Try to keep it from getting wet. Balance it on
the pommel--so. Come, Silver; come, Wolf."
"Keep up-stream," called Mescal as Hare plunged in. "Don't drift below
us."
In two steps Silvermane went in to his saddle, and he rolled with a
splash and a snort, sinking Mescal to her hips. His nose level with the
water, mane and tail floating, he swam powerfully with the current.
For Hare the water was just cold enough to be delightful after the long
hot descent, but its quality was strange. Keeping up-stream of the horse
and even with Mescal, he swam with long regular strokes for perhaps
one-quarter of the distance. But when they reached the swirling eddies
he found that he was tiring. The water was thick and heavy; it
compressed his lungs and dragged at his feet. He whirled round and round
in the eddies and saw Silvermane doing the same. Only by main force
could he breast his way out of these whirlpools. When a wave slapped his
face he tasted sand, and then he knew what the strange feeling meant.
There was sand here as on the desert. Even in the depths of the canyon
he could not escape it. As the current grew rougher he began to feel
that he could scarcely spread his arms in the wide stroke.
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