by John Glasby
‘It only needs somebody to fire off a handful of shots in their ears and they’ll start to run. They’re damned funny, unpredictable creatures at the best of times. A thunderstorm could blow up and the heavens open with the sound of all hell being let loose, and they won’t stir an inch. Then loose off one shot and they’ll start and nothing will stop ’em.’
Jessup looked in doubt into the darkness. There was a sharp tenseness in his body. A moment later Jackson came back. ‘Nothing moving out there. The horses seem skittish, though. Something worrying ’em. They can sense something.’ He looked in doubt towards Farrel. The darkness was sharpened by the bright pinpoints of the stars glittering in the jet cloth of the heavens. Outside the camp there seemed to be a tremendous loneliness crouching there — a deep and tense loneliness which must have been a common thing to man right at the beginning of the world when these plains were first made. A fear-filled loneliness that ate at the nerves until they were drawn tight through the limbs.
Gradually the fire went down, leaving only glowing embers that pulsed with brief flashes of orange flames whenever the air caught at them, fanning them into brightness. The men and women in the wagons slept. The night air held a sudden chill. In his blanket within a few feet of the dying fire, Neil slept and not far away the horses dropped their heads. Perhaps two hours passed, then another. The moon lifted from the eastern horizon and threw a pale wash of yellow light over the scene. Inside his blanket, Neil stirred, then came fully awake, sitting bolt upright on the cold, hard ground, straining with every sense to pick up the sound which had woken him. For several seconds he sat there, peering into the moonlit darkness which lay around him.
Moments passed and still he could hear nothing. But something had woken him. There was no doubt about that. This was a feeling he had experienced many times before in the past and every time there had been something definitely wrong, and he knew it would be foolish to ignore it. Beside the fire he could make out the sleeping forms of Jackson and Jessup. Had he been mistaken? Was it just one of the ordinary sounds of the night which had woken him. Perhaps one of the horses snickering in the near distance on the edge of the camp — a log falling into the heart of the fire?
The slight sensation of apprehension in the pit of his stomach eased. He stretched a cramped leg forward to ease the tightening of the muscle of his hip. Then the sound came again and he was on his feet in an instant, head turning to the east from whence the sound came. A cattleman himself, he recognised it at once. A moment later he was shaking Jessup and Farrel awake, then moving over to where Jackson lay under his blanket.
‘Stampede!’
Farrel yelled the single word at the top of his voice. A moment later he had fired a couple of wild shots into the air, the sharp, cracking echoes heard all over the camp. For most of the men in the wagons there was no need for warning.
*
Those who did not know from their own past experience could guess only too well what stampeding cattle meant. Countless tons of solid beef and muscle on the move, slashing horns and lowered squat heads. All of the meanness that could be found anywhere on God’s earth rolled into one vast avalanche of lunging and bellowing, fear-crazed beasts. The herd could only have been three miles away, and yet even from that distance it was possible to hear it crashing into action, the ground beginning to shake. Neil leapt for his horse, swung the saddle up and tightened the cinch with swift movements of long practised hands. Then he was up in the saddle, Jessup and Farrel beside him.
Leaning down, he yelled to Jackson as the big man moved towards his own horse. ‘We’ll try to head ’em off. You’d better get into the lead wagon. Head them out of here. The ground’s far too open. Get them across the stream and on to the other side. There’s rough ground there a mile or so ahead. Try to make for that and get everybody into the lee of the hills.’
Jackson gave a quick, brusque nod of his great head to indicate that he had understood. He ran for the wagon, leaving his own horse to make its own way over the stream. Around the wagons themselves there was feverish activity. Fortunately everyone had heeded the warnings given by Farrel the night before and the horses were readily hitched into the shafts. All were awake by now. It was doubtful if anyone could have slept. Not after those twin bucketing shots from Farrel’s gun and the growing thunder of the stampeding herd in the distance. Neil bent forward in the saddle, knees pressing tightly to keep his seat as the sorrel moved forward into the night. An animal trained for this type of work, the stud knew exactly what to do. Horse and rider became as one as he headed the sorrel away from the dying embers of the fire. Jessup and Farrel on either side of him, dark shadows in the pale yellow moonlight that washed over the plain, lighting on the sluggish water of the nearby river. But Neil had no eyes for that. The people in the wagons would have to make the best time they could and depend upon Clem Jackson to get them over the river and into what safety they could find on the other side. Certainly, so long as they remained where they were, they were in terrible danger. That stampeding herd would stop for nothing, and certainly the river would prove no barrier to their onward rush. It was doubtful if they would stop for the rocks up ahead.
Two other riders detached themselves from the train at Jackson’s harshly yelled orders and galloped after Neil and his two companions. They rode loosely, reins hanging loose, their arms swinging, making no attempt to guide their mounts. Somewhere ahead of them came a tidal wave of tossing horns, heads, hooves and tons of muscle. Neil felt the tightness growing in his chest. Dimly, over the thunder of the stampede, he heard the sharp barks of guns blazing, knew then, even if he had only suspected it before, that the herders with those cattle had deliberately started the steers on the run, knowing that they would trample down the wagon train where it was camped on the river’s edge. He tried to push his gaze ahead of him, to pick out the black surge of the herd as it came forward. In the moonlight, shadows were tantalising things, not once materialising so that he could see things clearly and properly. He reached the tip of a low rise, reined his mount, lifting his right hand to check the onward rush of the four riders with him. His feet found the stirrups as he paused there, peering directly ahead of him.
‘There!’ Jessup yelled the word savagely, pointed a finger into the darkness.
Neil narrowed his eyes, looked in the direction of the other’s pointed finger, then sucked in his breath sharply, felt the muscles under his ribs tighten convulsively. No time to look about them now. No time even to try to think. That vast sea of dark shadow was already streaming over the plain, heading in their direction. He did not doubt that the stud he rode could quarter across the face of the rushing herd and still outrun it. But there were the wagons at his back to think of. Somehow they had to try to turn the tip of the herd, to divert them from the path they had already chosen, turn them around and try to send them plunging along the bank of the river, heading them south. If they could do that then they stood a good chance of saving all of the wagons. If not —
He did not allow himself to think of the consequences of failure. He had seen too many herds stampeding not to know what happened to anything that was unfortunate enough to get into their path.
A swift glance behind him and he saw to his relief that the wagons were just beginning to get under way. The first had moved down into the water, was crossing the river. But he knew instinctively that they could never make it in time unless the herd were turned. Any chance of stopping those animals had gone the moment those gunshots had been fired behind them. Strange and moody, utterly unpredictable, they had begun to move.
No time to worry about the wagons now. Swiftly he pulled the Colt from its holster, gigged the mount. It leapt forward, down the far side of the slope, down towards the thundering mass of the herd. Beside him rode the other men. If there was any fear in their minds at what they saw directly ahead of them, nothing of it showed in their actions. There was no hesitation now on their part. Swiftly Neil swung the sorrel so that it was racing across the edge of
the herd, while with his left hand he gestured to the men with him to swing around, to follow his lead in everything he did. Success or failure, life or death depended on split second timing here. One false move on their part and they could be trampled down by that sea of horns. Lunging and bellowing the herd came on. The riders with them were far to the rear. They had started the fear-crazed beasts on their way and were now hanging back, keeping themselves out of danger.
Jessup rode swiftly, cutting towards the side of the herd. His gun was out and he fired savagely, straight into the faces of the animals alongside him. Above the thunder of the thousands of hooves it was impossible to make out any other sound. Neil reached the tip of the crescent, where the foremost steers formed a vast bulge, racing ahead of the drag. Behind them came the mass of the herd, following blindly on the heels of the leaders. If only they could turn the steers that led the herd they might stand a chance. The thought pounded on and on through Neil’s mind as he headed the sorrel straight for the fanning group, his gun spitting flashes of orange flame into the eyes of the beasts close to him, seeking to crowd them over to the right, to divert them from the path they were taking.
But it was as if the devil had got into them that night. They were being driven on by the fear of the guns which had roared behind them, startling them, setting them running, out across the open face of the plain, out towards the river. No barrier there as far as they were concerned. Again and again the other men were firing and loading, clinging to the backs of the bucking horses with tightened knees. It was mean and cruel work. Dropping a steer here and there in the hope of forcing them to change their course, to set them swinging in a wide arc. Jessup slashed at the faces of the charging, plunging steers with his coiled riata once his guns were empty, yelling harshly and savagely at the top of his voice. Nearer at hand, Farrel, old to this game, continued to thrust his mount against the bulging side of the herd, adding the fire from his guns to the din.
Gradually, as the minutes passed, there was a wave forming along the length of the herd. But a swift glance told Neil that it would be too late. They could not hope to hold them, even to turn them completely along the nearer bank of the river.
A bunch split out from the main herd, went careering out across the dark plain, just visible in the flooding moonlight as they raced away, bellowing and lowing in anger and fear. Neil watched them for the briefest fraction of a second, then let them go, turning his glance back to the others. There was no danger from that small bunch. They would go on running until they stopped from sheer exhaustion and by that time they would be miles away from there. He doubted if they would cross the river. It was the big body of cattle that worried him.
Now they were less than half a mile from the river bank. A quarter of an hour was gone, a period made up of minutes which had ticked themselves away into a roaring, bellowing thunderous eternity. The mad eyes of the steers could be seen in the shadows of the shaggy heads. The horses were doing their best, the guns were still flaring at the crazed beasts, but it was making little difference.
Turning his mount, Neil rode swiftly for the river. Behind him the roaring herd came full pelt across the plains. Somehow he had to reach the wagons and try to get them under cover. Not that he doubted Clem Jackson’s ability to do the best he could. But the other lacked his experience of this country, did not know it as he did. All hell couldn’t stop that herd now. He hit the water at the run, felt the current crash against the sorrel’s chest as it began to move over.
For a moment the horse lost its footing on the smooth bed of the river, on the stony bed, went floundering forward, its neck arched, almost under. Then, with a tremendous effort, it found its feet again, righted itself, crashed on until it reached the opposite bank, plunged up it into the rocky, rough ground that lay beyond. The last of the wagons was on the trail on the far side, rocking and swaying from side to side as the horses plunged and heaved on the traces. How long those wagons would take that kind of punishment he did not know. But it needed only one of them to break down now, and it would be impossible to save it from the death that came close behind, a surging, terrible sea of death.
Water dripping from his pants, he clung to the back of his stud, raced it along the trail after the wagons. Fifty yards, a hundred. By now, he thought, not turning to see, the herd must have reached the river. Jessup and the others would have reached it, too, would be doing their best to turn it. The river was the last obstacle in the way of the stampede. If they did not manage to turn it there, they had no chance in hell of doing it anywhere else.
Half a mile away lay the craggy hills. There lay the only safety they could find. The lead wagon was almost there, but the others were strung out over more than a quarter of a mile, dashing forward as hard as they could go, the men and women in those lurching, swaying Conestogas knowing full well what would happen to them if they stopped now, if they didn’t make the rocks. Behind him, breathing down the back of his neck, the herd came on, closer and closer with every passing second. A swift glance over his shoulder and he saw that the leaders were over the river, that the others were in the swim. His heart sank within him and he groaned aloud as he saw the danger. The men were riding close to the plunging, snorting animals, still firing their guns in their faces, still hoping to cut them over the plain to the south. He knew that they had very little chance. The distance was so small that the leading steers would be upon the last wagons before they reached safety.
Guns were spreading death among the plunging, roaring steers. But there was a limit to what a handful of guns could do. That limit had been reached.
Drilling his spurs into the flanks of his sorrel, he sent it racing along the dark trail, knowing that the slightest slip could mean the end for him. But the sorrel was a sure-footed creature, picked its way easily through the boulders which lay scattered over the trail. As he rode he peered ahead, trying to pick out the shapes of the wagons clearly. Too close ahead, they were moving too slowly. He sucked in a deep breath, pondered his next move. He knew that Jackson had understood everything he had told him, knew that the other would do all that he could to get the train under cover of the rocks. But the horses were tired, the wagons were cumbersome things, and it was dangerous to try to drive them as hard as this. Over the smooth ground of the desert to the east they might have got away with it, but here on this rough, stony ground disaster was always very close.
It came with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning. Not the last wagon, but the one immediately in front of it. One minute it was on the trail, racing forward, the canvas top shuddering, the wheels churning in the rocks. The next it had plunged sideways as if a giant had struck it, hurling it to one side.
Neil forced a sharp groan through tightly clenched teeth. One of the rear wheels had split, must have hit a boulder the wrong way and, at that speed, the shattering force of the impact had been more than enough to smash the wheel to pieces. The end of the wooden axle was digging deep into the hard ground, scraping forward as the horses continued to pull on the traces. Another few yards and it would go over. But before that could happen the frantically struggling horses succeeded in snapping the leather of the traces, and the team ran free, surging forward into the darkness. The wagon turned sharply at right angles and came to rest across the trail. Savagely, Neil urged his mount forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black mass of the herd over to his left. They had crossed the river back there and were running free and wild over the rough terrain here. They were no longer on to the trail but swinging over the ground to his left, directly on to the smashed wagon. He knew with a sick certainty that there was nothing he could do to prevent them from getting there before he did. They were sweeping forward now in an irresistible wave. Somehow he got the sorrel alongside the leaders, turning his Colt on them, firing savagely and blindly into their faces. Even at that last moment he had the feeling that it might have been possible for him to turn them just that necessary fraction so that the black tide might swing past the wrecked wagon. The la
st wagon in the train had somehow pulled clear, had gone bucking and swaying past, although it was still in terrible danger. Steers went down before his flaming guns, but there were always others to move forward and take their places, trampling down those which had been killed. Another shot, a vivid splash of orange flame and a steer dropped dead. Swiftly he tried to bulwark the smashed wagon by building a wall of dead steers in front of it, a dam of flesh and bones and curving horns to keep away the cattle which came behind.
The man who had been driving the wagon had been tossed out when the wheel had gone. He lay on the trail a couple of yards away, face downward, his arms and legs out flung. He did not move, and it was impossible to tell whether he had been killed outright by the fall or whether he had simply been knocked cold. Aiming with an almost unconscious movement, Neil dropped two steers next to the fallen man, but it was no use trying to form a barrier there. The dark wave descended on them and the figure of the man lying in the dust was blotted out in a massacre of stamping hooves.
The wagon itself lay directly in the path of the crazed animals. As he drew alongside he debated whether to clamber on board and risk his life doing so, or whether to try to mill the herd about him. A moment while he slashed at bawling, lunging heads, their wicked, needle-sharp horns missing his legs and thighs by inches. Then the wet folds of the canvas collapsed as the tremendous weight of the herd surged over it. Wood split and splintered under that massive onslaught. He thought he heard a woman scream, a thin lost sound in the night. But he could not be certain in that bellowing, savage roar that filled the whole of creation.
Turning the sorrel, he pulled it into the side of the trail. The rest of the herd thundered by, dust rising from their pounding hooves, choking and clogging at the back of his throat and nostrils. His eyes were filled with grit and it was almost impossible to see anything. Certainly he could hear nothing but the sound of that stampeding herd roaring past him. The body of a steer slid against the sorrel, threatening to crush it against the solid rock face nearby. Deftly Neil clung to the saddle, kept his hands tight on the reins. No point in trying to drop any more of the animals. The damage had been done. All he could hope for now was that Jackson had got the other wagons into some kind of safety, some refuge from the black avalanche which threatened to roll over them all and annihilate them utterly.
