"Haven't any time to do any s'posin' now!" was the grim answer. "Ride on and say your prayers that your pony doesn't step in a prairie dog's hole. If he does—and you fall—good night!"
The recent tenderfeet knew, without being told, what was meant. To go down before a herd of wild cattle, infuriated because they were frightened, would mean sure death and in horrible form.
As Nort looked back, to see what distance lay between himself and comrades, and the foremost of the herd, he saw several figures on horseback at one side of the running animals. At first he imagined these were Diamond X cowboys who had been in the rear of the steers, and he thought they had ridden up to help the boy ranchers turn the stampeded animals. But another look showed him the men who had been in the rear still in those positions, though they were spurring forward at top speed.
"Look, Bud!" cried Nort. He pointed to the four figures—there were no more than that—at the left of the galloping herd.
"Rustlers—Greasers!" shouted Bud. "They started this stampede!"
"What for?" Dick wanted to know. "They can't hope to run off any under our eyes, can they?"
"They're doing it to get fresh meat!" declared Bud, who never ceased, all this while, to urge his pony forward, an example followed by his cousins with their horses. "They think some steer, or maybe half a dozen, will fall and be trampled to death. Then they'll have all the beef they can eat—for nothing. They started this stampede, or I'll never speak to Zip Foster again."
By this time, knowing Bud as they did, Nort and Dick had ceased to ask about the mysterious Zip Foster. But Nort could not forego the question:
"How'd they do it?"
"Do what?" grunted Bud, as he skillfully turned his pony away from a prairie dog's hole.