but the possibility of an accident under the circumstances was
so great that a cold tremor ran through him.
“Hello, Tom! hello!” he shouted over and over again. The sounds melted
away into the roar of the storm, but no answering hails were returned.
Tom Clifton had completely disappeared.
Buffeted about by the elements, continually jarred by the peals of
thunder booming overhead, and soaked to the skin, Bob Somers set out
on a search. The next hour to the lad was a most uncomfortable one,
both physically and mentally. He rode over the prairie in various
directions shouting and whistling, but in vain. The storm slowly
lessened its force; at last the heaviest clouds rolled by and between
the rifts rays of brilliant sunshine streamed through to fall upon
nature, glistening and refreshed. A cool crisp breeze had replaced the
sirocco-like heat of the earlier hours.
From the top of a ridge which commanded a considerable stretch of
the surrounding country, Bob’s gaze, aided by a pair of powerful
binoculars, traveled in every direction. But he could see nothing that
bore any resemblance to the form of a horse and rider.
One thing, however, encouraged him. He felt sure that if Tom had been
thrown he would have come across him in his careful, painstaking search.
“Well, this is certainly a beautiful mix-up,” he soliloquized ruefully.
“Now what’s to be done?”
“Only one thing,” he mused after many moments of serious reflection.
“Strike off for the Rangers’ camp--that’s what Tom has done, I’m sure.”
Still he could not bear to tear himself away from the locality until
another effort was made and this proving to be as unsuccessful as the
others, he set out for the Rangers’ cabin, buoyed up with the hope that
on his arrival he might find Tom Clifton there.
Possessing a good sense of direction and aided by his compass, he did
not find his task a difficult one. When the gray of dusk had begun
to steal over the landscape he rode up to the log structure where
only Fred Cole greeted him, all the others being off on the scouting
expedition.
The return of Bob Somers alone greatly excited the Ranger’s curiosity.
Even before the Rambler had had a chance to dismount he began shouting
questions to him.
Bob’s story was quickly told, whereupon Cole whistled softly.
“To get caught among a lot of stampeding mustangs isn’t any joke, I
can tell you!” he exclaimed. Then, slapping the lad reassuringly on
the shoulder, he added hastily, “But don’t worry, son. I’ll bet that
tall chap knew how to take care of himself. Just as likely as not he’s
riding over the prairie, yelling himself hoarse, looking for you.”
The Ranger’s confidence, however, began to be shaken, when the passing
hours brought no news of Tom, though he was careful not to voice his
fears to Bob.
“The moment the boys get back, we’ll have to get up a searching party,”
he muttered to himself. “I only hope it’s all right, but”--he shook his
head rather dubiously,--“it looks rather bad to me.”