“Westcott ... hell!” He spat savagely out upon the desert, shaking his head with pity, as he glanced again at the huddled figure.
“Westcott’s a damned side-winder,” he muttered.
They were descending into an arroyo, once the bed of a creek; dry, now, for more than a year. The road crossed it, here.
“We’re going to get our weather, quick,” the deputy said, as he noticed that the bottom of the arroyo held tiny pools of water.
Even as he spoke a little stream came trickling down.
“It’s us for the level! Quick!” he shouted, urging the bay.
In an instant darkness was upon them. A sudden flash of steely blue rent the sky; almost with it a quick roll of thunder was all about them and a bellowing rush of water came tearing along the arroyo.
The bay colt squealed with terror, plunging sidewise, heedless of whip and voice. The deputy tried to turn him back to where the bank sloped, but already they were sweeping along with the torrent.
“A cloudburst,” Arnold shrieked, and with the words he was wrested from his seat.
The shafts of the light vehicle snapped short at the gear. The colt, plunging, open-mouthed, was hurled forward in a fearful somersault, and went under, just as the wagon and its remaining occupant rolled over and over, as a boulder might roll, in the churn of maddened water.