CHAPTER XIV
THE STAMPEDE
The sight drove all thoughts of the raging storm from Bob Somers’ mind. Directly in the path of the headlong rush of fear-stricken animals they were in imminent danger of being run down and trampled under foot.
Again and again he yelled his warning. Would Tom realize his danger in time? Then self-preservation demanded that he himself act on the instant.
No longer did he hold “Whirly-gig” in check. His quirt came down with stinging force upon the animal’s flank. With a loud snort he leaped ahead.
Bob Somers, striving to cut across the front of that line of racing, plunging horses, urged him on with both voice and spurs. It was a wild and thrilling ride in the raging storm. The lad was forced to take desperate chances; for any instant he realized that his horse might stumble in the springy, water-soaked soil.
ONCE MORE HE TURNED
Daring to swing partly around in his saddle he saw a picture which made his brow knit in lines of desperation. And even when he turned away, his brain still seemed to retain a terrifying impression of outstretched necks, of flying hoofs, of wildly tossing manes and tails.
“Get up, old boy! Get up!” he yelled hoarsely.
Even in those nerve-racking moments he strove to discover some signs of Tom Clifton. But his efforts were all in vain.