Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand.  But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset.  This in his crippled condition took some time.  He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky.  Day was upon him.  Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and mounting again dashed on toward Rattlesnake Creek.  But now Jovita’s breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears.  Was it exhaustion from loss of blood, or what?  He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings.  Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was.  But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river between him and Rattlesnake Hill.  For the first time that night Richard’s heart sank within him.  The river, the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his eyes.  He shut them to recover his self-control.  In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson’s Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose upon him.  He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water.  A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling drift-wood.

*****

The Old Man started and woke.  The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the door.  He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

“Dick?”

“Hush!  Is he awake yet?”

“No,—­but, Dick?—­”

“Dry up, you old fool!  Get me some whiskey quick!” The Old Man flew and returned with—­an empty bottle!  Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal to the occasion.  He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the Old Man.

“Thar’s suthin’ in my pack yer for Johnny.  Take it off.  I can’t.”

The Old Man unstrapped the pack and laid it before the exhausted man.

“Open it, quick!”

He did so with trembling fingers.  It contained only a few poor toys,—­cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel.  One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably ruined by water; and on the third—­ah me! there was a cruel spot.