Sanderson saw steers rising on their hind legs, throwing their forelegs high in the air; they were bellowing their fright and charging against the steers nearest them, frenziedly trying to escape the danger that seemed to menace them.
Sanderson groaned, for the entire herd was on the move! Near at hand a dozen steers shot out of the press and lumbered past him, paying no attention to his shouts.

He fired his pistol in the face of one, and though the animal tried to turn back, frightened by the flash, the press of numbers behind it, already moving forward, forced it again to wheel and break for freedom.
Sanderson heard the sounds of pistol shots from the direction of the camp fire; he heard other shots from the direction of the back trail; he saw the forms of men on horses darting here and there on the opposite side of the herd from where he rode.
From the left side of the herd came another rider--Soapy.

He tore ahead of the vanguard of running steers, shooting his pistol in their faces, shouting profanely at them, lashing them with his quirt.
A first batch slipped by him.

He spurred his horse close to Sanderson--who was trying to head off still others of the herd that were determined to follow the first--and cursed loudly: "Who in hell waved that tarp ?" Sanderson had no time to answer.

A score of steers bolted straight for him, and he groaned again when he saw that the whole herd was rushing forward in a mass.