Blackened by the mud which lay on the surface, his hat half buried, his arms beating convulsively as he threw himself forward again and again, the victim must in all likelihood soon have exhausted himself.  The chill of night on the high Plains soon would have done the rest, and by good fortune he might have died before meeting his entombment.  His horse ere this had accepted fate, and ceasing to struggle lay almost buried, his head and neck supported by a trembling bit of floating grass roots.

“Steady, friend!” called out Banion as he ran to the edge.  “Don’t fight it!  Spread out your arms and lie still!  We’ll get you out!”

“Quick!  My lariat, Jackson, and yours!” he added.

The scout was already freeing the saddle ropes.  The two horses stood, reins down, snorting at the terror before them, whose menace they now could sense.

“Take the horse!” called Banion.  “I’ll get the man!”

He was coiling the thin, braided hide reata, soft as a glove and strong as steel, which always hung at the Spanish saddle.

He cast, and cast again—­yet again, the loop at forty feet gone to nothing.  The very silence of the victim nerved him to haste, and he stepped in knee deep, finding only mud, the trickle of black sands being farther out.  The rope sped once more, and fell within reach—­was caught.  A sob or groan came, the first sound.  Even then from the imprisoned animal beyond him came that terrifying sound, the scream of a horse in mortal terror.  Jackson’s rope fell short.

“Get the rope under your arms!” called Banion to the blackened, sodden figure before him.  Slowly, feebly, his order was obeyed.  With much effort the victim got the loop below one arm, across a shoulder, and then paused.

“Your rope, quick, Bill!”

Jackson hurried and they joined the ends of the two ropes.

“Not my horse—­he’s wild.  Dally on to your own saddle, Bill, and go slow or you’ll tear his head off.”

The scout’s pony, held by the head and backed slowly, squatted to its haunches, snorting, but heaving strongly The head of the victim was drawn oddly toward his shoulder by the loop, but slowly, silently, his hands clutching at the rope, his body began to rise, to slip forward.

Banion, deep as he dared, at last caught him by the collar, turned up his face.  He was safe.  Jackson heard the rescuer’s deep exclamation, but was busy.

“Cast free, Will, cast free quick, and I’ll try for the horse!”

He did try, with the lengthened rope, cast after cast, paying little attention to the work of Banion, who dragged out his man and bent over him as he lay motionless on the safe edge of the treacherous sunken sands which still half buried him.

“No use!” exclaimed the older man.  He ran to his saddle and got his deadly double barrel, then stepped as close as possible to the sinking animal as he could.  There came a roar.  The head of the horse dropped flat, began to sink.  “Pore critter!” muttered the old man, capping his reloaded gun.  He now hastened to aid Banion.