By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black, clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant becoming wilder.  But David’s horse had been trained in the business; he knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding.  Dashing along by the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the left so as to turn them to the right.  When once the leaders were turned the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag end of the line.

Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up, and they were “milling;” that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground.  Men who had noticed how very little David’s heart had been in his work were amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed.  Round and round the mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent, and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice.  The “run” was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle.

“Whar’s the Captain?” said one; “he gin’rally soop’rintends a job like this himself.”

“And likes to do it.  Who’s seen the Captain?  Hev you, Lorimer?”

“He was in camp when I started.  My time was up just as the ‘run’ commenced.”

No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for conversation.  The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices had been raised.  David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley’s murder; and he knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him.

He offered to return to camp and report “all right,” and the offer was accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a belt of timber.  The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the underwood.  But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made all natural terrors of small account.  His own hands were hateful to him.  He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony.  He measured in every moments’ space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the shameful punishment of his deed.  He remembered at that hour his father’s love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for it came.  Lulu’s tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children, the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment’s passionate revenge.  He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins, cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked.  Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not daring—­