He held his breath, locked his legs against the horse’s flanks and felt the saddle tumble away from him when the horse went over the edge but he had an iron grip on the pommel and somehow the horse still had purchase—its hoofs were scrambling at a steep slope and Wil slammed hard down onto the leather and reared far back to give the horse balance and then with a juddering jar the horse’s front feet hit flat ground just as a flash of lightning revealed this new world and Wil saw the river of cattle flowing pellmell through the wide shallow gully and up the steepening pitch of its far bank, and over the top—and in the midst of it all he saw a solitary horseman above the backs of the cows like a centaur: by the shape of shoulders and hat, unmistakably Theodore Roosevelt.

The boss—alive and riding the stampede.

It cheered Wil. His mount staggered but ran on, mane streaming. Wil said, “Good boy. Good boy,” and found resource enough to let go of the saddle with one hand and pat the horse on the neck.

He rode blind again, galloping, guiding the horse by lightning bursts to his left to try and get out past the edge of the running herd. He remembered the wagon boss’s stricture to head them east but by now he was entirely turned around and had no idea what direction lay before him. To get out of this alive would be achievement enough.

He heard the squeal of an animal going down; the saddle shook under him when the horse took a dip and recovered; his hands kept slipping—soaking wet and he had no idea if it was sweat or rain.

It was the noise, he thought desperately—the deadly pounding of thousands of hoofs in this total blind blackness—that was what truly terrified a man because it stopped him from hearing, it stopped him from thinking …

He knew if he lived beyond tonight he would never forget the horror of this.

Then in the faint glimmer from a distant splash of lightning he saw that he had escaped the worst of it: he was out of the stampede, running along at the side of it. He pulled the horse more sharply away to the left and rode in that direction until the dread noise diminished with distance. Then he slowed the horse to a walk and finally stopped altogether and allowed the poor animal’s quivering and quaking to subside.

He talked all the while. “All right. Easy now. It’s all right. Gentle down. Easy now.” Talking as much to himself as to the horse.

Got to get on. Got to stay with the herd. Can’t let them get away. Stay alongside—keep them bunched. At least that way they’ll still be in one crowd at daylight.

He waited the next flash of lightning. It was a while coming; the storm was moving away or petering out. He saw the black rolling flow of cattle, oriented himself and ran at an oblique course, aiming to intercept, guiding by sound. Lifted the horse to a tentative gallop and went over an easy little rise of a hill and felt the most God-awful startling blow—a sickening thud of muffled sound as he slammed forward and something sharp raked at him and then he felt the horse go down and he just managed to jerk his legs out from under.

When everything settled down he examined the horse, familiarized himself with his surroundings, appraised his circumstances and said aloud, “A fine thing. For shame.” And saw nothing left to do except go to sleep.

At dawn he was trudging afoot with his saddle and bridle across his shoulder, soaked with rain, feet splashing in his boots, backtracking the herd across the rolling plain.

God knew how many miles they had run last night. It was going to be a long walk back to the wagon camp, assuming it had not been moved—

Miraculously Roosevelt was here, riding up behind him, full of good cheer, driving thirty or forty head of exhausted cattle. “What happened to your horse?”

“Ran full gallop straight into a tree. Only tree on the whole prairie and I managed to hit it dead-center. I owe some poor stockman a good horse.”

“Some may have suffered far worse losses than that. Well I am happy to see you alive and healthy, Wil.”

“And I you, sir.”

“I do believe last night brought me as close to death as I ever hope to come,” replied the boss. “Climb up behind me. We can ride double if we go easy. These cattle are too tired to mind.”

The herd had scattered into little bunches but by good fortune the main direction of its flight had been eastward. Penned by the great loop of the river, the cattle were not beyond recall—if they could be recaptured quickly enough.

The rain had stopped by midmorning and most of the hands were accounted for. After a quick meal they fanned out on fresh horses.

By the time the herd was recaptured, Wil Dow and Roosevelt had each ridden forty straight hours and worn out five mounts.

There followed the harrowing intrusion of burials: three men had been stomped to death.

By the end of that spring’s round-up, Wil observed, Roosevelt had just about completed an astonishing metamorphosis from sickly dude to robust outdoorsman. He wasn’t a pretty rider but he could stay on his horse and do his job as well as any man. He had barreled out with thirty pounds of new muscle; he was weathered and brown and rugged. There was no question about the respect in which he was held amongst the ranchmen. He was still chairman of the Stockmen. But it seemed to Wil Dow that Roosevelt, for all his brilliance and his wholehearted endeavor, never would be attached to this earth the way Huidekoper and some of the others were.

Strung out in its long line the culled Elkhorn herd filed onto the grass of the home ranch. Wil and Roosevelt, leading the way, found the hired man heating a slender iron in a hasty fire. An unbranded calf lay on its side kicking ineffectually, its feet tied together with piggin’ strings. A long-spined cow, ribs showing, stood nearby with her head lowered suspiciously. The hired hand was preparing to put the Elkhorn brand on the calf.

Roosevelt stepped down. “There’s the mother cow. You can see plainly it’s not my brand.”

Wil Dow said, “It’s De Morès’s brand, sir.”

The hired hand said, “I know what I’m doing here—I know who I work for.” He had a big hat, rusty spurs and a sly confidential smile.

Roosevelt said, “Put down that iron. I’ll give you your time. You’re fired.”

The hired man reared back on his haunches. “I always look out for my boss’s interests. What’s wrong in that?”

“By George, a man who will steal for me will steal from me. We don’t need your kind here.”

After they had distributed the cattle among the greening pasture lands there was one more halfhearted storm. Huidekoper loomed through the rain. “They scared out George Medlock, Bill Roberts and Jim Monroe. Three good men by my reckoning. They heard the Stranglers were coming, and they rode out of the country.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Roosevelt.

“The Stranglers went on down Beaver Creek and yesterday they hanged Tom Allen. He stood up against his house with a cocked rifle and taunted them—I hear he winged one before they knocked him down. They put a rope around his neck and demanded information, and when he didn’t tell them anything, they hanged him.”

Wil Dow said, “I heard Tom Allen had a habit of branding cattle that weren’t his, that he acquired in ways that wouldn’t stand up to research.”

“He couldn’t stand up to a lynching,” Uncle Bill Sewall said.

Roosevelt stood with Sewall and Dow on the covered piazza. “For Heaven’s sake step down and come in—don’t sit there drowning.”

“No thank you. I won’t stop. I’m on my way to the Killdeers. But I felt I had to warn you about the Stranglers. They don’t leave room for doubt, these boys. They give every suspect the benefit of the noose.”

Wil Dow said, “Seems to be having the desired effect. I haven’t heard anyone complain of stock theft just lately.”

Huidekoper let it go by. “I don’t mean to alarm you, Theodore. But the Stranglers are vigilante-ing in force. Your small outfit is a very possible victim, especially since you’ve sided against De Morès more than once.” Huidekoper took a long breath. “They have killed more than twenty men.”