tdistanced by the herd, and Dulcie
screamed when the wagon lurched across a dry wash and almost upset,
while Ezra plied the ox-whip and yelled frantically at first one ox and
then another, inventing names for the new ones. Buddy drew in his breath
and held it until the wagon rolled on four wheels instead of two, but he
did not scream.

Still the big river did not come. It seemed to Buddy that the cattle
would never stop running. Tangled in the terror was Ezra's shouting
as he ran alongside the wagon and called to Missy that it was "Dat ole
Crumpy actin' the fool", and that the wagon wouldn't upset. "No'm, dey's
jest in a hurry to git dere fool haids sunk to de eyes in dat watah. Dey
ain't aimin' to run away--no'm, dish yer ain't no stampede!"

Perhaps Buddy dozed. The next thing he remembered, day was breaking,
with the sun all red, seen through the dust. The herd was still going,
but now it was running and somehow the yoked oxen were keeping close
behind, lumbering along with heads held low and the sweat reeking from
their spent bodies. Buddy heard dimly his mother's sharp command to
Ezra:

"Stand back, Ezra! We're not going to be caught in that terrible trap.
They're piling over the bank ahead of us. Get away from the leaders. I
am going to shoot."

Buddy crawled up a little higher on the blankets behind the seat, and
saw mother steady herself and aim the rifle straight at Crumpy. There
was the familiar, deafening roar, the acrid smell of black powder smoke,
and Crumpy went down loosely, his nose rooting the trampled ground for
a space before the gun belched black smoke again and Crumpy's yoke-mate
pitched forward. The wagon stopped so abruptly that Buddy sprawled
helplessly on his back like an overturned beetle.

He saw mother stand looking down at the wheelers, that backed and
twisted their necks under their yokes. Her lips were set firmly
together, and her eyes were bright with purple hollows beneath. She held
the rifle for a moment, then set the butt of it on the "jockey box" just
in front of the dashboard. The wheelers, helpless between the weight of
the wagon behind and the dead oxen in front, might twist their necks off
but they could do no damage.

"Unyoke the wheelers, Ezra, and let the poor creatures have their chance
at the water," she cried sharply, and Ezra, dodging the horns of the
frantic brutes, made shift to obey.

Fairly on the bank of the sluggish stream with its flood-worn channel
and its