CHAPTER XVIII.
Scottie, as he rode in the rear of the herd next morning, called Steve over to him.
“If ye’re sure it was a whip started your horse last nicht, Steve,” he said, “an’ can tell me who it was, he’ll get his walkin’ ticket this nicht.”
“I’d rather say nothing, Scottie,” said Steve; “it might have been an accident.”
“There’s nae room for accidents when a stampede’s startin’,” said Scottie, grimly; “an’ accident o’ that sort is o’ set design or it’s rank carelessness—I’ve nae room in the Thunder Ridge men for ane o’ either sort.”
“I’d rather let it go, all the same, Scottie,” said Steve, and the subject was dropped.
The mob was kept moving slowly back over the ground they had stampeded, and it took them all the morning to cover what they had done in their flight in little more than an hour.
They were still wild and hard to hold, and several times the men had all they could do to ride round them and steady them from breaking into another rush. They refused to open out and feed, and truly there was little feed for them to find on the ground they were covering. They packed together compactly, and walked or broke into little trotting runs with heads up and eyes alert, and twice during the morning they were only stopped from breaking into a gallop by the hardest of riding.
“What in thunder has got into ’em?” growled Never-Never, as a score of the cattle swerved from the main body and galloped down a gully. Jack and Steve had shot out in pursuit, and were riding with their shoulders rounded and crouched forward, as men ride the finish of a hard race. They caught the cattle and drove past them, and sat erect and began to pour the whips into the leaders. When they had swung and were galloping back, the men had to ride hard again to steady them and slow them down before they reached the mob.