PART II. The Country of the Saints.
2. CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.
(continued)
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the
road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her
impatience she endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing
her horse into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she
got fairly into it, however, before the beasts closed in
behind her, and she found herself completely imbedded in the
moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks.
Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every
opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her
way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of
the creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent
contact with the flank of the mustang, and excited it to
madness. In an instant it reared up upon its hind legs with
a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that would
have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought
it against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness.
It was all that the girl could do to keep herself in the
saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death under the
hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to
sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon
the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and
by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might have
abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice at
her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same
moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the
curb, and forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her
to the outskirts.
"You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily.
"I'm awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would
have thought that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot
of cows?"
"Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly.
He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a
powerful roan horse, and clad in the rough dress of a hunter,
with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. "I guess you are
the daughter of John Ferrier," he remarked, "I saw you ride
down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he remembers
the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier,
my father and he were pretty thick."
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