DEVIL'S HOLE
Sanderson took his turn standing watch with the other men. The boss of
a trail herd cannot be a shirker, and Sanderson did his full share of
the work.
Tonight he had the midnight shift. At two o'clock he would ride back
to camp, awaken his successor, and turn in to sleep until morning.
Because of the proximity of the herd to Devil's Hole an extra man had
been told off for the nightwatch, and Soapy and the Kid were doing duty
with Sanderson.
Riding in a big circle, his horse walking, Sanderson could see the
dying embers of the camp fire glowing like a big firefly in the
distance. A line of trees fringing the banks of the river near the
camp made a dark background for the tiny, leaping sparks that were shot
up out of the fire, and the branches waving in the hazy light from
countless coldly glittering stars were weird and foreboding.
Across the river the ragged edges of the rock buttes that flanked the
water loomed somberly; beyond them the peaks of some mountains, miles
distant, glowed with the subdued radiance of a moon that was just
rising.
Back in the direction from which the herd had come the ridges and
depressions stretched, in irregular corrugations, as far as Sanderson
could see. Southward were more mountains, dark and mysterious.
Riding his monotonous circles, Sanderson looked at his watch, his face
close to it, for the light from the star-haze was very dim. He was on
the far side of the herd, toward Devil's Hole, and he was chanting the
refrain from a simple cowboy song as he looked at the watch.
The hands of the timepiece pointed to "one." Thus he still had an hour
to stand watch before awakening the nest man. He placed the watch is a
pocket, shook the reins over Streak's neck and spoke to him.
"Seems like old times to be ridin' night-watch, eh, Streak?" he said.
The words had hardly escaped his lips when there arose a commotion from
the edge of the herd nearest the corrugated land that lay between the
herd and the trail back to the Double A.
On a ridge near the cattle a huge, black, grotesque shape was clearly
outlined. It was waving to and fro, as though it were some
giant-winged monster of the night trying to rise from the earth.
Sanderson could hear the flapping noise it made; it carried to him with
the sharp resonance of a pistol shot.
"Damnation!" he heard himself say. "Some damned fool is wavin' a tarp!"
He jerked Streak up shortly, intending to ride for the point where the
tarpaulin was being waved before it was too late. But as he wheeled
Streak he realized that the havoc had been wrought, for the cattle
nearest him were on their feet, snorting with fright--a sensation that
had been communicated to them by contact with their fellows in the mass.
At the point where the commotion had occurred was confusion. Sanderson
saw steers rising on their hind legs, throwing their forelegs high in
the air; they were bellowing their fright and charging against the
steers nearest them, frenziedly trying to escape the danger that seemed
to menace them.
Sanderson groaned, for the entire herd was on the move! Near at hand a
dozen steers shot out of the press and lumbered past him, paying no
attention to his shouts. He fired his pistol in the face of one, and
though the animal tried to turn back, frightened by the flash, the
press of numbers behind it, already moving forward, forced it again to
wheel and break for freedom.
Sanderson heard the sounds of pistol shots from the direction of the
camp fire; he heard other shots from the direction of the back trail;
he saw the forms of men on horses darting here and there on the
opposite side of the herd from where he rode.
From the left side of the herd came another rider--Soapy. He tore
ahead of the vanguard of running steers, shooting his pistol in their
faces, shouting profanely at them, lashing them with his quirt.
A first batch slipped by him. He spurred his horse close to
Sanderson--who was trying to head off still others of the herd that
were determined to follow the first--and cursed loudly:
"Who in hell waved that tarp?"
Sanderson had no time to answer. A score of steers bolted straight for
him, and he groaned again when he saw that the whole herd was rushing
forward in a mass. A common impulse moved them; they were frenzied
with fright and terror.
It was not the first stampede that Sanderson had been in, and he knew
its dangers. Yet he grimly fought with the cattle, Streak leaping here
and there in answer to the knee-pressure of his master, horse and rider
looking like knight and steed of some fabled romance, embattled with a
huge monster with thousands of legs.
Sanderson caught a glimpse of several riders tearing toward him from
the direction of the camp, and he knew that Carter and the others were
trying to reach him in the hope of being able to stem the torrent of
rushing cattle.
But the movement had already gone too far, and the speed of the
frenzied steers was equal to the best running that Streak could do.
Sanderson saw that all effort to stop them would be hopeless, and aware
of the danger of remaining at the head of the flying mass, he veered
Streak off, heading him toward the side, out of the press.
As he rode he caught a glimpse of Soapy. The latter had the same
notion that was in Sanderson's mind, for he was leaning over his pony's
mane, riding hard to get out of the path taken by the herd.
Sanderson pulled Streak up slightly, watching Soapy until he was
certain the latter would reach the edge, then he gave Streak the reins
again.
The pause, though, robbed Sanderson of his chance to escape. He had
been cutting across the head of the herd at a long angle when watching
Soapy, and had been traveling with the cattle also; and now he saw that
the big level was behind him, that he and the cattle were in an
ever-narrowing valley which led directly into the neck of Devil's Hole.
Sanderson now gave up all hope of reaching the side, and devoted his
attention to straight, hard riding. There were a few steers ahead of
him, and he had a faint hope that if he could get ahead of them he
might be able to direct their course through Devil's Hole and thus
avert the calamity that threatened.
Grimly, silently, riding as he had never ridden before, he urged Streak
forward. One by one he passed the steers in his path, and just before
he reached the entrance to Devil's Hole he passed the foremost steer.
Glancing back as Streak thundered through the neck of the Hole,
Sanderson saw Soapy coming, not more than a hundred yards behind.
Soapy had succeeded in getting clear of the great body of steers, but
there were a few still running ahead of him, and he was riding
desperately to pass them.
Just as Sanderson looked back he saw Soapy's horse stumble. He
recovered, ran a few steps and stumbled again. This time he went to
one knee. He tried desperately to rise, fell again, and went down,
neighing shrilly in terror.
Sanderson groaned and tried to pull Streak up. But the animal refused
to heed the pull on the reins and plunged forward, unheeding.
There would have been no opportunity to save Soapy, even if Streak had
obeyed his master. The first few steers at the head of the mass
swerved around the fallen man and his horse, for they could see him.
The thousands behind, though, running blindly, in the grip of the
nameless terror that had seized them, saw nothing, heeded nothing, and
they swept, in a smother of dust, straight over the spot where Soapy
and his horse had been.
White-lipped, catching his breath in gasps over the horror, Sanderson
again turned his back to the herd and raced on. The same accident
might happen to him, but there was no time to pick and choose his trail.
Behind him, with the thundering noise of a devastating avalanche, the
herd came as though nothing had happened. The late moon that had been
touching the peaks of the far mountains now lifted a rim over them,
flooding the world with a soft radiance. Sanderson had reached the
center of the trail, through Devil's Hole, before he again looked back.
What he saw caused him to pull Streak up with a jerk. The head of the
herd had burst through the entrance to the Hole, and, opening fanlike,
had gone headlong into the quicksand.
Fascinated with the magnitude of the catastrophe, Sanderson paid no
attention to the few steers that went past him, snorting wildly; he sat
rigid on his horse and watched the destruction of the herd.
A great mass of steers had gone into the quicksand at the very edge of
the Hole; they formed a foothold for many others that, forced on by the
impetus of the entire mass, crushed them down, trampled them further
into the sand, and plunged ahead to their own destruction.
It was a continually recurring incident. Maddened, senseless,
unreasoning in their panic, the mass behind came on, a sea of tossing
horns, a maelstrom of swirling, blinding dust and heaving bodies into
the mire; the struggling, enmeshed bodies of the vanguard forming a
living floor, over which each newcomer swept to oblivion.
Feeling his utter helplessness, Sanderson continued to watch. There
was nothing he could do; he was like a mere atom of sand on a seashore,
with the storm waves beating over him.
The scene continued a little longer. Sanderson saw none of the men of
the outfit. The dust died down, settling like a pall over the neck of
the Hole. A few steers, chancing to come straight ahead through the
neck of the Hole, and thus striking the hard, narrow trail that ran
through the center, continued to pass Sanderson. They were still in
the grip of a frenzy; and at the far end of the Hole he saw a number of
them bogged down. They had not learned the lesson of the first
entrance.
At length it seemed to be over. Sanderson saw one steer, evidently
with some conception of the calamity penetrating its consciousness,
standing near him on the trail, moving its head from side to side and
snorting as it looked at its unfortunate fellows. The animal seemed to
be unaware of Sanderson's presence until Streak moved uneasily.
Then the steer turned to Sanderson, its red eyes ablaze. As though it
blamed him for the catastrophe, it charged him. Sanderson drew his
pistol and shot it, with Streak rearing and plunging.
Roars of terror and bellows of despair assailed Sanderson's ears from
all directions. Groans, almost human, came from the mired mass on both
sides of the trail. Hundreds of the cattle had already sunk from
sight, hundreds were sucked partly down, and other hundreds--thousands,
it seemed--were struggling in plain view, with only portions of their
bodies under.
Still others--the last to pour through the throat of the gorge--were
clambering out, using the sinking bodies of others to assist them;
Sanderson could see a few more choking the far end of the Hole.
How many had escaped he did not know, nor care. The dramatic finish of
Soapy was vivid, and concern for the other members of the outfit was
uppermost in his mind.
He rode the back trail slowly. The destruction of his herd had not
occupied ten minutes, it seemed. Dazed with the suddenness of it, and
with a knowledge of what portended, he came to the spot where Soapy's
horse had stumbled and looked upon what was left of the man. His face
dead white, his hands trembling, he spread his blanket over the spot.
He had formed an affection for Soapy.
Mounting Streak, he resumed his ride toward the camp. A dead silence
filled the wide level from which the stampede had started--a silence
except for the faint bellowing that still reached his ears from the
direction of the Hole.
Half a mile from where he had found the pitiable remnants of Soapy he
came upon Carter. The range boss was lying prone on his back, his body
apparently unmarred. His horse was standing near him, grazing. Carter
had not been in the path of the herd.
What, then, had happened to him?
Sanderson dismounted and went to his knees beside the man. At first he
could see no sign of anything that might have caused death--for Carter
was undoubtedly dead--and already stiffening! Then he saw a red patch
staining the man's shirt, and he examined it. Carter had been shot.
Sanderson stood up and looked around. There was no one in sight. He
mounted Streak and began to ride toward the camp, for he felt that
Carter's death had resulted from an accident. One explanation was that
a stray bullet had killed Carter--in the excitement of a stampede the
men were apt to shoot wildly at refractory steers.
But the theory of accident did not abide. Halfway between Carter and
the camp Sanderson came upon Bud. Bud was lying in a huddled heap. He
had been shot from behind. Later, continuing his ride to camp,
Sanderson came upon the other men.
He found the Kid and the cook near the chuck wagon, Sogun and Andy were
lying near the fire, whose last faint embers were sputtering feebly;
Buck was some distance away, but he, too, was dead!
Sanderson went from one to the other of the men, to make a final
examination. Bending over Sogun, he heard the latter groan, and in an
instant Sanderson was racing to the river for water.
He bathed Sogun's wound--which was low on the left side, under the
heart, and, after working over him for five or ten minutes, giving him
whisky from a flask he found in the chuck wagon, and talking to the man
in an effort to force him into consciousness, he was rewarded by seeing
Sogun open his eyes.
Sogun looked perplexedly at Sanderson, whose face was close.
There was recognition in Sogun's eyes--the calm of reason was swimming
in them.
He half smiled. "So you wriggled out of it, boss, eh? It was a
clean-up, for sure. I seen them get the other boys. I emptied my gun,
an' was fillin' her again when they got me."
"Who?" demanded Sanderson sharply.
"Dale an' his gang. They was a bunch of them--twenty, mebbe. I heard
them while I was layin' here. They thought they'd croaked me, an' they
wasn't botherin' with me.
"One of them waved a blanket--or a tarp. I couldn't get what it was.
Anyway, they waved somethin' an' got the herd started. I heard them
talkin' about seein' Soapy go under, right at the start. An' you.
Dale said he saw you go down, an' it wasn't no use to look for you.
They sure played hell, boss."
Sanderson did not answer.
"If you'd lift my head a little higher, boss, I'd feel easier, mebbe,"
Sogun smiled feebly. "An' if it ain't too much trouble I'd like a
little more of that water--I'm powerful thirsty."
Sanderson went to the river, and when he returned Sogun was stretched
out on his back, his face upturned with a faint smile upon it.
Sanderson knelt beside him, lifted his head and spoke to him. But
Sogun did not answer.
Sanderson rose and stood with bowed head for a long time, looking down
at Sogun. Then he mounted Streak and headed him into the moonlit space
that lay between the camp and the Double A ranchhouse.
It was noon the next day when Sanderson returned with a dozen Double A
men. After they had labored for two hours the men mounted their horses
and began the return trip, one of them driving the chuck wagon.
All of the men were bitter against Dale for what had happened, and
several of them were for instant reprisal.
But Sanderson stared grimly at them.
"There ain't any witnesses," he said, "not a damned one! My word don't
go in Okar. Besides, it's my game, an' I'm goin' to play her a lone
hand--as far as Dale is concerned."
"You goin' to round up what's left of the cattle?" asked a puncher.
Sanderson answered shortly: "Not any. There wasn't enough left to make
a fuss about, an' Dale can have them."