As he jerked his revolver from its holder, around the end of the mesa a herd of wild horses swept, swift as antelope, with tails streaming, with eyes flashing, and behind them, urging them on, whooping, yelling, shooting, came a band of cowboys, their arms flopping, their kerchiefs streaming.
A gasping shout arose from below.

"The sheep! the sheep!" Mose turned and saw the other herders rushing for their horses.

He realized then the danger to the flock.

The horses were sweeping like a railway train straight down upon the gray, dusty, hot river of woolly flesh.

Mose shuddered with horror and pity--a moment later and the drove, led by a powerful and vicious brown mare, drove like a wedge straight into the helpless herd, and, leaping, plunging, kicking, stumbling, the powerful and swift little bronchos crossed, careering on down the valley, leaving hundreds of dead, wounded, and mangled sheep in their path.