Sanderson drew his pistol and shot it, with Streak rearing and plunging.
Roars of terror and bellows of despair assailed Sanderson's ears from all directions.

Groans, almost human, came from the mired mass on both sides of the trail.

Hundreds of the cattle had already sunk from sight, hundreds were sucked partly down, and other hundreds--thousands, it seemed--were struggling in plain view, with only portions of their bodies under.
Still others--the last to pour through the throat of the gorge--were clambering out, using the sinking bodies of others to assist them; Sanderson could see a few more choking the far end of the Hole.
How many had escaped he did not know, nor care.

The dramatic finish of Soapy was vivid, and concern for the other members of the outfit was uppermost in his mind.
He rode the back trail slowly.

The destruction of his herd had not occupied ten minutes, it seemed.