Maddened, senseless, unreasoning in their panic, the mass behind came on, a sea of tossing horns, a maelstrom of swirling, blinding dust and heaving bodies into the mire; the struggling, enmeshed bodies of the vanguard forming a living floor, over which each newcomer swept to oblivion.
Feeling his utter helplessness, Sanderson continued to watch.

There was nothing he could do; he was like a mere atom of sand on a seashore, with the storm waves beating over him.
The scene continued a little longer.

Sanderson saw none of the men of the outfit.

The dust died down, settling like a pall over the neck of the Hole.

A few steers, chancing to come straight ahead through the neck of the Hole, and thus striking the hard, narrow trail that ran through the center, continued to pass Sanderson.