A Night Stampede.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 859, 17 August 1888, Page 10

A Night Stampede.

Philadelphia Press. * First guard 8 till 12,’ called the captain, with the addition, ‘ Better take your slickers boys; looks like rain.’ The three men rose from the fire, stretched and yawned, and picking their (slickers from their respective

beds, slouched away into tho darkness, their clinking spurs sounding fainter and more indistinct in the nistanoe. A low murmur as they bandied their staked horses, a few hoof-beats, and the guard, half a mile away, are saluted with three laconic ‘ relief good nights,’ and the new guard are riding slowly around the bedded cattle. Perhaps half a dozon or so of the latter aro standing and uneasily suuffing toward tho south-west. The air is still and oppressive, and the scrubby cedars of the south mingle their sweet breath with the pungent sage and red-weed, making the air heavy with its weight of perfume. The black • niggerheada ’ climb slowly above the peaks and send forth lowdrawn occasional sighs that jar the earth like some mighty bull. The slow-riding guard start the old songs to tho cattle — quaint, old-fnßhioned luilabios—coaxing with drowsy tone their long-horned charge, and the waking steer closes his eyes as he listens, and lowers his head to dream of grassy meadows and lovely Bhades, with neither heelflies nor gnats to molest, and roundups once in ton yeai's. Round and round go the riders, stopping occasionally to converse in low tones with their nearest patrolling mate, and then starting round again as some restless one, missing the familiar drone, rises to investigate the cause thereof. the breaking of the storm.

Eleven o’clock, and tho black clouds are nearly overhead, while flying skirmishers of scud dart across the heavens, the advance line of the army behind. The bulls are on their feet, going among the recumbent ones and horning them till they rise. The thunder speaks more sharply, and bright flashes of lightning turn tho black mass into grey, ragged and torn with the effort to hold the warring factions. A few big drops that sting the cattle into motion, a rattling crash of heaven’s artillery, and the floodgates of wrath aro opened, and the deluge let loose. Tho warm steam of the cattle becomes phosphorescent with electricity, and metamorphoses the cattle into prehistoric monstrosities, while the guards, in their yellow sliokors, look like grotesque phantoms as they flit around the surging mass that commences to overflow at one side as surely as it is crowded back on the other. Back and around ride the three men, crowding and forcing the unruly herd, that is fairly aching to break and scatter anywhere, everywhere, to escape the raging furies above and around it. A rattling crash and a pillar of flame strikes the west side of the herd and settles the questions. With one mighty cry of terror the panic-strickeu mass surges to the opposite side. The living sea has broken its frail bounds and is pouring forth in the terrible fury of fear, horn rattling against horn, crowding, slipping, trampling and crushing, but flying as only stampeded cattle can. Side by side with the head of the herd race the guards, urging their little ponies with voices and heel, leaning forward and panting with their eagerness to go faster. On, on over gullies and prairie dog holes, scarcely seeming to rely upon their feet, so little do they regard these death traps, tho faithful little horses are carrying their riders Indian file, with the first one racing neck and neck with the foremost long-horned pilgrim. TRAMPLED BY THE HERD. A moment thus, and the rider’s pistol sends a stream of fire hurling about six inches in front of the steer’s nose and directly across his path. As the steer swerves to one side, the flying pony stumbles, and horse and rider are hurled in front of these thundering hoofs as the herd goes rolling on. The next rider is now racing neck and neck in the first one’s place, and once more a Bpiteful, belching stream of fire against the leader’s nose turns them, followed by another and another, that swings the foremost ones clear round, and faces the herd into itself, bewildering and milling in a slowiug oircle, and the stampede is stopped. The two guards left know there is small hope of any relief finding them now before daybreak ; but as the herd quiets down, one rides back and finds their lost mate and his pony, and then the two take up their lone weary task together. The clouds pass along, the air is chillier, and the long hours drag and creep along. A twitter of a prairie sparrow to his mate, a soft perfumed breeze from the east, and then the long quivering lances of the sun’s advance guard glisten above the eastern horizon. And following these outriders come the heralds of the god of day to waken the world to welcome his coming. The two wet and thoroughly chilled guards hail his coming with infinite delight, while the feathered choristers make the whole air vibrate to their usual welcome. But two miles away lies one who will never welcome his coming more.