"Eight miles?" repeated the other ruefully. "Too far. Then here goes,
Nash."
Still never turning his back on the cowpuncher, who was now uncoiling
his lariat and preparing it for a cast, Bard edged the piebald into the
current. He felt the mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he
checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up
the chances.
If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would
not have hesitated, but here and there along the course sharp pointed
rocks and broad-backed boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty
splashing and crashing one of these was overbalanced by the force of the
current and rolled another step toward the far-off sea.
That rush of water would carry him far downstream and the chances were
hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these
murderous obstructions about which the current foamed.
An impulse made him turn and wave a hand to Nash.
He shouted: "Give me luck?"
"Luck?" roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance
over the thunder of the stream.
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