A moment later I was told off with a vaquero (cowboy) to ride up the bed of a creek that ran at right-angles to the river and parallel with the cornfield. We were to try to "head" the cattle, and so prevent them from breaking out of the field, up the hillside, and getting away into the mountains again, where we should have had to leave them.
The creek-bed was low, and afforded us good cover for three parts of the way. Then it shallowed, and we soon were able to see, from our horses, the cattle in the corn. We thought we had been very quiet indeed, but we noticed a hurried movement among the beasts, and with a cry "They're off!" my companion dug his spurs into his horse and was off like the wind himself. And I after him.
We dashed into the corn, and raced like mad to head the stampeding beasts. It was the strangest sensation in the world, galloping in the moonlight through the waving corn, which was up to our horses' shoulders. It made me quite giddy for a second or two, but I galloped madly on after my companion, who, with his shrill cowboy yells, helped the roaring cattle to wake the midnight silences of the valley. I joined in the yelling, too, and, so soon as our voices were heard, there was a chorus in reply from where we had left the rest of our party.
"We shall never head them," I cried.
"Perhaps not, but we'll try," answered the vaquero, as we tore onward. I thought we had not the slightest hope of heading them. Up the hillside we tore to keep them on the flat ground, and at every leap over a rough incline I thought my horse would break his neck and mine too. But as surefooted as goats are those horses of the hills. At length, for some reason or other, the cattle wheeled and went back down towards the river, and we, of course, followed.
Suddenly, two of them broke away to the right, and I after them. I thought I might be of some little use, even if I were not an expert lassoer. But those two wild cattle knew too much for me. They tore across a gully, dashed up the other side and away at full gallop into the hills. I let them go. If I had pursued them farther most probably I should not be writing this now. As it was, it was a marvel I had not broken my neck. Only my splendid horse had saved me.
So I rode back to the oak-trees, and there—there was not a sign of life. All was as silent and still as if nothing had ever disturbed Nature's quiet. I remember how beautiful was the night. A half-moon shone out in a clear sky, like a semicircle of pure, bright silver, the tops of the mountains were silhouetted against the sky as if they were cut out of cardboard, and all was so calm just then. You don't get such lovely nights elsewhere. The moon has not the sterling brightness; the air not the clearness nor the stillness that it has there.
Where were my companions? I did not know. My panting horse was glad to get breathing-space, so I sat there in the saddle, waiting. I pulled my coat around my shoulders, for the air was chilly. It was then about 2 A.M.
A sharp sound disturbed my reverie—the sound of a horse's hoofs galloping over the rocky river-bed. The rattle was so clear, so distinct, in that atmosphere and at that hour, that I could hear it long before my eyes could detect anything, even in that bright moonlight. Then, in a few moments, there approached a horse at full gallop, with his head low down and neck extended—at first apparently riderless, but as he came nearer I was startled to discover a black shape, hanging over the off-side, and, as the frightened steed tore past me, I saw it was a woman.
It was Edna. Who else could it be? Her left foot, still in the stirrup, had come right over the saddle with her as she fell, and she was clinging desperately with her hands to the horse's long mane, but so low down that, at the pace, it seemed to be impossible for her to recover.