CHAPTER XIVTHE STAMPEDE
Thesight drove all thoughts of the raging storm from Bob Somers’ mind. Directly in the path of the headlong rush of fear-stricken animals they were in imminent danger of being run down and trampled under foot.
Again and again he yelled his warning. Would Tom realize his danger in time? Then self-preservation demanded that he himself act on the instant.
No longer did he hold “Whirly-gig” in check. His quirt came down with stinging force upon the animal’s flank. With a loud snort he leaped ahead.
Bob Somers, striving to cut across the front of that line of racing, plunging horses, urged him on with both voice and spurs. It was a wild and thrilling ride in the raging storm. The lad was forced to take desperate chances; for any instant he realized that his horsemight stumble in the springy, water-soaked soil.
ONCE MORE HE TURNEDONCE MORE HE TURNED
ONCE MORE HE TURNED
ONCE MORE HE TURNED
Daring to swing partly around in his saddle he saw a picture which made his brow knit in lines of desperation. And even when he turned away, his brain still seemed to retain a terrifying impression of outstretched necks, of flying hoofs, of wildly tossing manes and tails.
“Get up, old boy! Get up!” he yelled hoarsely.
Even in those nerve-racking moments he strove to discover some signs of Tom Clifton. But his efforts were all in vain.
Terror made “Whirly-gig” pound along at such a terrific pace that it required all of the Rambler’s skill as a rider to keep from being jolted headlong from the saddle.
Once more he turned. An instantaneous glance over his shoulder made him utter a yell of triumph; the race was almost won, he was gaining. It nerved him to renewed exertions. Another last desperate spurt and the little mustang carried him to the goal of safety and beyond; while the wild, frightened steeds of the plains swept on, heads lowered, manesand tails still lashing, until the steadily falling curtain of rain first dimmed their forms, and then hid them from view.
With feelings of thankfulness, Bob Somers pulled up his steaming horse. Then forebodings on Tom’s account attacked him. Where was he? How had he fared?
The rain drove hard against his staring eyes, the wind howled about him; but for the moment he had thoughts only for his companion. The Rambler he knew was a plucky, resourceful chap, cool in times of danger, but the possibility of an accident under the circumstances was so great that a cold tremor ran through him.
“Hello, Tom! hello!” he shouted over and over again. The sounds melted away into the roar of the storm, but no answering hails were returned.
Tom Clifton had completely disappeared.
Buffeted about by the elements, continually jarred by the peals of thunder booming overhead, and soaked to the skin, Bob Somers set out on a search. The next hour to the lad was a most uncomfortable one, both physically and mentally. He rode over the prairiein various directions shouting and whistling, but in vain. The storm slowly lessened its force; at last the heaviest clouds rolled by and between the rifts rays of brilliant sunshine streamed through to fall upon nature, glistening and refreshed. A cool crisp breeze had replaced the sirocco-like heat of the earlier hours.
From the top of a ridge which commanded a considerable stretch of the surrounding country, Bob’s gaze, aided by a pair of powerful binoculars, traveled in every direction. But he could see nothing that bore any resemblance to the form of a horse and rider.
One thing, however, encouraged him. He felt sure that if Tom had been thrown he would have come across him in his careful, painstaking search.
“Well, this is certainly a beautiful mix-up,” he soliloquized ruefully. “Now what’s to be done?”
“Only one thing,” he mused after many moments of serious reflection. “Strike off for the Rangers’ camp—that’s what Tom has done, I’m sure.”
Still he could not bear to tear himself awayfrom the locality until another effort was made and this proving to be as unsuccessful as the others, he set out for the Rangers’ cabin, buoyed up with the hope that on his arrival he might find Tom Clifton there.
Possessing a good sense of direction and aided by his compass, he did not find his task a difficult one. When the gray of dusk had begun to steal over the landscape he rode up to the log structure where only Fred Cole greeted him, all the others being off on the scouting expedition.
The return of Bob Somers alone greatly excited the Ranger’s curiosity. Even before the Rambler had had a chance to dismount he began shouting questions to him.
Bob’s story was quickly told, whereupon Cole whistled softly.
“To get caught among a lot of stampeding mustangs isn’t any joke, I can tell you!” he exclaimed. Then, slapping the lad reassuringly on the shoulder, he added hastily, “But don’t worry, son. I’ll bet that tall chap knew how to take care of himself. Just as likely as not he’s riding over the prairie, yelling himself hoarse, looking for you.”
The Ranger’s confidence, however, began to be shaken, when the passing hours brought no news of Tom, though he was careful not to voice his fears to Bob.
“The moment the boys get back, we’ll have to get up a searching party,” he muttered to himself. “I only hope it’s all right, but”—he shook his head rather dubiously,—“it looks rather bad to me.”