But, to Cranny’s relief, he could see over the tops of moving bodies that the biplane was dropping upon a point comparatively free from cattle.
“We can swerve ’em off easily,” he thought. “Great Cæsar!”
Cranny stood up in his stirrups, and gave a shrill whistle of astonishment. He had just been a witness to Willie Sloan’s extraordinary mishap. Another whistle—this time of real alarm—escaped his lips, as he saw his father’s ward land on the back of the steer.
“Jupiter!” he yelled, excitedly.
He gave a glance toward the biplane settling down upon the ground, but even that one swift look was enough to show him the aviator jumping unharmed from his seat.
“Stand by Bob Somers, fellows!” he yelled. “I’ll go after Willie Sloan.”
The alighting of the “Ogden II” in the midst of the cattle immediately brought about the result which every one had feared. The gaps in the herd began closing up. Cranny Beaumont found the forward progress of his broncho almost checked—a tide of panic-stricken steers was forcing him off toward one side.
The lad fought hard; his tough rawhide continued to slash right and left. Stinging blows upon huge, unwieldy bodies drove them out of his path, and, presently, made an opening through which his snorting broncho plunged.
The clouds of dust were becoming thicker; Willie Sloan, desperately holding on to the horns of the steer, was already half obscured.
As Cranny thought of the great danger which threatened the lad, a sudden pallor came over his face. With so many cattle to bar his progress, the task of overtaking Willie seemed almost impossible.