LITMIR.BIZ

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So it was now. "Once upon a time, San Saba..."

      Lispenard stepped ahead. "Thanks, San Saba, but this is my quarrel."

      Quagmire snapped at him. "It only takes two oars to row a boat! Yo' ain't got no quarrel!"

      The Blond Giant fell silent, full lips twitching. Quagmire's thin chest laboured to shove his words against the wind. "Once they was a bad night—like this one. Looked as if they might be trouble—like it does now. Boss comes up to the boys and says, 'Boys, we are apt to have a stampede. Somebody's like to get killed afo' mo'nin'. Now yo'-all better write yo' true names on a piece o' paper an' tuck in yo' shirts.' That's what he said. Mebbe we'll have trouble. But they's only one man here which needs to write his true name on a paper. An' that's yo'—San Saba!"

      "Quagmire—yo' lie!"

      "I pay no attention to a dawg when it barks at me," replied Quagmire somberly. "Yo' past history may be unf'miliar to others, But I know it!"

      "Yo' lie!" droned San Saba. "Eat those words, hear me?"

      Tom Gillette stepped between the men. "Drop it! There'll be no fights in this outfit. We're on the drive."

      Quagmire turned away. But San Saba craned his nutshell head forward. "This ain't yo' affair. What yo' hornin' in for?"

      "I'll make it my quarrel, San Saba." The wind swept Tom Gillette's words high up, and he had to throw all his power into them. "As for quarrels—you ought to know whether I've got one with you. Wait until the drive is finished if it's in your mind to settle."

      The Major rode out of the dark pit, followed by the cavvy herder. "Saddle up! Everybody ride! Lightning striking half a mile off!"

      The last flame guttered and was extinguished. Tom reached Lispenard shouting. "Stick with me! If there's trouble, keep away from the herd!"

      He felt Lispenard's hand knock his arm away. "Don't worry about that. I'll look out for myself."

      Confusion in the horse herd. Tom threw the dripping saddle on his pony, cinched it tight against the knowledge he might have to depend utterly on the solidity of those double bands, and swung out of the melee. A hundred yards off he struck the flank of the herd. The brutes were up, moving uneasily, heads tossing. The force of the wind was shifting them; they were turning spooky—in that frame of mind where any unaccountable sound or sight might set them running. Tom walked his pony along the rim of the straggling circle, rain driving against his slicker and pounding on his skin. He was in no humour to sing, but sing he must; anything to give those uneasy, forboding kine the reassurance of his presence.

      "Oh, Buffalo girls, are you comin' out to-night

       Comin' out to-night, comin' out to-night,

       Oh, Buffalo girls, are you comin' out to-night..."

      The drums and trumpets of the storm rolled out a prolonged fanfaronade. Thunder rocked the heavens, and an instant later a sinuous, wavering bolt of lightning cracked the pit-black sky and hung suspended one long second. In the pale blue twilight thus cast over the earth Tom saw the herd massed together, tails and horns and bony backs moving like the wind-whipped surface of the sea. Stray members of the crew were silhouetted ahead, bent against the lashing rain. Then it was dark, abysmally dark, with a phosphorescent glow running across the thousands of horn tips. Thunder again, coming closer; wind and rain struck down against the earth with tenfold force. Tom's pony stood still, bracing its feet on the slippery soil.

      "Oh, Buffalo girls, are you comin' out to-night,

       To dance by the light of the moon..."

      College—law and order—elm trees shading green lawns. What was all that but a dream, a faint echo of life? Here on this tempest-torn prairie animate creatures struggled to survive. And some would not.

      Lispenard had not left the chuck wagon, though he, like the others, had saddled his pony. The time might come when he would want to get away in a hurry. San Saba warned him of that after the rest had ridden off. The foreman had waited until he was alone with Lispenard, and even then he spoke as softly as he could manage.

      "You stick here, amigo. If they should be a sound like hell bein' pulled up by the roots, skin out."

      "Thanks."

      And then San Saba grinned, though it was too dark for Lispenard to see this cheerless contraction of lips. "Ain't no call fo' thanks, friend. Mebbe I will be askin' yo' to return the favour some day."

      He vanished, trampling the last dull ember of the fire. Nor did he fall into the usual drone as he skirted the herd. He went silently, with the picture of the herd as he had seen them at sunset in his mind. Judge Lynch, the one-eyed hermit, was over on the west side somewhat near the rear. Judge Lynch usually bedded down a little removed from his companions and seldom moved far from the original spot during the night. The critters were all up now, but the foreman was betting strongly that this morose and distrustful animal would be standing in his tracks. Barring earlier developments, he had business with Judge Lynch.

      The first streamer of lightning found him half around the circle. Two riders were directly in front, but they were travelling in the same direction and thus didn't see San Saba. The foreman quickened his pace and on the ensuing flash looked behind him. Nobody within fifty yards. At the same time he located Judge Lynch, marking the spot in his mind as the darkness closed down. He bent forward, slipping his quirt; Judge Lynch's vague outline fell athwart his path. The quirt flailed out, struck the steer's rump. San Saba's voice teetered shrilly on the driving wind. "Hyaaaa!" Judge Lynch snorted, whirled from the blow, and lumbered off.

      San Saba turned the pony and galloped recklessly into the open prairie. Through the wild beat and roar of the storm came the distinct echo of the herd breaking away. A rumble of those thousands of hoofs, a clamour of bawling and bellowing, a clicking of horns. The reverberation of all this trembled along the earth and up through his pony's pounding feet. San Saba grinned his humourless grin and aimed away from the path of the stampeding brutes. For that path was one of destruction.

      Tom Gillette had rounded the windward side of the herd when he felt a shock pass across the darkness. Once experienced, it was a sensation never to be forgotten. He had often been told by old hands that the fright of a single steer could strike through five thousand cattle with all the speed of an electrical impulse. He never had quite believed it until this moment. It came from he knew not where, the cause was equally obscure. Nevertheless, he felt the impact of that surging, milling mass of brutes as they swung, collided, and then struck off with the wind behind them. The babble of their throats drowned even the storm; and when the next flash of lightning played its smoke-blue gleam upon the prairie he saw them running, tails up, horns weaving; here and there they had become trapped by their blind fright—piled together like logs jammed up in the eddy of a river. But they were running away, and Tom saw Quagmire and Billy outlined just for an instant in the glare, trying to circle around to the front of the mass. Darkness dropped; he sank his spurs and raced after them.

      Guns cracked. Somebody in front was trying to turn the flight. He heard a shrill yell beside him, and he wondered which one of the crew it happened to be. Not that it made any difference; yet his mind played queer tricks as he found himself on one ragged flank of the racing brutes. Queer tricks; for all the while this night and its fury hammered at his senses he kept remembering the last dance. Even the music of it came back to his memory. There had been a summerhouse out in that green and peaceful yard; a summerhouse open to all the fragrance of a June night. And where was she now, and what dumb man—for it seemed all men were humble and helpless at her hands—was receiving the favour of her provoking and elusive smile? Oh, she knew the game she was playing. What else could it be with her when every gesture and every word had so led him astray? And in the end it was her cool, scornful dismissal. "Tom, you Texan savage, why must you be so ridiculously serious? You ought to command your heart better. Thank you, my dear man, but I'll be no chatelaine out in the wilderness."

      It was over, thank God! He found himself shouting the very words into space. He'd had enough. Enough of play acting and fine manners and—falsity. He had been a gentleman. What good was that? Why, those people never knew what living was. And they had infected him with

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