The dull, steady din of the many hoofs striking the soggy ground was plainly audible to his ears even amid the roar of the storm.
“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “That’s what I was afraid of!”
The gap of safety which lay between him and the herd was surely closing up. The animals were near enough now for him to see the whites of their eyes, their distended nostrils, the clouds of steam rising from their bodies in spite of the rain.
The sight of that dark mass, a veritable wall of shaggy bodies, made the scowling lines in his forehead deepen. The Rambler resolved on a desperate course.
He knew that cow-punchers, in efforts to stem the rush of stampeding cattle and mill the herd—that is to swing it around on its own axis—often fire revolver shots over their heads.
“It’s a mighty risky thing to try!” he breathed. “But all the same here goes.”
Like a cowboy he was able to ride without the use of his hands. Drawing his revolver from its holster he pressed his knees hard against the mustang’s sides and swung about. A vivid flash from the clouds directly above made the barrel a line of gleaming light. Then the muzzle began to spurt forth flame and smoke. Until every chamber was emptied Tom Clifton fired.
He heard frightened snorts; he saw the advancing wall of bodies slacken for a second, and also several of the horses attempt to change their course, only to be forced back into place by those rushing behind—the attempt had failed.
“Now it’s all up to the nag!” he groaned. “I can do no more!”
A spotted pony, so close that his extended hand could have touched him, nosed his way to the front and slowly drew ahead. Its eyes were expressive of a terror which at that moment would have impelled the animal to dash headlong to its own destruction.