I40 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



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 — ready 

 to 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, panting shadows 

 at his side. He knew that he was being borne to- 

 ward the rim, how fast he could not tell, but he 

 knew by the swish of the brush against his tapa- 

 deros and the plunging of the horse that the 

 ground was growing stonier, that they were near- 

 ing the rocks. 



To outrun the herd was his only chance for 

 life. If he could come up with the leaders he 

 might not only escape, but even stand a chance 

 of heading them off upon the plain and saving 

 the herd. There were cattle still ahead of him ; 

 how many, what part of them all, he could not 

 make out in the dark. But the horse knew. The 



