As luck would have it, the leader of the mob headed direct for the spot, guided by Garry on the one side, and Glen on the other.
It was a stern chase, and it said much for the horses Garry supplied that they kept pace with the galloping mob. As the leader rushed into the narrow channel the rest followed him pell-mell. The men closed in after them, driving them along at full speed, rushing them through before they realised they were caught. When this happened the din was tremendous. The trapped horses gave vent to their feelings by kicking, squealing, and biting in an extraordinary manner.
The men rested themselves and their horses and watched them.
"There are pretty near fifty," said Garry. "They're a good-looking lot. It's the recent rain's done it. They've had more to eat than they've had for months past."
"It will make them the harder to mount," replied Glen.
"Suppose we give 'em a rest for a night, and try our luck to-morrow. They'll have been without food for about eighteen hours, and it may tame them down," Garry suggested.
This was agreed to and they camped for the night close to the yards.
Next morning business commenced in earnest. Likely looking horses were separated from the rest, and then the struggle began. The bulk of them were hard to saddle, still harder to mount, but it takes more than a savage, untamed buckjumper to conquer a man from the West.
There were some stiff fights, and now and again a horse more desperate than the rest managed to rid himself of his rider after a long struggle. He was at once selected by Glen as one of his lot.
Glen Leigh excited the admiration of the men by the way he rode a tremendous horse about six or seven years old. He was a rough untamed animal, probably a son of old Tear'em, Garry said. At any rate he was very like that incorrigible savage. He stood nearly seventeen hands, and had the strength of half a dozen ordinary wild horses.