Stampede
A thousand head of cattle milled about
Upon the flat as riders circled them
In the gloom that settled fast before the storm
And coming night. A thousand pair of horns
Tossed and clashed, and through the muffled lowing
There ran a hoarse, uneasy note of fear.
Far down toward the valley's end the storm
Was black, cut through with lashing streaks of fire.
The sound of distant thunder carried, dulled
And ominous, to the beasts hemmed in with men
Who rode around the outer fringe with nerves
That tightened with expectancy as wind
That carried to the herd the smell of rain
Grew fresh and strong.
The dark intensified.
The light from distant lightening flicked across
The bulk of massed and milling cattle with
A weird and ghostly glow; the lowing grew
Until it was a thunder of its own,
A thunder that the riders knew and feared.
The trail boss galloped 'round the circled herd
And shouted to his men as he went past
To keep the cattle moving as they were.
Wind whipped his words away into the din
The frightened cattle made.
Then lightening lashed
In spitting, crackling forks above the herd.
The crash of thunder followed then before
The glow that hovered in the hair of beasts
Had died away. The surge of lowing sound
Changed how into a wild and fearful bawl.
Lightnings lit the scene with fitful flash
As movement like a quiver shook the herd.
The circle bulged and broke into a stream,
A flood of fear-crazed, charging brutes
That found release from nameless terror in
The swift and violent action as they plunged
Away into the dark.
From the herd's far side
Careening riders spurred their willing mounts
To aid the men in front. Their high-pitched Yells
Rose clear above the sound of rumbling hoofs.
Guns spit flame into the leaders' faces
As riders raced before the death behind.
The rain came now, a slanting, slashing sheet
That made the ground a sodden, slippery trap
For horses running blind. The riders knew
Their danger then, and pulled their mounts aside
And let the herd go on. The bonds of fear
By which men held the beasts in check were gone,
Shattered by an older, stronger fear.
Rain-muffled sounds of flight came back, and died
As dark and distance hid the running herd.
Reckless riders who had played with death
Now turned back and rode toward the camp
And cursed the storm and wondered if the cook
Had thought to keep their blankets dry.