Fortunately he had not penetrated far among the drove, and, by a continuance of his inimitable dexterity, he dodged from among them, helped thereto by the efforts of the cattle themselves to flee from the terrifying object.
It was at this juncture, when the youth was striving to get sight of his enemy, who, he believed, was trying equally hard to secure another shot at him, that he saw the very thing he had been dreading from the first.
It was a single horseman, who almost rode him down ere he could check his steed. Avon was so flurried from his fierce exertions, that, before he could bring his rifle to his shoulder and discharge it, the other anticipated him.
But the man did not fire at him. He aimed at the Comanche, not a dozen yards distant, and hit him fairly and squarely.
“Helloa, Baby, what the mischief is up?”
“Thank Heaven, Ballyhoo, it’s you!” exclaimed the panting youth, ready to drop from exhaustion.
“Ballyhoo,” was the nickname of Oscar Gleeson, one of the cowboys in charge of the 114 two thousand cattle that were to start northward on the morrow over the Great Cattle Trail.
“Baby” was the name by which Avon Burnet was known among the rest, because of his youth.
Leaning over his horse, the tall Texan reached down and grasped the hand of his young friend.