The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day.  David was weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch.  It began at ten o’clock, and would end at midnight.  The weather was gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle.

The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no lightning.

“I wouldn’t wonder ef we have a ‘run’ to-night,” said one of the men.  “I’ve seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights as this one.”

“Nonsense!” replied David.  “If a cayote frightens one in a drove the panic Spreads to all.  Any night would do for a ‘run.’”

“’Taint so, Lorimer.  Ef you’ve a drove of one thousand or of ten thousand it’s all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same moment.  It’s somethin’ in the air; ’taint my business to know what.  But you look like a ‘run’ yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin’ was gitting ‘the mad’ up in you.  I noticed Whaley is ’bout the same.  I’d keep clear of him, ef I was you.”

“No, I won’t.  He owes me money, and I’ll make him pay me!”

“Don’t!  Thar, I’ve warned you, David Lorimer, and that let’s me out.  Take your own way now.”

For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own heart seconded it.  But when the trial of his temper came he turned a deaf ear to every monition.  Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner.  David asked pointedly, “Were you speaking to me, Captain?”

“I was.”

“Then don’t you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!”

Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight thousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of them exactly at the same instant.  With a rush like a whirlwind leveling a forest, they were off in the darkness.

The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering of hoofs, was deafening.  Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars’ worth of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and gave David a passionate order “to ride up to the leaders,” and then he sprang for his own mule.

David’s time was now fully out, and he drew his horse’s rein tight and stood still.

“Coward!” screamed Whaley; “try and forget for an hour that you have Spanish blood in you.”

A pistol shot answered the taunt.  Whaley staggered a second, then fell without a word.  The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer.  He gazed one instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself up to the wild passion of the pursuit.