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.
DREW SMILES
When the cattleman felt the rope snap back to his
hand he could not realize at first just what had happened.
The crack of the gun had been no louder than the snapping
of a twig in that storming of the river, and the only
explanation he could find was that the rope had struck
some superlatively sharp edge of the rock and been
sawed in two. But examining the cut end he found
it severed as cleanly as if a knife had slashed across
it, and then it was he knew and threw the lariat to
the ground.
When he saw Bard scramble up the opposite bank he
knew that his game was lost and all the tables reversed,
for the Easterner was a full two hours closer to the
home of Drew than he was, with the necessary detour
up to the ford. The Easterner might be delayed
by the unknown country for a time, but not very long.
He was sure to meet someone who would point the way.
It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot down the
piebald mustang.
The next instant he was racing straight up the river
toward the ford. The roan was not spared this
day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure
a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew ranch,
and now it was all important that the big grey man
be warned; for there was a danger in that meeting,
as Nash was beginning to feel.
By noon he reached the house and went straight to
the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud
to the eyes, a three days’ growth of whiskers
blackening his face, and that face gaunt with the long,
hard riding. He found the imperturbable Drew
deep in a book in his office. While he was drawing
breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile.
