“Oh!”—it was a piercing cry. “Isn’t he with you?”
The spotted mustang was pushing through water that foamed about his shoulders. Close to the bank, she reined him and bent over in her saddle as if overcome.
“No! no!” Father José implored. She lifted her head then—he swung his lantern forward—and saw the awful stiffness of her white face, the wild terror of her eyes. All at once he understood what he had not guessed before. “Oh, poor little woman!” he said compassionately.
“When did he start home?”
“Eight.”
“Oh, he went down!” Now, she half-turned the mustang, and rode against the current. All the while, she looked about her, first on one hand then on the other, and uttered little, piteous, despairing calls.
“Be careful!” warned the father. “You are above the ford.”
She reined. “Where is the cross? He must have started in at the cross. John! John!”
Father José hunted about. “I cannot find it,” he answered. “Perhaps it has been swept away.” Then, hurrying forward, “No; here it is—but how far up. This is not the ford!”
“Father! Someone has changed the cross!” Suddenly, the mustang halted as if in fear. She strove to urge him on, striking at his flanks with a quirt.