The History of the Old American West – 4 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
bank of clouds, and before an hour has passed he begins to hear the low, incessant muttering of the thunder. In half an hour more he is going down the line, kicking the long cocoons with the toe of his boot and calling out:
"Tumble out, fellers! Git up! There's goin'to be a hell of a storm."
With grunts of protest the cowpunchers roll out of their blankets and sit up in the night, rubbing their eyes. They see the bank of cloud now reaching over them, and hear the steady roar of the thunder approaching. The wind begins to sob in the grass, and little particles of dust go whirling by. The head of the cook pokes itself out from the wagon.
"What in hell!" says the cook.
"She's goin' to be hell all right, cookie," says a voice cheerfully. "You better picket your dough-pan."
" I would not live al-l-lwa-y," comes the faint voice of the night herder as he makes his rounds.
"Saddle up, fellers!" says Jim. "There's shore goin' to be hell a-poppin' here before long. If they ever break out of here they'll run to hell an' gone with us to-night."
"That's right, pitch, you wall-eyed son of misery!" says an injured voice in the dark, from where some cowpuncher is having an argument with his pony, which resents the saddle thrown across its back in the dark.
"Oh, then, Susannah, don't yer cry fer me!" sings another voice, as the owner of it, wrapped in his yellow slicker, gets into his saddle and turns toward the herd.
"Good-hye, cookie!" calls another. "You can git breakfast fer us on the Cimarron, I reckon."
They all take up their round about the herd, falling into their work with the philosophy of their calling, which accepts things as they come. As they ride in line along the edge of the herd the thunder is booming loudly, and the rain begins to fall in heavy, irregular drops. Then suddenly with a gusty rush the torrents of the air break loose, and a solid wall of rain sweeps over the place, hiding in a whirling mist the outlines of men and animals. The thunder now bursts with deafening volume. The cattle have sprung to their feet and now push about among themselves uneasily, their long horns clanking together in the darkness. They are wet, but the rain is not chilling, and in a moment the cloud-burst is over and gone, and nothing remains of the storm but the lightning and the wind. The sky lightens queerly, so that objects may be faintly seen, men riding along the edge of the herd, keeping the cattle back and closing them up. Sounds of confused sort come from among the cattle, grumblings and mutterings, mingling with the chanting of the cowboys riding. The storm is nearly past, but the whole air is alive with electricity. The discharge of the thunder is as the noise of cannon. The lightning falls not in jagged lines, but in bursting balls of flame, which detonate with terrible reports. Along the tips of the horns of the cattle the faint flames play in weird way, as the fires of St. Elmo upon the spars of a ship caught in a storm at sea. The men still hold the line, calling to the cattle, which are now clattering and shuffling about in a way not pleasant to hear, though still they do not break into any concerted rush. Now and again a start is made by some frightened animal, but the nearest cowboy turns it back, riding against the head of each break showing toward the edge. The herd is shifting ground a little, edging a trifle down wind. This brings it nearer to the camping place, nearer also to the wagon of the cook, which stands with its white cover broken loose and flapping upon the gale. There is a call of a voice, which begins to shout out something.
But this voice, and all the voices, and all the other sounds are swallowed in a mighty, dreadful roar. The white cover of the wagon has broken loose at the other end, the rope parting with a crack like the report of a gun. The wagon sheet whips madly up and down as though with deliberate intent of malice, and then goes sailing off across the prairie. No studied effort of evil could have been direr at this very moment! The herd, keyed up to the last pitch of nervousness and only held by the utmost efforts of the cowboys, needs only this devil's device to set it off. "Good God A'mighty!" bursts out the foreman. But even as he shouts he, in common with every other man of the outfit, digs in his spurs and rides for the head of the herd, the front of this plunging, rushing, stumbling, falling mass of panic-stricken creatures which are off in the curse of the drive — the dreaded stampede in the dark!
The sound of the rushing hoofs of near ten thousand cattle is imposing enough at any time, but heard mingled and confused in the running in the dark it is something terrible. A loud cracking of hoofs comes through the fog of sound, and the mad rattling of the great horns swung together in the crush as the cattle struggle to head out of the suffocating press behind them and on all sides. Mad indeed is this chase to-night, and far will be its ending, this ride with the accompaniment of the booming thunder and with the ripping flight of the lightning for its only beacon. Ride, Jim! Ride, Springtime, and Tex., and Curley, and Kid, and Cherokee, and all the rest of you! Now if ever you must be men of proof! Into the rattle of it, up to the head of it, press, spur, crowd! Shoot into their faces, frighten them back, turn them aside, ride into them, over them, but ride fast and thoughtless of yourself! There is no possibility of taking care. The pony must do it all. The pony knows what a stumble means. The herd will roll over horse and man and crush them as if they were but prairie flowers. The ground is rough, but there must be no blunder. Ah, but there was! Something happened there! There was a stumble! There was a cry, smothered; but all that was half a mile back. The herd sweeps on.
Into the thick of the leaders of the herd the cow-punchers crowd in from the flanks, meeting there the men who were swept away in the first mad rush of the cattle. They can not now escape from this position, nor do they seek to do so, but ride with the stampede, their horses with ears flat, struggling on at top speed, bounding from side to side to escape the jostling of a steer, leaping ahead when the press clears in front for a moment. Through the noise of the pounding hoofs comes the panting of the cattle and the sobbing but valiant breath of the brave little horses which carry these wild and reckless men. A faint shout is heard at times or the "Whoa-o-o-ope!" of a voice calling to the cattle in attempt at soothing them. Now and then may be seen an arm thrown up and waved in gesture to a near-by rider, or at times may shoot forth the flash of the revolver as some daring man heads across the front and tries to frighten the herd into swinging from its course.
The thundering hoofs now seem to pound upon harder ground. The broken country near the bluffs of the river is at hand. Down into gully and ravine go men and horses and cattle in the dark, and welter out of it upon the other side as best they may. Many an animal goes headlong in the dark, but it is not noticed or deplored. Each object makes a tiny rock to stem the flood of pouring cattle. But suddenly, without warning, the whole front of the herd plunges down utterly out of view! It has dropped down into the earth, has been swallowed up bodily! Some of the cowpunchers went down too. At the brink of the bluff the following numbers of the cattle pile up and back in a horrid mass, seeking to crowd back, but yet pushed on by the herd behind. The remnant of the herd splits, and turns along the side of the bluff. The remaining cowboys follow, pressing and crowding in, still spurring up to the heads of the panting cattle and seeking to turn them. The head of the herd finally swerves, it turns gradually more and more. The cowboys are still in front, shouting, crowding, firing their revolvers across the faces of the cattle, and urging them back and away from the bluffs. The cattle turn now and traverse a circle. A moment later and they round the same circle, their ranks now closer together. The circle grows smaller and smaller. The mill is begun. Round and round they go until they no longer seek to break away, but stand and clatter and shuffle and pant. Round and round the mill the cowboys ride, talking to the cattle now in proficient profanity, but doing nothing to startle the terrorized animals into a farther flight. Gradually the panic passes. At length the cowpuncher takes a chew of tobacco and pulls up his pony even from the walk in which he has been going about the herd.
The men who were at the head of the herd at the place where it went over the cut bank had no warning and no alternative. The ponies leaped with the cattle, and all took their chances together at the foot of the bank, a dozen feet in height. But here the ground was soft, and it was but a few steps to the water. In a moment the river was full of struggling, frantic creatures, all swimming for their lives, and all acting blindly except the cowpunchers, who retained their grim energy and had no thought of giving up their lives. These swam clear of the crush of cattle