“As I live, here comes Cranny!” shouted Dick.
Looming up through the yellow dust, Cranny Beaumont, hot, hoarse and perspiring, could be seen riding straight toward them.
“Rah, rah! Don’t let up a second, fellows,” he cried. An instant later he yelled:
“Whoop—look at this!”
Above the noise they became conscious of a loud hum. Almost as swift as an eagle’s flight, the “Ogden II,” after having made a wide circuit, was rushing toward them. A purplish shadow flitted across the backs of the herd.
“Bob Somers!” shouted Cranny, hoarsely.
There was no need for Pete Sanderson or the boys to put forth any further efforts. The biplane, skimming low, was completing the work which the cow-puncher had begun.
The tired cattle were sent swinging off at a sharp angle, with Sanderson and his allies close behind them.
Pete’s eyes roved anxiously over the mass of moving backs. It was the first possible chance they had had of reaching Mr. Beaumont’s ward.
Never before in Cranny’s life had he experienced such mingled feelings of fear and dread. Every moment visions of Willie Sloan losing his hold and being trampled underfoot were passing through his mind.