As they neared the scene of the round-up, near mid-forenoon, the Overlanders rode up the first bluff of the foothills, as they had been directed to do, and then followed along parallel with the valley. As they drew near they suddenly found themselves gazing down upon the scene that they had come so far to see—a western round-up.
A great herd—thousands of them, it seemed—were milling about on the plain below them, making the dust fly in suffocating clouds, while wilder ones of the herd were galloping for the foothills. Calves were running about bawling for their mothers, and frantic cows were splitting the herd in search of them. Above the din rose shrill and clear the calls of the cowpunchers, calls that were familiar, especially to the steers, who seemed to know the meaning of them even if they did do exactly the opposite to what was expected of them.
Up and down the rolling foothills raced the long-horns, with ponies ridden by yelling, shouting, dare-devil riders, in pursuit. Here and there a lasso wriggled through the air, spun by an irate cowboy, and a big steer went down on his nose.
A bunch of wild steers raced past the Overlanders, and Stacy, suddenly deciding that it was his duty to drive them back, galloped after them.
The fat boy soon found himself in the midst of a charging, bellowing mass of wild steers whose long horns and threatening jabs at his mustang, made him wish that he had kept out of it. He was in a more perilous position than he realized. The girls were shouting for him to come back, but in the uproar Stacy did not hear them, nor could he have obeyed had he heard.
Two-gun Pete was the first to discover the boy’s predicament. He came flashing up the grade, past the girls, but without looking at them, and rode on until he had reached the herd. There he began uttering shrill yells that were heard above the uproar. Pete, at the risk of his pony’s life, if not his own, dodged in and out until he got to the side of the fat boy.
“Hot-foot it out of this, you tenderfoot!” he roared.
“All right. Show me the way, you cowpuncher!” flung back Stacy.
“Follow me, but not too close.” Pete, exerting mighty efforts, soon split the herd apart, and into the opening thus made, Stacy rode without further urging, and in a few moments he was clear of the herd. “Now git back with ye and stay back!”
Now that he was up there, Pete decided to head off the wild bunch. He rode his sweating mustang until it seemed as if he would ride the little animal off its feet, and little by little he bunched the unruly steers and started them towards the valley, when they suddenly headed straight for the position occupied by the Overlanders.