Only half realizing the terrible nature of the peril so rapidly approaching, Lathrop put on all the speed the auto possessed, and the machine seemed to fairly leap forward. Bart Witherbee stood up in the tonneau the better to see what was approaching behind them. Even he blanched under his tanned, weather-beaten skin as he saw that the cattle, an immense herd, were advancing in a crescent-shaped formation that seemed to make escape impossible.
Billy Barnes, who stood at his elbow, also sighted the maddened steers at the same moment as they rushed over a rise not more than half a mile away now.
“Whatever started them?” he gasped.
“Who can tell, lad, a coyote jumping up suddenly, the hoot of a ground owl, anything will start cattle stampeding when they are in the mood for it.”
The herd came swooping on, but so far the auto, which seemed to be fairly flying over the ground, maintained its lead. The steers were bellowing and throwing their heads high in the air as they advanced, and the noise of their hoofs seemed a perfect Niagara of sound.
“Get your gun out and load. We may have to use ’em before long,” exclaimed Bart Witherbee. “Sometimes the noise of shooting will turn a lot of stampeders.”
“Do you think it will stop them?” asked Billy.
“I dunno,” was the grim reply. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ve got to try to save our lives as best we can.”
On and on went the chase, the auto fleeing like a scared live thing before the pursuing peril. Bart Witherbee’s face grew grim.
“Won’t they get tired soon?” asked Billy, who couldn’t see how the steers could keep up the terrible pace much longer.