“Come, there is no time to lose here!” shouted Gilbert, and put spurs to his horse. Ben followed, and away they went side by side to the very end of the bridge.
Would it be safe to cross this structure? Each asked himself that question, and then turned an anxious look upon his companion.
“Better not try it,” said Ben.
“Let us ford the river—if we can,” returned Gilbert, and turned his horse from the bridge to a trail that led to the water’s edge.
Usually the stream was of small importance, but the recent rains had greatly swollen the rush of water. In they dashed and went down, first to their steeds’ knees and then to their bodies. The horses were used to this sort of thing, however, and did not hesitate or lose their footing.
The battery was thundering along not over two hundred feet from the end of the bridge, when Gilbert and Ben confronted the foremost driver.
“Back! back!” shouted both, in their loudest tones, and Gilbert added, as the driver still kept on: “Back! for your life!”
He swung around, and reaching down, caught one of the leading battery horses by the head. He continued to shout, and just before the bridge was reached the leading gun was halted, and the others also came to a standstill.
“What does this mean?” demanded the captain of artillery, as he dashed up on horseback.
“Don’t go on the bridge,” answered Gilbert, saluting, while Ben did the same.