CHAPTER XVI
A WILD RACE
Tom Clifton, ever watchful, had discovered the stampeded mustangs just an instant before Bob Somers shouted his warning. Nearer the center of the onrushing steeds, however, the lad instantly realized that if he chose the direction in which Bob had gone, he would be overtaken, perhaps knocked from his saddle and trampled under foot.
It was a moment when quick thought and equally quick action were absolutely necessary. One glance at the panic-stricken beasts bearing down upon him, like the blasts of the gale, decided his course.
Tom’s quirt cracked like a revolver shot, he gave a yell of command, and the pony leaped ahead as though hurled through the air by the force of powerful springs.
Then began a mad race. Following the same plan as Bob Somers, Tom tried to cut across the front of the herd, riding in the opposite direction. This plan he soon discovered would result in failure.
“The only thing I can do is to try and keep ahead of ’em,” he muttered, grimly.
With all the means at his command he urged the mustang on until it was impossible for the little beast to make any greater efforts.
And all this time the rain poured down in torrents; vivid flashes of lightning illumined the darkened landscape with an unnatural glare, and thunder rolled and crashed.
Frightened as any of the stampeded animals thundering along at his heels, Tom’s mustang was making valiant efforts to carry himself and his rider to safety. The Rambler, however, was becoming conscious of an alarming fact—the long journey in the heat together with the headlong pace was gradually sapping the pony’s strength. How much further, he asked himself, could he travel, before becoming exhausted and dropping in his tracks?
The dull, steady din of the many hoofs striking the soggy ground was plainly audible to his ears even amid the roar of the storm.
“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “That’s what I was afraid of!”
The gap of safety which lay between him and the herd was surely closing up. The animals were near enough now for him to see the whites of their eyes, their distended nostrils, the clouds of steam rising from their bodies in spite of the rain.
The sight of that dark mass, a veritable wall of shaggy bodies, made the scowling lines in his forehead deepen. The Rambler resolved on a desperate course.
He knew that cow-punchers, in efforts to stem the rush of stampeding cattle and mill the herd—that is to swing it around on its own axis—often fire revolver shots over their heads.
“It’s a mighty risky thing to try!” he breathed. “But all the same here goes.”
Like a cowboy he was able to ride without the use of his hands. Drawing his revolver from its holster he pressed his knees hard against the mustang’s sides and swung about. A vivid flash from the clouds directly above made the barrel a line of gleaming light. Then the muzzle began to spurt forth flame and smoke. Until every chamber was emptied Tom Clifton fired.
He heard frightened snorts; he saw the advancing wall of bodies slacken for a second, and also several of the horses attempt to change their course, only to be forced back into place by those rushing behind—the attempt had failed.
“Now it’s all up to the nag!” he groaned. “I can do no more!”
A spotted pony, so close that his extended hand could have touched him, nosed his way to the front and slowly drew ahead. Its eyes were expressive of a terror which at that moment would have impelled the animal to dash headlong to its own destruction.
Tom felt his knee jammed against a mustang’s side—another had overtaken him. Yes, the gap had at last closed up—he was surrounded on every side by that living wall. And whatever dangers might lie ahead were concealed by the gray sheets of driving rain.
“Old boy!” he exclaimed, almost calmly, “if you stumble now it’s good-night.”
Over the rolling prairie floor at scarcely slackening speed dashed the herd. Tom found himself being forced nearer and nearer the center. His pony, sometimes almost lifted off his feet, fought desperately. He probably knew as well as his rider that a fall would mean the snuffing out of his life in a twinkling by the flying hoofs.
The Rambler had lost all idea of direction, or how far they had gone. The excitement of the previous moments now gave place to a dull calm, which quieted the rapid beating of his heart. His thoughts were mostly centered on one thing—should his horse stumble he must be prepared to fling himself boldly upon the back of the pony nearest at hand.
Wedged in tightly, he watched and waited for the critical moment, while mile after mile swept by. Great patches of underbrush, and tall grasses over which the wild horses ran were torn to pieces and flattened as though devastated by a cyclone.
As time passed and nothing happened, Tom felt his hopes returning. No animals, he reflected, could keep up that mad pace much longer. Already there was plenty of evidence to show that the animals were tiring. Some seemed to be straggling out on the sides. The frowning lines on his forehead lessened. The still howling storm again began to occupy a much larger place in his thoughts.
Then he saw looming up just ahead a rather steep hill. Over this his almost exhausted pony must climb. When the slope had been reached, the pace was checked. Up, up, they staggered. Mustangs floundered and stumbled in the soft, slippery earth. It was hard work, his pony seemed ready to drop. Was the moment at hand when he must succumb?
Tom Clifton sat tense, alert, ready to act. He even picked out the wild mustang, the back of which should feel his weight in case the necessity arose.
But now he could see the top of the ridge rising right before him.
“Go it, old chap! Go it,” he encouraged him, desperately. “You’ll make it yet! Steady, boy, steady! Ah, good for you!”
The horse had staggered over the top. The pace once more increased. Tom’s fears, however, were not renewed for he discovered that they had worked their way considerably nearer to one side of the herd.
“If the little fellow can only keep on his feet a few minutes longer, we’ll be free of this bunch,” he reflected joyously. “Hello——”
A dense mass of tangled underbrush on the sloping side directly below him formed a barrier which forced the horses to scatter on either side.
And then, by the irony of fate, just when safety lay in his grasp, his pony’s hoof caught in a projecting root, and as though struck by a bullet he dropped to the ground.