After a few minutes of breathless racing, with a roar as of breakers in his ears and the crackle of clashing horns and the gleaming of rolling eyeballs close upon his horse's heels, he found himself washed high and dry, as it were, while the tumult swept by.

Presently he was galloping along behind and wondering dully how he got there, though perhaps Sunfish knew well enough.
In his story of the West--the one that had failed to be convincing--he had in his ignorance described a stampede, and it had not been in the least like this one.

He blushed at the memory, and wondered if he should ever again feel qualified to write of these things.
Great drops of rain pounded him on the back as he rode--chill drops, that went to the skin.

He thought of his new canary-colored slicker in the bed-tent, and before he knew it swore just as any of the other men would have done under similar provocation; it was the first real, able-bodied oath he had ever uttered.

He was becoming assimilated with the raw conditions of life.
He heard a man's voice calling to him, and distinguished the dim shape of a rider close by.