Southern Stories

Just then the Welsh servant blew loud and long on a great tin horn, and they all went in to supper. Saylo and John had picketed their ponies, Saylo intending to ride in to Amarilla that night, and John having in view a visit to the camp of cow-boys four or five miles away. Martha had tethered Texas near the other ponies, because he was "such a sociable little beast."

It was nearing sundown when supper was over. One-eyed Saylo vaulted into his saddle after elaborate good-bys and went off toward Amarilla in a wild canter, and John prepared to start off on his saddle mission to the cow-boys. His pony and Texas stood with heads hanging dejectedly down, close together, as far away from the house as their long lariats would let them go, when John, carrying on his arm a new saddle that he wanted to try, went toward them. As he walked away from the house he called cheerily: "Come, Mattie,—want to go along?"

"Oh, no; I'll stay here with Scylla to-night," she answered.

"Why can't she go too?—it's too nice an evening to stay at home. I'll ride as slow as you like, and it isn't far."

Both girls were delighted at this.

"Isn't he good to poor little me!" Scylla exclaimed to Martha as John fixed her on Texas's back.

Martha ran around, brought Dan, and in a very few moments they were riding leisurely toward the setting sun.

The evening was perfect. As the great, clean-cut disk of the sun dropped slowly below the far-off edge of the prairie, the breeze that had been busy all day rustling the prairie-grass died away, and the silence was so complete that they all stopped involuntarily "to listen to it." They had ridden until they were three or four miles from the ranch, when they paused again, this time to hear the crooning of far-away cow-boys. They were between two great herds of cattle. One, on the left, was half a mile away; and the moon, which now shed a great white light over the prairie showed it only as a black mass. Those cattle had been "bedded" for the night—that is, two cow-boys had ridden around and around them driving them closer together so that they would be easy to watch, and much less likely to be restless. The other herd was a little nearer, and the cow-boys were bedding it as the trio from the ranch approached. The camp-fire flickered between the riders and the herd, and its flaring light seemed to make the cow-boys and cattle nearest it lurch back and forward in and out of the gloom while their changing shadows danced fantastically over the prairie. Here the three riders paused again to listen. Closer by, the cow-boys' crooning would have sounded harsh and unmusical, but at this distance it shaped itself into a plaintive, minor melody that was very pleasing. For many moments they waited and enjoyed it in silence. Then suddenly a quick gust of wind and a low, muttering rumble of thunder made them turn quickly and look at the sky behind them.

A bank of dead black clouds was rising on the eastern horizon.

John stopped, gazed at it ruefully for a moment, and said:

"There's a big thunder-storm coming; but we can get home all right before it strikes us. You girls ride slowly back. I'll rush to the camp and tell the boys to stop in in the morning. I'll overtake you before you've gone far."

With that he was off at a brisk canter toward the herd.

Martha and Scylla did as he told them. The rising but still distant clouds, lighted on their edges by the moon, added greatly to the beauty of the night, and both the girls appreciated the sight. They walked their horses and talked girlish nonsense. John had promised to take Martha to the North the next winter, and she told Scylla some of the wonderful things she had heard about the great cities and the curious things to be seen up there.

Suddenly Scylla interrupted her with:

"Martha, I believe there's something the matter with Texas—he's trembling all over."

"Oh, I guess not," said Martha; "he's just tired. Texas has had a pretty hard day of it. But yet, he doesn't often get tired."

She rode up close to Scylla and put her hand on Texas's neck. It was wet with sweat, although he had hardly gone faster than a walk since he had left the ranch.

And, sure enough, he was trembling slightly.

"There is something the matter with him, I know," said Scylla.

"Stop a minute and take my reins; I'll get off and see what it is," said Martha. "You're right. Texas is trembling like a leaf. Perhaps we'd better wait here for John."

There was an anxious little quaver in her voice as she dismounted and, going in front of Texas, took his head between her hands. There was no longer any doubt that the horse was sick, and very sick. His eyes closed sleepily, and his head dropped low. Then he suddenly began to sway and totter on his feet.

"Oh, Martha, I'm afraid!" cried Scylla.

Martha was badly frightened, too, but she acted instead of saying anything. She rushed to Scylla's side and hastily unbuckled the straps that held the weak little body in the saddle.

"Quick, jump into my arms!" she commanded as the last buckle fell jinglingly downward and Texas gave another alarming sidewise lurch. With more strength than she supposed she had, she half lifted, half pulled Scylla out of the saddle and eased her, almost fainting, to the ground. It was none too soon, for in an instant more Texas had fallen with a groan and lay quiet on the prairie.

This lasted only for a few seconds; then with an unsteady stagger the little horse scrambled to his feet. For another instant he stood quiet; then he began to tremble again and looked around toward the girls. But the pony's eyes had changed; they were wild and blood-shot. With a mad snort he started off on a wild run into the gloom.

For a moment the girls were too surprised to speak. Scylla was sobbing on the ground, and Martha stood by her. She had the reins of Dan's bridle in her hand, and gazed dumfounded after the rapidly-disappearing Texas. Finally she turned to her companion:

"Oh, Scylla," she said, "I'm so glad I got you off his back!"

"What do you think is the matter with him?" Scylla asked.

"I can't imagine, unless—yes, that's it—he's locoed! Oh, my poor little Texas! My dear, gentle little pony! You ate that loco-weed Saylo brought for the college professor!"

Now Martha was crying, too, for she knew that her pony was lost to her.

"They—they left it lying by the porch," she went on, "and—you ate it while we were at supper. Oh, my little Texas!"

Martha had forgotten everything but her grief, but soon she remembered that there was a storm coming and that Scylla must be taken home in some way. At first she tried to lift her to Dan's high back, but she was not strong enough. Then she thought of his education, and commanded him to lie down. He was nervous and excited and did not, at first, obey her, but finally she coaxed him into getting down on his knees. Then, with great pains and trouble, she pulled and lifted Scylla into the saddle. As Dan struggled to his feet again, it was hard work to keep the little invalid from falling, but it was done. Then Martha led him slowly toward the ranch. The exciting events that had just passed had made her nervous, and for the first time in a long while she felt afraid.

"Oh, I wish John would hurry and catch up with us!" she exclaimed. "Please don't fall, Scylla—hang on to the pommel tight."

Scylla, who had stopped crying, told Martha not to worry, that she would not fall; and the slow journey over the prairie continued silently for a minute or two. Every once in a while Martha turned back and looked toward the flickering camp-fire of the cow-boys. An exclamation of surprise was drawn from her when she failed to see it shining in the distance, and she stopped. Then, faintly, she heard shouts and the thumping of racing hoofs on the prairie.

"John is coming at last," she said.

But then she realized that more than one animal's hoofs were drumming desperately on the turf. While she stood wondering if some of the cow-boys were coming home with John, she heard the hoof-beats merge into a steady roar. Even the shouts of the men which she had just heard were drowned in this dull, threatening rumble. For just an instant she thought it was thunder, and then her quick reasoning told her the truth.

The herd had stampeded!

That she and Scylla were directly in its path she was certain, for the camp-fire had, a moment before, been between them and the herd and was now invisible. It had either been trampled out or was hidden by the advancing mass of cattle.

Martha well knew what it meant to be in the path of a stampede; but, strangely enough, all her fear left her. She was puzzled, that was all. Had she been alone, she could easily have escaped by jumping on Dan's back and riding hard. Dan could have distanced the cattle, even when they were stampeding. But now she had helpless Scylla to take care of.

The advancing thunder-clouds had wholly hidden the moon and put the prairie in inky darkness. At first Martha thought of starting Dan away with Scylla and trusting to Providence to keep the little invalid on his back, while she remained to face the danger alone; then she thought of trying to ride with her. But she knew Scylla could not possibly keep her place in the saddle of the horse while he ran, even if she herself should mount him too and try to hold Scylla on.

She stepped back to Scylla's side. There was a deathly doubt in her heart as to whether she was doing the right thing; but she had made a desperate resolve. Scylla had heard the thunder of the approaching herd too, and was too frightened to speak. Martha held her arms up toward her just as the first flash of lightning came.

"Come, Scylla," she said, "slide off into my arms. The herd has stampeded and is coming toward us, but I will try to save us both."

Without a word Scylla did as she was told, and in a few seconds was half kneeling, half lying on the ground.

Then Martha struck Dan as hard as she could with her flat hand.

"Hey up, Dan!" said she, "run! run! You needn't stay here, too!"

The horse galloped off into the darkness.

Just then another lighting-flash came and showed a cow-boy leaning far over the neck of his pony, riding for his life. He passed only a dozen yards from them, but did not see them. Behind him Martha could dimly see two or three other riders coming toward them at desperate speed, while still beyond she caught a glimpse of the tossing horns and lurching heads of the cattle.

Without a moment for thought, and as coolly as if she had nothing in the world to fear, she bent over trembling Scylla, unfastened the waistband of her dress-skirt and pulled it deftly from under her. Then she quickly removed her own and took one of the bright-colored garments in each hand.

Just then the storm broke furiously. The night was suddenly lighted by lightning-flashes that followed one another so closely they seemed to make one long, lasting flare. The cow-boys had all passed, and Martha saw that the herd was scarcely two hundred yards away.

She stepped directly in front of Scylla's prostrate form and raised the skirts.