Once he had a
glimpse of Black Bolly in a melee of dust and sheep; Dave's mustang
blurred in his sight; August's roan seemed to be double. Then
Silvermane, of his own accord, was out before them all.
The sheep had almost gained the victory; their keen noses were pointed
toward the water; nothing could stop their flight; but still the drivers
dashed at them, ever fighting, never wearying, never ceasing.
At the last incline, where a gentle slope led down to a dark break in the
desert, the rout became a stampede. Left and right flanks swung round,
the line lengthened, and round the struggling horses, knee-deep in woolly
backs, split the streams to flow together beyond in one resistless river
of sheep. Mescal forced Bolly out of danger; Dave escaped the right
flank, August and Hare swept on with the flood, till the horses, sighting
the dark canyon, halted to stand like rocks.
"Will they run over the rim?" yelled Hare, horrified. His voice came to
him as a whisper. August Naab, sweat-stained in red dust, haggard, gray
locks streaming in the wind, raised his arms above his head, hopeless.
The long nodding line of woolly forms, lifting like the crest of a yellow
wave, plunged out and down in rounded billow over the canyon rim.
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