Then Martha struck Dan as hard as she could with her flat hand.
"Hey up, Dan!" said she, "run! run! You needn't stay here, too!"
The horse galloped off into the darkness.
Just then another lighting-flash came and showed a cow-boy leaning far over the neck of his pony, riding for his life. He passed only a dozen yards from them, but did not see them. Behind him Martha could dimly see two or three other riders coming toward them at desperate speed, while still beyond she caught a glimpse of the tossing horns and lurching heads of the cattle.
Without a moment for thought, and as coolly as if she had nothing in the world to fear, she bent over trembling Scylla, unfastened the waistband of her dress-skirt and pulled it deftly from under her. Then she quickly removed her own and took one of the bright-colored garments in each hand.
Just then the storm broke furiously. The night was suddenly lighted by lightning-flashes that followed one another so closely they seemed to make one long, lasting flare. The cow-boys had all passed, and Martha saw that the herd was scarcely two hundred yards away.
She stepped directly in front of Scylla's prostrate form and raised the skirts.
"Scream, Scylla, scream!" she cried.
Then, while the driving rain fell in torrents, and the lightning made the prairie as light as day, she stood straight up and waved those skirts wildly about her head, and shouted at the top of her voice.
She was dimly conscious that her shouts shaped themselves into a prayer that her brother was safe, and that the herd might divide and pass them. Her face was as pale as paper. Her long hair was tossed about by the wind, and by her own violent motions.