II

Some time before my visit to P Ranch, in the summer of 1912, the riders

had taken out a herd of four thousand steers on what proved to be one of

the most difficult drives ever made to Winnemucca. For the first two

days on the trail the cattle were strange to each other, having been

gathered from widely separated grazing grounds,--from Double-O and the

Home Ranch,--and were somewhat clannish and restive under the driving.

At the beginning of the third day signs of real trouble appeared. A

shortage of water and the hot weather together began to tell on the

temper of the herd.

The third day was long and exceedingly hot. The line started forward at

dawn, and all day kept moving, with the sun cooking the bitter smell of

the sage into the air, and with sixteen thousand hoofs kicking up a

still bitterer smother of alkali dust which inflamed eyes and nostrils

and coated the very lungs of the cattle. The fierce desert thirst was

upon the herd long before it reached the creek where it was to bed for

the night. The heat and the dust had made slow work of the driving, and

it was already late when they reached the creek, only to find it dry.

This was bad. The men were tired, but the cattle were thirsty, and Wade,

the 'boss of the buckaroos,' pushed the herd on toward the next

rim-rock, hoping to get down to the plain below before the end of the

slow desert twilight. Anything for the night but a dry camp.

They had hardly started on when a whole flank of the herd, suddenly

breaking away as if by prearrangement, tore off through the brush. The

horses were as tired as the men, and, before the chase was over, the

twilight was gray in the sage, making it necessary to halt at once and

camp where they were. They would have to go without water.

The runaways were brought up and the herd closed in till it formed a

circle nearly a mile around. This was as close as it could be drawn, for

the cattle would not bed--lie down. They wanted water more than they

wanted rest. Their eyes were red, their tongues raspy with thirst. The

situation was a difficult one.

But camp was made. Two of the riders were sent back along the trail to

bring up the 'drags' while Wade, with his other men, circled the uneasy

cattle, closing them in, quieting them, and doing everything possible to

make them bed.

They were thirsty; and instead of bedding, the herd began to 'growl'--a

distant mutter of throats, low, rumbling, ominous, as when faint thunder

rolls behind the hills. Every plainsman fears the growl, for it too

often is a prelude to the 'milling,' as it proved to be now, when the

whole vast herd began to stir--slowly, singly at first and without

direction, till at length it moved together, round and round a great

compact circle, the multitude of clicking hoofs, of clashing horns and

chafing sides, like the sound of rushing rain across a field of corn.

Nothing could be worse for the cattle. The cooler twilight was falling,

but, mingling with it, rose and thickened and spread a choking dust from

their feet which soon covered them, and shut from sight all but the wall

of the herd. Slowly, evenly, swung the wall, round and round, without a

break. Only one who has watched a milling herd can know its suppressed

excitement. To keep that excitement in check was the problem of Wade and

his men. And the night had not yet begun.

When the riders had brought in the drags, and the chuckwagon had

lumbered up with supper, Wade set the first watch.

Along with the wagon had come the fresh horses--among them Peroxide Jim,

a supple, powerful, clean-limbed buckskin, that had, I think, as fine

and intelligent an animal-face as any creature I ever saw. And why

should he not have been saved fresh for just such a need as this? Are

there not superior horses as well as superior men--a Peroxide Jim to

complement a Wade?

The horse plainly understood the situation, Wade told me; and though

there was nothing like sentiment for horse-flesh about the boss of the

P Ranch riders, his faith in Peroxide Jim was absolute.

The other night-horses were saddled and tied to the wheels of the wagon.

It was Wade's custom to take his turn with the second watch; but

shifting his saddle to Peroxide Jim, he rode out with the four of the

first watch, who, evenly spaced, were quietly circling the herd.

The night, for this part of the high desert, was unusually warm. It was

close, still, and without a sky. The near, thick darkness blotted out

the stars. There is usually a breeze at night over these highest

rim-rock plains which, no matter how hot the day may have been, crowds

the cattle together for warmth. To-night not a breath stirred the sage

as Wade wound in and out among the bushes, the hot dust stinging his

eyes and caking rough on his skin.

Round and round moved the weaving shifting forms, out of the dark and

into the dark, a gray spectral line like a procession of ghosts, or some

morris dance of the desert's sheeted dead. But it was not a line, it was

a sea of forms; not a procession, but the even surging of a maelstrom of

hoofs a mile around.

Wade galloped out on the plain for a breath of air and a look at the

sky. A quick cold rain would quiet them; but there was not a feel of

rain in the darkness, no smell of it on the air. Only the powdery taste

of the bitter sage.

The desert, where the herd was camped, was one of the highest of a

series of table-lands, or benches; it lay as level as a floor, rimmed by

a sheer wall of rock from which there was a drop to the bench of sage

below. The herd had been headed for a pass, and was now halted within a

mile of the rim-rock on the east, where there was a perpendicular fall

of about three hundred feet.

It was the last place an experienced plainsman would have chosen for a

camp; and every time Wade circled the herd, and came in between the

cattle and the rim, he felt the nearness of the precipice. The darkness

helped to bring it near. The height of his horse brought it near--he

seemed to look down from his saddle over it, into its dark depths. The

herd in its milling was surely warping slowly in the direction of the

rim. But this was all fancy, the trick of the dark and of nerves--if a

plainsman has nerves.

At twelve o'clock the first guard came in and woke the second watch.

Wade had been in the saddle since dawn, but this was his regular watch.

More than that, his trained ear had timed the milling hoofs. The

movement of the herd had quickened.

If now he could keep them going, and could prevent their taking any

sudden fright! They must not stop until they stopped from utter

weariness. Safety lay in their continued motion. So the fresh riders

flanked them closely, paced them, and urged them quietly on. They must

be kept milling and they must be kept from fright.

In the taut silence of the stirless desert night, with the tension of

the herd at the snapping-point, any quick, unwonted sight or sound would

stampede them; the sneezing of a horse, the flare of a match, would be

enough to send the whole four thousand headlong--blind, frenzied,

trampling--till spent and scattered over the plain.

And so, as he rode, Wade began to sing. The rider ahead of him took up

the air and passed it on until, above the stepping stir of the hoofs,

rose the faint voices of the men, and all the herd was bound about by

the slow plaintive measures of some old song. It was not to soothe their

savage breasts that the riders sang to the cattle, but to prevent the

shock of their hearing any loud and sudden noise.

So they sang and rode and the night wore on to one o'clock, when Wade,

coming up on the rim-rock side, felt a cool breeze fan his face, and

caught a breath of fresh, moist wind with the taste of water in it.

He checked his horse instantly, listening as the wind swept past him

over the cattle. But they must already have smelled it, for they had

ceased their milling. The whole herd stood motionless, the indistinct

forms close to him in the dark, showing their bald faces lifted to drink

the sweet wet breath that came over the rim. Then they started again,

but faster, and with a rumbling from their hoarse throats that tightened

Wade's grip on the reins.

The sound seemed to come out of the earth, a low, rumbling mumble, as

dark as the night and as wide as the plain, a thick inarticulate bellow

that stood every rider stiff in his stirrups.

The breeze caught the dust and carried it back from the gray-coated,

ghostly shapes, and Wade saw that the animals were still moving in a

circle. If he could keep them going! He touched his horse to ride on

with them, when across the black sky flashed a vivid streak of

lightning.

There was a snort from the steers, a quick clap of horns and hoofs from

far within the herd, a tremor of the plain, a roar, a surging mass--and

Wade was riding the flank of a wild stampede. Before him, behind him,

beside him, pressing hard upon his horse, galloped the frenzied steers,

and beyond them a multitude, borne on, and bearing him on, by the heave

of the galloping herd.

Wade was riding for his life. He knew it. His horse knew it. He was

riding to turn the herd, too, back from the rim, as the horse also knew.

The cattle were after water--water-mad--ready to go over the precipice

to get it, carrying horse and rider with them. Wade was the only rider

between the herd and the rim. It was black as death. He could see

nothing in the sage, could scarcely discern the pounding, panting

shadows at his side; but he knew by the swish of the brush and the

plunging of the horse that the ground was growing stonier, that they

were nearing the rocks.

To outrun the stampede was his only chance. If he could come up with the

leaders he might yet head them off upon the plain and save the herd.

There were cattle still ahead of him; how many, what part of the herd,

he could not tell. But the horse knew. The reins hung on his straight

neck, while Wade, yelling and firing into the air, gave him the race to

win, to lose.

Suddenly they veered and went high in the air, as a steer plunged

headlong into a draw almost beneath their feet. They cleared the narrow

ravine, landed on bare rock and reeled on.

They were riding the rim. Close to their left bore down the flank of the

herd, and on their right, under their very feet, was a precipice, so

close that they felt its blackness--its three hundred feet of fall!

A piercing, half-human bawl of terror told where a steer had been

crowded over. Would the next leap carry them after him? Then Wade found

himself racing neck and neck with a big white steer, which the horse,

with marvelous instinct, seemed to pick from a bunch, and to cling to,

forcing him gradually ahead till, cutting him free from the bunch

entirely, he bore him off into the sage.

The group coming on behind followed its leader, and in, after them,

swung others. The tide was turning. Within a short time the whole herd

had veered, and, bearing off from the cliffs, was pounding over the open

plains.

Whose race was it? Peroxide Jim's, according to Wade, for not by word or

by touch of hand or knee had he been directed in the run. From the flash

of the lightning the horse had taken the bit, and covered an

indescribably perilous path at top speed, had outrun the herd and

turned it from the edge of the rim-rock, without a false step or a

tremor.

Bred on the desert, broken at the round-up, trained to think steer as

his rider thinks it, the horse knew as swiftly, as clearly as his rider,

the work before him. But that he kept himself from fright, that none of

the wild herd-madness passed into him, is a thing for wonder. He was as

thirsty as any animal of the herd; he knew his own peril, I believe, as

none of the herd had ever known anything; and yet, such coolness,

courage, wisdom, and power!

Was it training? Was it more intimate association with the man on his

back, and so, a further remove from the wild thing which domestication

does not seem to touch? Or was it all suggestion, the superior

intelligence above riding--not the flesh, but the spirit?