“And I’m away ahead of the others!” said Cranny, aloud.
He again stood up in his stirrups, to look over a scene of wild confusion. A great herd of steers, now in almost a compact mass, was sweeping over the plain, forcing his broncho along as irresistibly as a chip is carried on the surface of a running stream. A din of pounding hoofs was in the air, while, at times, deep-throated bellowings rose above it.
Through a haze of whirling particles, Cranny managed to catch another glimpse of Willie; and the sight nerved him to make one more desperate effort to force a passage through the living mass around him.
Some distance off, a lone cow-puncher had turned, and was galloping swiftly toward the oncoming cattle. This grizzled veteran of the range, whose keen vision had enabled him to instantly grasp the situation, knew that quick action was necessary.
As his brown-patched pony approached the foremost steers, he uttered a series of lusty yells. He was too old a hand to get caught in the resistless torrent of moving bodies. Single-handed, he was attempting to “mill” the herd, or swing the foremost cattle around, so as to slow up and finally stop those following in the rear.
Sam Randall and Dick Travers, who had managed to reach the outer edge of the herd, came galloping up to reinforce him.
“Pete Sanderson!” cried Sam.
“He’s the boy who can do it!” yelled Dick. “Come on!”
“I’m a-swingin’ ’em, boys!” called out Pete. He ended his sentence with another wild yell.
The boys saw the tide beginning to turn.