He touched the piebald with the spurs, and the gallant little horse
floundered forward, lost footing and struck into water beyond its depth.
At the same instant Bard swung clear of the saddle and let his body
trail out behind, holding with his left hand to the tail of the
struggling horse and kicking to aid the progress.
Immersed to the chin, and sometimes covered by a more violent wave, the
sound of the river grew at once strangely dim, but he felt the force of
the current tugging at him like a thousand invisible hands. He began to
wish that he had taken off his boots before entering, for they weighted
his feet so that it made him leg-weary to kick. Nevertheless he trusted
in the brave heart of the mustang. There was no wavering in the wild
horse. Only his head showed over the water, but the ears were pricking
straight and high, and it never once swerved back toward the nearer
shore.
Their progress at first was good, but as they neared the central portion
of the water they were swept many yards downstream for one that they
made in a transverse direction.
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