Changing the
stroke he discovered that he could not keep up with Silvermane, and he
changed back again. Gradually his feet sank lower and lower, the water
pressed tighter round him, his arms seemed to grow useless. Then he
remembered a saying of August Naab that the Navajos did not attempt to
swim the river when it was in flood and full of sand. He ceased to
struggle, and drifting with the current, soon was close to Silvermane,
and grasped a saddle strap.
"Not there!" called Mescal. "He might strike you. Hang to his tail!"
Hare dropped behind, and catching Silvermane's tail held on firmly. The
stallion towed him easily. The waves dashed over him and lapped at
Mescal's waist. The current grew stronger, sweeping Silvermane down out
of line with the black wall which had frowned closer and closer. Mescal
lifted the rifle, and resting the stock on the saddle, held it upright.
The roar of the rapids seemed to lose its volume, and presently it died in
the splashing and slapping of broken water closer at hand. Mescal turned
to him with bright eyes; curving her hand about her lips she shouted:
"Can't make the bar! We've got to go through this side of the rapids.
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