This protection, slight as it was, saved the boy’s life. He had barely time to crowd himself close against the frail stems of the willows before the frantic cattle were upon him. The roar of their hoofs on the hard ground was almost deafening. It was louder than the roar of all the northers he had ever heard crowded into one; but even while he was wondering why some of the cattle did not jump upon him the roar subsided, and George, looking up through the willows which had been bent over his head, saw the moon shining down upon him. Every steer had jumped the wallow, and George had escaped with nothing more than a terrible fright. While he was congratulating himself upon his good fortune, a clatter of hoofs sounded near, and he ducked his head just as two horsemen, riding side by side, dashed over the wallow in pursuit of the flying herd. The boy’s first thought, after he had satisfied himself that he had escaped without injury, was of Zeke. What had become of him? There was one thing certain—George knew it now as well as he did a few minutes later—and that was that the herdsman had made a fight, and a good one, too. Although the old fellow appeared to be a sound sleeper, he would jump to his feet the instant he heard any unusual noise, and he was wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. More than that, he kept his Winchester close at hand, and could discharge it with a rapidity and accuracy that George had tried in vain to imitate. Zeke was probably on his feet before the yell that frightened the cattle was half uttered, and as soon as he got there he was ready to begin shooting. Of course George had not heard the report of his rifle, for the rumble of that multitude of hoofs about his ears would have drowned the roar of a cannon. “But I know, all the same, that he _did_ shoot, and that some of those raiders didn’t get away,” thought George, as he once more raised his head and looked over the grass in the direction of the camp. “I think I had better stay here. Zeke will know when the danger is over, and then he will call to me. I wonder if he is there now? Somebody is punching up the fire, sure!” The old buffalo wallow into which George had thrown himself, was about a hundred yards distant from the willows, and the grass was so high that he could not see the camp; but he could see the smoke of the fire as it arose through the tops of the trees that hung over it. Just now the fire was blazing brightly, and the sparks were rising from it in volumes. This was what led George to believe that there was somebody in the camp. It couldn’t be one of the raiders, he told himself, for they never stopped. They stampeded the cattle and dashed on after them to get out of reach of the bullets in the herder’s rifles.