That was what saved him, for he had the sense to obey. After a
few minutes of breathless racing, with a roar as of breakers in
his ears and the crackle of clashing horns and the gleaming of
rolling eyeballs close upon his horse's heels, he found himself
washed high and dry, as it were, while the tumult swept by.
Presently he was galloping along behind and wondering dully how
he got there, though perhaps Sunfish knew well enough.

In his story of the West--the one that had failed to be
convincing--he had in his ignorance described a stampede, and it
had not been in the least like this one. He blushed at the
memory, and wondered if he should ever again feel qualified to
write of these things.

Great drops of rain pounded him on the back as he rode-- chill
drops, that went to the skin. He thought of his new
canary-colored slicker in the bed-tent, and before he knew it
swore just as any of the other men would have done under similar
provocation; it was the first real, able-bodied oath he had ever
uttered. He was becoming assimilated with the raw conditions of
life.

He heard a man's voice calling to him, and distinguished the dim
shape of a rider close by. He shouted that password of the
range, "Hello!"

"What outfit is this?" the man cried again.

"The Lazy Eight!" snapped Thurston, sure that the other had come