“The Lazy Eight!” snapped Thurston, sure that the other had come with the stampede. Then, feeling the anger of temporary authority, “What in hell are you up to, letting your cattle run?” If Park could have heard him say that for Reeve-Howard! Down the long length of the valley they swept, gathering to themselves other herds and other riders as incensed as were themselves. It is not pretty work, nor amusing, to gallop madly in the wake of a stampede at night, keeping up the stragglers and taking the chance of a broken neck with the rain to make matters worse. Bob MacGregor sought Thurston with much shouting, and having found him they rode side by side. And always the thunder boomed overhead, and by the lightning flashes they glimpsed the turbulent sea of cattle fleeing, they knew not where or why, with blind fear crowding their heels. The noise of it roused the camps as they thundered by; men rose up, peered out from bed-tents as the stampede swept past, cursed the delay it would probably make, hoped none of the boys got hurt, and thanked the Lord the tents were pitched close to the creek and out of the track of the maddened herds. Then they went back to bed to wait philosophically for daylight. When Sunfish, between flashes, stumbled into a shallow washout, and sent Thurston sailing unbeautifully over his head, Bob pulled up and slid off his horse in a hurry. “Yuh hurt, Bud?” he cried anxiously, bending over him. For Thurston, from the very frankness of his verdant ignorance, had won for himself the indulgent protectiveness of the whole outfit; not a man but watched unobtrusively over his welfare--and Bob MacGregor went farther and loved him whole-heartedly. His voice, when he spoke, was unequivocally frightened. Thurston sat up and wiped a handful of mud off his face; if it had not been so dark Bob would have shouted at the spectacle. “I'm 'kinda sorter shuck up like,”' he quoted ruefully. “And my nose is skinned, thank you. Where's that devil of a horse?” Bob stood over him and grinned. “My, I'm surprised at yuh, Bud! What would your Sunday-school teacher say if she heard yuh? Anyway, yuh ain't got any call to cuss Sunfish; he ain't to blame. He's used to fellows that can ride.” “Shut up!” Thurston commanded inelegantly. “I'd like to see you ride a horse when he's upside down!” “Aw, come on,” urged Bob, giving up the argument. “We'll be plumb lost from the herd if we don't hustle.” They got into their saddles again and went on, riding by sound and the rare glimpses the lightning gave them as it flared through the storm away to the east. “Wet?” Bob sung out sympathetically from the streaming shelter of his slicker. Thurston, wriggling away from his soaked clothing, grunted a sarcastic negative.