The elemental terror at last had caught its prey--soft, young, beautiful prey, this huddled form, a bit of brown and gray, edged with white of wind-blown skirt.

It would be a sweet morsel for the flames.
Along the knife-edged flint ridge which Molly had tried to reach there came the pounding of hoofs, heavier than any of these that had passed.
The cattle were stampeding directly down wind and before the fire.
Dully, Molly heard the lowing, heard the far shouts of human voices.
Then, it seemed to her, she heard a rush of other hoofs coming toward her.

Yes, something was pounding down the slope toward her wagon, toward her.

Buffalo, she thought, not knowing the buffalo were gone from that region.
But it was not the buffalo, nor yet the frightened herd, nor yet her mules.

Out of the smoke curtain broke a rider, his horse flat; a black horse with flying frontlet--she knew what horse.