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.