"Keep the coachers with 'em! Flog 'em along! Cut the hides off
'em!"
In the first rush the quiet cattle had dropped to the rear,
but the blacks set about them with their whips; and, as they were
experienced coachers, and had been flogged and hustled along in
similar rushes so often that they knew at once what was wanted,
they settled down to race just as fast as the wild ones. As the
swaying, bellowing mass swept along in the moonlight, crashing and
trampling through the light outlying timber, some of the coachers
were seen working their way to the lead, and the wild cattle having
no settled plan, followed them blindly. Considine, on his black
horse, was close up by the wing of the mob, and the others rode in
line behind him, always keeping between the cattle and the scrub.
"Crack your whips!" he yelled. "Crack your whips! Keep 'em off the
scrub! Go on, Billy, drive that horse along and get to the lead!"
Like a flash one of the black boys darted out of the line, galloped
to the head of the cattle, and rode there, pursued by the flying
mob, the cracks of his heavy stockwhip sounding above the roar of
hoofs and the bellowing of the cattle. Soon they steadied a little,
and gradually sobered down till they stopped and began to "ring"
again.
"That was pretty pure, eh, Mister?" roared Considine to Carew.
"Ain't it a caution the way the coachers race with 'em? That old
bald-face coacher is worth two men and a boy in a dash like this."
Suddenly an old bull, the patriarch of the wild herd, made towards
one of the gins, whose shrill yells and whip-cracking failed to
turn him. Considine dashed to her assistance, swinging his whip
round his head.
"Whoa back, there! Whoa back, will you!" he shouted. The bull paused
irresolute for a second, and half-turned back to the mob, but the
sight or scent of his native scrub decided him. Dropping his head,
he charged straight at Considine. So sudden was the attack that
the stock-horse had barely time to spring aside; but, quick as it
was, Considine's revolver was quicker. The bull passed--bang! went
the revolver, and bang! bang! bang! again, as the horse raced
alongside, Considine leaning over and firing into the bull's ribs
at very short range.
The other cattle, dazed by the firing, did not attempt to follow,
and at the fourth shot the bull wheeled to charge. He stood a
moment in the moonlight, bold and defiant, then staggered a little
and looked round as though to say, "What have you done to me?" Bang
went the revolver again; the animal lurched, plunged forward, sank
on his knees, and fell over on his side, dead.