Before he could rise Jack was over him. As Dynamite struggled up Jack resumed his seat in the saddle; but now he rode a different Dynamite from the unsubdued buckskin he had roped a short time before. Trembling in every limb, covered with sweat and dirt, and his head hanging down, Dynamite owned himself defeated. A great shout of applause went up from the cow–punchers and from Jack’s chums. “His name ain’t Dynamite no longer; it’s ‘Sugar Candy’!” shouted an enthusiastic cow–puncher. “Wow! but the kiddy is some rider,” yelled another. “You bet!” came an assenting chorus of approval. “Splendid work, my boy,” approved Mr. Reeves warmly, coming forward and shaking Jack’s hand. “It was as fine an exhibition of horsemanship and courage as ever I saw.” “Thanks,” laughed Jack lightly. “I’ve got an idea that Dynamite and I are going to be great chums. Aren’t we, little horse?” Jack patted the buckskin’s sweating neck and the pony shook his head as if he agreed with the boy who had conquered his fighting spirit by sheer grit. CHAPTER XXV. THE GREAT STAMPEDE. “How is it going, Jack? All quiet?” Walt Phelps paused in his ride around the herd to address his chum. “Yes, everything is going splendidly, Walt. Dynamite’s a real cow–pony.” “No doubt about that. Well, I’ll ride on; we must keep circling the herd.” “You’re right. They seem a bit restless.” Walt rode off with a word of farewell, while Jack flicked Dynamite with the quirt and proceeded in the opposite direction. The time was about midnight the night following Jack’s little argument with Dynamite. Since nine o’clock the Border Boys had been on duty with the Reeves herd. Under the bright stars the cattle were visible only as a black, evershifting mass, round and round which the boys, Bud and two cow–punchers circled unceasingly. Some of the animals were feeding, others standing up or moving about. The air reeked of cattle. Their warm breaths ascended into the cool night in a nebulous cloud of steam. From far off came the sound of a voice singing, not unmusically, that classic old ballad of the Texas cowman: _“Lie quietly now, cattle, And please do not rattle, Or else we will ‘mill’ you, As sure as you’re born._ _A long time ago, At Ranch Silver Bow, I’d a sweetheart and friends, On the River Big Horn“_ Jack pulled up his pony for a minute and listened to the long drawn, melancholy cadence. It was the cow–puncher’s way of keeping the cattle quiet and easy–minded. Steers at night are about as panicky creatures as can be imagined. The rustle of the night wind in the sagebrush, the sudden upspringing of a jackrabbit, the whinnying of a pony, all these slight causes have been known to start uncontrollable “stampedes“ that have been costly both to life and property.