As a herd of terrified longhorns bore directly down upon them the alarmed campers flew in all directions. The sound of pounding hoofs, carrying to their senses the imminence of the peril, made them put forth every exertion to get beyond the animals’ path.
“Great Scott!” breathed Bob Somers.
He had crossed the glade and become entangled in a thick mass of underbrush on the opposite side.
Several of the fleeing longhorns were almost upon him. Desperately he shot a glance over his shoulder, to see the ponderous bodies faintly brought into view by the firelight.
A hoarse bellow seemed to sound almost in his very ears. He heard several of his companions utter wild yells; but he himself, even in the excitement of the moment, remained silent, using every faculty at his command to escape the danger.
Now it was impossible to see a yard in advance. He was in the woods, groping, blindly pushing through, stumbling and tripping; now bringing up against a tree; then impeded by the brush. And at every step of the way he appeared to be directly in the track of the stampeding cattle.
Bob Somers’ heart was beating fast. Every moment he expected to feel the impact of a frightened steer, and every moment he realized the hopelessness of getting outside the zone of the animals’ flight.
Suddenly a low-hanging branch swept him off his feet. Sprawling on the ground he felt a thrill like an electric shock. Then, with a supreme effort, he dragged himself behind the trunk, stood erect, and pressed his form hard—painfully hard—against it.
The heavy hoof-beats were crashing by on either side. Trembling with excitement, and breathing hard, he passed a few tense moments, in the midst of which the fierce yells and pistol shots sounded for a third time.
Almost surprised to find himself unharmed, the Rambler listened, first with added fear—then thankfulness, as they abruptly ended, and the last steer floundered by.