Trailin'!

THE SWIMMING OF THE SAVERACK

Over the face of Nash the darkness passed like a cold hand and a colder sense of failure touched his heart; but men who have ridden the range have one great power surpassing all others—­the power of patience.  As soundlessly as he had pushed himself up the moment before, he now slipped down in the blankets and resigned himself to sleep.

He knew that he would wake at the first hint of grey light and trusted that after the long ride of the day before his companion would still be fast asleep.  That half light would be enough for his work; but when he roused while the room was still scarcely more visible than if it were filled with a grey fog, he found Bard already up and pulling on his boots.

“How’d you sleep?” he growled, following the example of the tenderfoot.

“Not very well,” said the other cheerily.  “You see, that story of yours was so vivid in my mind that I stayed awake about all night, I guess, thinking it over.”

“I knew it,” murmured Nash to himself.  “He was awake all the time.  And
still-----”

If that thrown noose of the lariat had settled over the head and shoulders of the sham sleeper it would have made no difference whether he waked or slept—­in the end he would have sat before William Drew tied hand and foot.  If that noose had not settled?  The picture of the little piece of paper fluttering to the floor came back with a strange vividness to the mind of Nash, and he had to shrug his shoulders to shake the thought away.

They were in the saddle a very few moments after they awoke and started out, breakfastless.  The rain long ago had ceased, and there was only the solemn silence of the brown hills around them—­silence, and a faint, crinkling sound as if the thirsty soil still drank.  It had been a heavy fall of rain, they could see, for whenever they passed a bare spot where no grass grew, it was crossed by a thick tracery of the rivulets which had washed down the slopes during the night.

Soon they reached a little creek whose current, barely knee deep, foamed up around the shoulders of the horses and set them staggering.

“The Saverack will be hell,” said Nash, “and we’d better cut straight for the ford.”

“How long will it take?”

“Add about three hours to the trip.”

“Can’t do it; remember that little date back in Eldara to-night.”

“Then look for yourself and make up your mind for yourself,” said Nash drily, for they topped a hill, and below them saw a mighty yellow flood pouring down the valley.  It went leaping and shouting as if it rejoiced in some destruction it had worked and was still working, and the muddy torrent was threaded with many a ridge of white and swirling with bubbles.

“The Saverack,” said Nash.  “Now what d’you think about fording it?”

“If we can’t ford it, we can swim it,” declared Bard.  “Look at that tree-trunk.  If that will float I will float, and if I can float I can swim, and if I can swim I’ll reach the other bank of that little creek.  Won’t we, boy?”

And he slapped the proud neck of the mustang.

“Swim it?” said Nash incredulously.  “Does that date mean as much as that to you?”

“It isn’t the date; it’s the promise I gave,” answered the other, watching the current with a cool eye, “besides, when I was a youngster I used to do things like this for the sport of it.”

They rode down to the edge of the stream.

“How about it, Nash, will you take the chance with me?”

And the other, looking down:  “Try the current, I’ll stay here on the shore and if it gets too strong for you I’ll throw out a rope, eh?  But if you can make it, I’ll follow suit.”

The other cast a somewhat wistful eye of doubt upon the cowpuncher.

“How far is it to the ford?” he asked.

“About eight miles,” answered Nash, doubling the distance on the spot.

“Eight miles?” repeated the other ruefully.  “Too far.  Then here goes, Nash.”

Still never turning his back on the cowpuncher, who was now uncoiling his lariat and preparing it for a cast, Bard edged the piebald into the current.  He felt the mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up the chances.

If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would not have hesitated, but here and there along the course sharp pointed rocks and broad-backed boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty splashing and crashing one of these was overbalanced by the force of the current and rolled another step toward the far-off sea.

That rush of water would carry him far downstream and the chances were hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these murderous obstructions about which the current foamed.

An impulse made him turn and wave a hand to Nash.

He shouted:  “Give me luck?”

“Luck?” roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance over the thunder of the stream.

He touched the piebald with the spurs, and the gallant little horse floundered forward, lost footing and struck into water beyond its depth.  At the same instant Bard swung clear of the saddle and let his body trail out behind, holding with his left hand to the tail of the struggling horse and kicking to aid the progress.

Immersed to the chin, and sometimes covered by a more violent wave, the sound of the river grew at once strangely dim, but he felt the force of the current tugging at him like a thousand invisible hands.  He began to wish that he had taken off his boots before entering, for they weighted his feet so that it made him leg-weary to kick.  Nevertheless he trusted in the brave heart of the mustang.  There was no wavering in the wild horse.  Only his head showed over the water, but the ears were pricking straight and high, and it never once swerved back toward the nearer shore.

Their progress at first was good, but as they neared the central portion of the water they were swept many yards downstream for one that they made in a transverse direction.  Twice they missed projecting rocks by the narrowest margin, and then something like an exceedingly thin and exceedingly strong arm caught Anthony around the shoulders.  It tugged back, stopped all their forward progress, and let them sweep rapidly down the stream and back toward the shore.

Turning his head he caught a glimpse of Nash sitting calmly in his saddle, holding the rope in both hands—­and laughing.  The next instant he saw no more, for the current placed a taller rock between him and the bank.  On that rock the line of the lariat caught, hooking the swimmers sharply in toward the bank.  He would have cut the rope, but it would be almost impossible to get out a knife and open a blade with his teeth, still clinging to the tail of the swimming horse with one hand.  He reached down through the water, pulled out the colt, and with an effort swung himself about.  Close at hand he could not reach the rope, and therefore he fired not directly at the rope itself, but at the edge of the rock around which the lariat bent at a sharp angle.  The splash of that bullet from the strong face of the rock sliced the rope like a knife.  It snapped free, and the brave little mustang straightened out again for the far shore.

An instant more Bard swam with the revolver poised above the water, but he caught no glimpse of Nash; so he restored it with some difficulty to the holster, and gave all his attention and strength to helping the horse through the water, swimming with one hand and kicking vigorously with his feet.

Perhaps they would not have made it, for now through exhaustion the ears of the mustang were drooping back.  He shouted, and at the faint sound of his cheer the piebald pricked a single weary ear.  He shouted again, and this time not for encouragement, but from exultation; a swerving current had caught them and was bearing them swiftly toward the desired bank.

It failed them when they were almost touching bottom and swung sharply out toward the centre again, but the mustang, as though it realized that this was the last chance, fought furiously.  Anthony gave the rest of his strength, and they edged through, inch by inch, and horse and man staggered up the bank and stood trembling with fatigue.

Glancing back, he saw Nash in the act of throwing his lariat to the ground, wild with anger, and before he could understand the meaning of this burst of temper over a mere spoiled lariat, the gun whipped from the side of the cowboy, exploded, and the little piebald, with ears pricked sharply forward as though in vague curiosity, crumpled to the ground.  The suddenness of it took all power of action from Bard for the instant.  He stood staring stupidly down at the dying horse and then whirled, gun in hand, frantic with anger and grief.

Nash was galloping furiously up the far bank of the Saverack, already safely out of range, and speeding toward the ford.