"Be careful, Jack; slowly—slowly—slowly!"
Jack was sniffing, with his neck outstretched and his nose almost on the surface of the water, The breath issued like steam through his thin silken nostrils, and he paid no heed to a triangular piece of jagged ice which struck his hind legs with a sharp thrust, and then swung clear. He knew his duty, and was doing his "level best."
The rider turned his head and looked back. The forms of his parents on their motionless horses were dim, and growing more indistinct in the approaching night.
Seeing him turn his head, his father called something in a guarded undertone, which the son did not catch, but, believing it was simply a request for him to be careful, he replied, "All right," and went on with the work in hand.
Several steps further and the water had not perceptibly deepened. Brinton, indeed, was inclined to think it had slightly shallowed.
"We are pretty near the middle, and it begins to look as if I had struck the right spot after all Halloa! what's up now?"
Jack had stopped, just as he did in the arroya, and with the same appearance of alarm.
"Can it be that you have scented a deep place in front and want to save me from a bath?"
Brinton Kingsland checked the light question on his lips, for at the moment of uttering it his own vision answered the query in a manner that fairly lifted his cap from his head.
A horseman was advancing through the water from the other side of the Cheyenne. He was several rods away, but near enough for the youth to recognise him as an Indian warrior. He had entered the icy stream, as if to meet the other, who in the same glance that identified him dimly discerned more horsemen on the bank beyond.