RIDING THE RIM ROCK 95 



There was a snort from the steers, a quick clap of 

 horns and hoofs from within the herd, a tremor of 

 the plain, a roar, a surging mass and Wade was 

 riding the flank of a wild stampede. Before him, 

 behind him, beside him, pressing hard upon his 

 horse, galloped the frenzied steers, and beyond them 

 a multitude, borne on, and bearing him on, by the 

 heave of the galloping herd. 



Wade was riding for his life. He knew it. His 

 horse knew it. He was riding to turn the herd, too, 

 back from the rim, as the horse also knew. 

 The cattle were after water water-mad and 

 would go over the precipice to get it, carrying horse 

 and rider with them. 



Wade was the only rider between the herd and the 

 rim. It was black as death. He could see nothing in 

 the sage, could scarcely discern the pounding, pant- 

 ing shadows at his side ; but he knew by the swish 

 of the brush and the plunging of the horse that the 

 ground was growing stonier, that they were nearing 

 the rocks. 



To outrun the cattle seemed his only chance. If 

 he could come up with the leaders he might yet head 

 them off upon the plain and save the herd. There 

 were cattle still ahead of him, how many, what 

 part of the herd, he could not tell. But the horse 

 knew. The reins hung on his straight neck, while 

 Wade, yelling and firing into the air, gave him the 

 race to win, to lose. 



