“Didn’t you hear how he was trampled in a stampede down on Bitter Creek?”
“Nary a word; how did it happen?”
“Well, he came nearly ending his trail there. He would have done it if Old Buck hadn’t saved him.”
“Tell us about it,” urged Fred, as Dan paused. The crowd were all eager to hear Dan talk.
“There isn’t much to tell,” he went on quietly; “it was just a regular stampede. We were trailing a bunch of longhorns through to Montana and one night we had them rounded up on a sagebrush flat down in the Green River country. Tim and I were taking night shift. The sky was clear enough in early evening; but ’long ’bout ten o’clock it had got black with thunder clouds. The steers began to act nervous, so we kept swinging slowly round them, humming a quiet tune to keep ’em down. Finally, as we were passing each other, Tim said:
“‘You’d better hike for camp and rustle the boys; I smell trouble. Git a move; for there’s no tellin’ when these devils’ll jump.’
“I struck out, roused the boys, and hit back for the herd, but just before I reached it, there was a blinding flash of lightning and a cracking clap of thunder. The herd jumped as if shot, and bolted away in the darkness. I heard Tim’s yell to check them, but it wasn’t any use. The herd plunged on. He was somewhere in front of them, and I was following the roar blindly, trying to join him.
“The thunder cracked and boomed above our heads and the rain pelted down. The best I could do was to cling to the flanks of the herd. I couldn’t get ahead of them. It would have been madness to try. We charged on yelling and firing our revolvers in an effort to swing the mad leaders toward the drag end of the herd. If we could have got them ‘milling,’ or going in a circle, we might have stopped them.
“I caught sight of Tim just once. A vivid flash of lightning gave me a glimpse of him, struggling like a Trojan in his midnight battle with the brutes. He was right in front of that wave of clashing horns. I clapped spurs into my pony to reach and help him; but the herd swept on like a torrent. And it kept on going until daylight broke. When I could get my bearings, I found myself miles away from camp with only about half the bunch. Tim was nowhere to be seen. After a while two of the boys came up and we headed the herd back. They were tired enough to be pretty tame. About sun-up we found Tim, half dead, and almost buried under Old Buck, whose useful life had been crushed out under the ripping hoofs of the steers. We carried Tim to camp, made a litter out of poles and blankets, and took him between two horses to the nearest station, flagged a through train and sent him down to Denver. He got over it enough to live, but he’s a cripple and always will be.”
“That’s too damned bad!” said Jim, soberly; “but it’s the kind o’ pay that’s coming to a good many of us cowpunchers.”