MILLING THE HERD
When Willie Sloan made his unfortunate move, it took the six boys
riding on the prairie but a moment to realize that something was wrong
with the flying machine.
“Hello, Dick Travers, look at that!” called Cranny Beaumont to the
nearest rider.
Dick’s eyes were already staring hard toward the “Ogden II.”
“Great Scott; there’s something up!” he cried, putting spurs to his
broncho.
“And there’ll be somethin’ down mighty soon, I’m thinkin’!” answered
Cranny. “If those boys ever get caught among a herd of stampedin’
steers----”
“They’ll be in the worst fix of their young lives,” Dick flung
excitedly over his shoulder.
Riding at a rattling clip among the cattle wasn’t easy work. The
animals, frightened by the huge object flying above their heads, were
beginning to bellow and paw the ground. The sight of their wild eyes
and excited movements, so suggestive of a headlong dash across the
prairie, might have given even veteran cowboys a feeling of uneasiness.
But all the lads, from different points on the prairie, unhesitatingly
urged their horses into a gallop; and, as they swung along, various
currents of longhorns were sent eddying out of their paths.
“We’ll have to get to the biplane, and swing the cows around it!”
yelled Cranny Beaumont.
The “Ogden II” was rushing swiftly toward the earth, and he could hear
the steady hum of its motor rising above the clatter of his horse’s
hoofs. The big lad was now in his element; his eyes flashed with
excitement and determination. Skilfully he guided his horse between the
longhorns, sometimes finding a great hulking body lumbering along at
his side. Cranny realized that any instant the living barriers which
shut him off from the open plain might begin an irresistible rush. Dick
Travers was riding just ahead.
Cranny, anxious to be the first on the scene, threw his whole energy
into the task, and within a few minutes, he had overtaken and was
slowly forging ahead of his nearest rival.
As the “Ogden II” approached the ground the commotion among the animals
rapidly increased; they were scattering wildly in all directions,
threatening at every instant to collide with the bronchos.
But, to Cranny’s relief, he could see over the tops of moving bodies
that the biplane was dropping upon a point comparatively free from
cattle.
“We can swerve ’em off easily,” he thought. “Great Cæsar!”
Cranny stood up in his stirrups, and gave a shrill whistle of
astonishment. He had just been a witness to Willie Sloan’s
extraordinary mishap. Another whistle--this time of real alarm--escaped
his lips, as he saw his father’s ward land on the back of the steer.
“Jupiter!” he yelled, excitedly.
He gave a glance toward the biplane settling down upon the ground, but
even that one swift look was enough to show him the aviator jumping
unharmed from his seat.
“Stand by Bob Somers, fellows!” he yelled. “I’ll go after Willie
Sloan.”
The alighting of the “Ogden II” in the midst of the cattle immediately
brought about the result which every one had feared. The gaps in the
herd began closing up. Cranny Beaumont found the forward progress of
his broncho almost checked--a tide of panic-stricken steers was forcing
him off toward one side.
The lad fought hard; his tough rawhide continued to slash right and
left. Stinging blows upon huge, unwieldy bodies drove them out of
his path, and, presently, made an opening through which his snorting
broncho plunged.
The clouds of dust were becoming thicker; Willie Sloan, desperately
holding on to the horns of the steer, was already half obscured.
As Cranny thought of the great danger which threatened the lad, a
sudden pallor came over his face. With so many cattle to bar his
progress, the task of overtaking Willie seemed almost impossible.
“And I’m away ahead of the others!” said Cranny, aloud.
He again stood up in his stirrups, to look over a scene of wild
confusion. A great herd of steers, now in almost a compact mass, was
sweeping over the plain, forcing his broncho along as irresistibly as a
chip is carried on the surface of a running stream. A din of pounding
hoofs was in the air, while, at times, deep-throated bellowings rose
above it.
Through a haze of whirling particles, Cranny managed to catch another
glimpse of Willie; and the sight nerved him to make one more desperate
effort to force a passage through the living mass around him.
Some distance off, a lone cow-puncher had turned, and was galloping
swiftly toward the oncoming cattle. This grizzled veteran of the range,
whose keen vision had enabled him to instantly grasp the situation,
knew that quick action was necessary.
As his brown-patched pony approached the foremost steers, he uttered
a series of lusty yells. He was too old a hand to get caught in the
resistless torrent of moving bodies. Single-handed, he was attempting
to “mill” the herd, or swing the foremost cattle around, so as to slow
up and finally stop those following in the rear.
Sam Randall and Dick Travers, who had managed to reach the outer edge
of the herd, came galloping up to reinforce him.
“Pete Sanderson!” cried Sam.
“He’s the boy who can do it!” yelled Dick. “Come on!”
“I’m a-swingin’ ’em, boys!” called out Pete. He ended his sentence with
another wild yell.
The boys saw the tide beginning to turn.
“As I live, here comes Cranny!” shouted Dick.
Looming up through the yellow dust, Cranny Beaumont, hot, hoarse and
perspiring, could be seen riding straight toward them.
“Rah, rah! Don’t let up a second, fellows,” he cried. An instant later
he yelled:
“Whoop--look at this!”
Above the noise they became conscious of a loud hum. Almost as swift as
an eagle’s flight, the “Ogden II,” after having made a wide circuit,
was rushing toward them. A purplish shadow flitted across the backs of
the herd.
“Bob Somers!” shouted Cranny, hoarsely.
There was no need for Pete Sanderson or the boys to put forth any
further efforts. The biplane, skimming low, was completing the work
which the cow-puncher had begun.
The tired cattle were sent swinging off at a sharp angle, with
Sanderson and his allies close behind them.
Pete’s eyes roved anxiously over the mass of moving backs. It was the
first possible chance they had had of reaching Mr. Beaumont’s ward.
Never before in Cranny’s life had he experienced such mingled feelings
of fear and dread. Every moment visions of Willie Sloan losing his hold
and being trampled underfoot were passing through his mind.
“I see him; I see him!” he yelled, at length, in joyous tones. “Look,
Dick!”
Dick Travers’ quick glance took in the small form of Willie Sloan. He
saw him still clinging to the back of the animal, which was jammed in
the mass some distance away.
Most of the steers were now moving over the plain at a slow walk.
“We’ll soon git him out o’ thar!” declared Pete, vigorously.
Tim Lovell, who had finally succeeded in fighting his way through the
cattle, came galloping up.
“Hooray for the brave little chap!” he cried. “Rah, rah! Yes, Dick;
Tom’s all right. I saw him a few moments ago. Want any help, Pete?”
“Ye’d best leave it all to me, boys,” commanded the cow-puncher.
He was going about his task in a thorough and systematic manner. One by
one, steers were separated from the general mass, then driven aside in
small bunches, until, at last, one particular longhorn was able to move
freely about.
Pete was alongside of him in an instant; his brawny arm encircled the
form of Willie Sloan, and, while Cranny and the others yelled long and
heartily, he lifted the lad from his position and set him gently on the
ground.