"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.