"And they say, He will never forget you,
That He notes every action and look,
So for safety you'd better get branded,
And have your name in His big 'tally-book.'
"For they tell of another big owner,
Who is ne'er overstocked, so they say,
But who always makes room for the sinner,
Who strays from that bright, narrow way."
As the closing words floated out on the cool night air, I turned sleepily in my bed and saw that a huge black cloud had come up rapidly from the West and bid fair to soon shut out the moon. I snuggled down in my blankets, wondering if we would have to turn out to help hold the steers if it rained, when the silence of the night was broken by a peal of thunder that seemed to fairly split the skies. It brought every man in camp to his feet, for high above the reverberation of the thunder was the roar and rattle of a stampede.
It is hard to find words to describe a stampede of a thousand head of long-horned range steers.
It is a scene never to be forgotten. They crowd together in their mad fright, hoofs crack and rattle, horns clash against one another, and a low moan goes through the herd as if they were suffering with pain. Nothing stands in their way: small trees and bushes are torn down as if by a tornado, and no fence was ever built that would turn them. Woe betide the luckless rider who racing recklessly in front of them, waving his slicker or big hat, or shooting in front of them, trying to turn them, has his pony stumble or step into a dog-hole and fall, for he is sure to be trampled to death by their cruel hoofs. And yet they will suddenly stop, throw up their heads, look at one another as if to say, "What on earth were you running for?" and in fifteen minutes every one of them will be lying as quietly as any old, pet milk cow in a country farm-yard.
They bore right down on the camp, and we all ran to the wagon for safety; but they swung off about a hundred feet from camp and raced by us like the wind, horns clashing, hoofs rattling, and the earth fairly shaking with the mighty tread.
Riding well to the front between us and the herd was Tom trying to turn the leaders. As he flew by he shouted in his daredevil way, "Here's trouble, cowboys!" and was lost in the dust and night. Of course all this took but a moment. We quickly recovered ourselves, pulled on boots, flung ourselves into the saddle, and tore out into the dark with the wagon boss in the lead. I was neck and neck with him as we caught up with the end of the herd, and called to him: "Jack, they are headed for the 'cracks.' If we get into them, some of us will get hurt." Just then, "Bang, bang, bang," went a revolver ahead of us, and we knew that Tom had realized where he was going, and was trying to turn the leaders by shooting in their faces.
These cracks are curious phenomena and very dangerous. The hard adobe soil has cracked in every direction. Some of them are ten feet wide and fifty deep, others half a mile long and only six inches or a foot wide. The grass hides them, so a horse doesn't see them 'til he is fairly into them, and every cowboy dreaded that part of the valley.
Jack and I soon came to what, in the dust and darkness, we took to be the leaders. Drawing our revolvers, we began to fire in front of them, and quickly turned them to the left, and by pressing from that side crowded them round more and more, until we soon had the whole herd running round and round in a circle, or "milling," as it's called, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes got them quieted down enough to be left again in charge of the regular guard.
Jack sent me around the herd to tell the second-guard men to take charge, as it was their time, and for the rest of us to go to camp, which was nearly a mile distant and visible only, because "Dad," the cook, had built up the fire, well knowing we wouldn't be able to find camp without it.