Behind him, with the thundering noise of a devastating avalanche, the herd came as though nothing had happened.  The late moon that had been touching the peaks of the far mountains now lifted a rim over them, flooding the world with a soft radiance.  Sanderson had reached the center of the trail, through Devil’s Hole, before he again looked back.

What he saw caused him to pull Streak up with a jerk.  The head of the herd had burst through the entrance to the Hole, and, opening fanlike, had gone headlong into the quicksand.

Fascinated with the magnitude of the catastrophe, Sanderson paid no attention to the few steers that went past him, snorting wildly; he sat rigid on his horse and watched the destruction of the herd.

A great mass of steers had gone into the quicksand at the very edge of the Hole; they formed a foothold for many others that, forced on by the impetus of the entire mass, crushed them down, trampled them further into the sand, and plunged ahead to their own destruction.

It was a continually recurring incident.  Maddened, senseless, unreasoning in their panic, the mass behind came on, a sea of tossing horns, a maelstrom of swirling, blinding dust and heaving bodies into the mire; the struggling, enmeshed bodies of the vanguard forming a living floor, over which each newcomer swept to oblivion.

Feeling his utter helplessness, Sanderson continued to watch.  There was nothing he could do; he was like a mere atom of sand on a seashore, with the storm waves beating over him.

The scene continued a little longer.  Sanderson saw none of the men of the outfit.  The dust died down, settling like a pall over the neck of the Hole.  A few steers, chancing to come straight ahead through the neck of the Hole, and thus striking the hard, narrow trail that ran through the center, continued to pass Sanderson.  They were still in the grip of a frenzy; and at the far end of the Hole he saw a number of them bogged down.  They had not learned the lesson of the first entrance.

At length it seemed to be over.  Sanderson saw one steer, evidently with some conception of the calamity penetrating its consciousness, standing near him on the trail, moving its head from side to side and snorting as it looked at its unfortunate fellows.  The animal seemed to be unaware of Sanderson’s presence until Streak moved uneasily.

Then the steer turned to Sanderson, its red eyes ablaze.  As though it blamed him for the catastrophe, it charged him.  Sanderson drew his pistol and shot it, with Streak rearing and plunging.

Roars of terror and bellows of despair assailed Sanderson’s ears from all directions.  Groans, almost human, came from the mired mass on both sides of the trail.  Hundreds of the cattle had already sunk from sight, hundreds were sucked partly down, and other hundreds—­thousands, it seemed—­were struggling in plain view, with only portions of their bodies under.