Suddenly three of the bulls went down to their knees, snorting and bellowing furiously.  Half a dozen cows held back from the flames, only to be trampled and killed.

Somehow, the powerful bulls staggered to their feet, then broke to one side.

A dozen more cows plunged on into the blazing grass, then sank, overcome by the heat.

It seemed like a miracle as, following the bulls, the herd split, some going east, others west, and carrying the swerving cattle after them in two frantic streams.

In some way that the boys could not understand, the pressure of cattle from the rear accommodated itself to the movement of the forepart of the herd.  The herd divided now swept on rapidly, going nearly east and west in two sections.

Not until some six hundred crazy cattle had passed out of view did the boys feel like speaking.  Indeed, they felt weak from the realization of the peril they had so narrowly escaped.

“I think, fellows,” proposed Dave Darrin huskily at last, “that we owe a whopping big vote of thanks to good old Dick Prescott!”

“After we pass that vote,” proposed Hazelton, “we’d better make all haste to get out of these woods before the owner of this stretch of forest comes along to nab the fellows who set his timber afire.”

“Do you see any trees ablaze?” Dick demanded.

Now, for the first time, two or three of the fellows began to realize the value of Dick’s idea.  The sun-burned grass, some three acres in extent, was a clearing devoid of trees.  Here the July heat had baked the turf.  On all sides, under the trees beyond, the grass was still green.  Any boy who has ever been in the country knows that green grass won’t burn.  Hence the blaze was limited to a small area.  A few trees whose trunks were near the edge of the clearing were smoking slightly, but no damage was done to the timber.  There was really no work to be done in extinguishing this fire, which, furious while it lasted, was now dying out.

“Let’s get back and see how our camp fared,” proposed Hazelton.

“We don’t have to,” Dick replied.  “We saw the directions taken by the cattle, and they didn’t go anywhere near our camp.  Let’s wait, and, as soon as the ground is cool enough, let’s get out to the injured cows, and see if we can help any of them.”

Hardly had Dick spoken when one of the cows, right at the edge of the blackened clearing, rose clumsily, then moved slowly northward.  Presently another cow followed suit.

“We can get over the ground now,” said Dick.  “Let’s go out and look at these animals.”

They counted eight dead cows, their unwieldy carcasses lying motionless on the burned grass.

“Probably killed by the hot air that they drew into their lungs,” commented Tom Reade.

“We killed the poor beasts,” said Danny Grin, with a catch in his breath.

“Perhaps we did,” Dick admitted.  “But we had to do something.  Anyhow, we broke the force of the stampede, and, if that hadn’t been checked, a still greater number of cows would have been killed.  They would have fallen, exhausted, and then they would have been trampled on and killed by the plunging cattle behind them.”