"Do you think Mr. Stallings is worried about the weather?" asked the lad of Big-foot Sanders, as he rode along beside the big cowman on the way to the bedding place of the herd. "I reckon he is," was the brief answer. "Then you think we are going to have a storm?" "Ever been through a Texas storm?" asked Big-foot by way of answering the boy's question. "No." "Well, you won't call it a storm after you have. There ain't no name in the dictionary that exactly fits that kind of a critter. A stampede is a Sunday in a country village as compared with one of them Texas howlers. You'll be wishing you had a place to hide, in about a minute after that kind of a ruction starts." "Are they so bad as that?" "Well, almost," answered the cowman. "I've heard tell," he continued, "that they've been known to blow the horns off a Mexican cow. Why, you couldn't check one of them things with a three inch rope and a snubbing post." Tad laughed at the quaintness of his companion's words. The sky near the horizon was a dull, leaden hue, though above their heads the stars twinkled reassuringly. "It doesn't look very threatening to me," decided Tad Butler, gazing intently toward the heavens. "Well, here's where we split," announced the cowboy, riding off to the left of the herd, Tad taking the right. Shortly after the lad heard the big cowman break out in song: "Two little niggers upstairs in bed, One turned ober to de oder an' said, How 'bout dat short'nin' bread, How 'bout dat short'nin' bread?" Tad pulled up his pony and listened until the song had been finished. It was the cowpuncher's way of telling the herd that he had arrived and was on hand to guard them against trouble. "Big-foot seems to have a new song to-night," mused Tad. Now the lad noticed that there was an oppressiveness about the air that had not been present before. A deep orange glow showed on the southern horizon for an instant, then settled back into the prairie, leaving the gloom about the young cowboy even more dense than it had been before. "Feels spooky," was Tad's comment. Not being able to sing to his own satisfaction, Tad shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets and began whistling "Old Black Joe." It was the most appropriate tune he could think of. "Kind of fits the night," he explained to the pony, which was picking its way slowly about the great herd. Then he resumed his whistling. The guards passed each other without a word, some being too sleepy; others too fully occupied with their own thoughts. The night, by this time, had grown intensely still, even the insects and night birds having hushed their weird songs. A flash more brilliant than the first attracted the lad's attention.