A common impulse moved them; they were frenzied with fright and terror.
It was not the first stampede that Sanderson had been in, and he knew its dangers.

Yet he grimly fought with the cattle, Streak leaping here and there in answer to the knee-pressure of his master, horse and rider looking like knight and steed of some fabled romance, embattled with a huge monster with thousands of legs.
Sanderson caught a glimpse of several riders tearing toward him from the direction of the camp, and he knew that Carter and the others were trying to reach him in the hope of being able to stem the torrent of rushing cattle.
But the movement had already gone too far, and the speed of the frenzied steers was equal to the best running that Streak could do.
Sanderson saw that all effort to stop them would be hopeless, and aware of the danger of remaining at the head of the flying mass, he veered Streak off, heading him toward the side, out of the press.
As he rode he caught a glimpse of Soapy.

The latter had the same notion that was in Sanderson's mind, for he was leaning over his pony's mane, riding hard to get out of the path taken by the herd.
Sanderson pulled Streak up slightly, watching Soapy until he was certain the latter would reach the edge, then he gave Streak the reins again.
The pause, though, robbed Sanderson of his chance to escape.

He had been cutting across the head of the herd at a long angle when watching Soapy, and had been traveling with the cattle also; and now he saw that the big level was behind him, that he and the cattle were in an ever-narrowing valley which led directly into the neck of Devil's Hole.
Sanderson now gave up all hope of reaching the side, and devoted his attention to straight, hard riding.

There were a few steers ahead of him, and he had a faint hope that if he could get ahead of them he might be able to direct their course through Devil's Hole and thus avert the calamity that threatened.
Grimly, silently, riding as he had never ridden before, he urged Streak forward.