Not once did Justin Morgan hesitate.
Very soon, by the roar of water the horse knew they were near Beaver Creek, a torrent, rising high in the mountains, and gathering strength as it raced and tore to the valley through narrow gorges, was now a raging cataract. In crossing this stream earlier, Morgan had perceived that the bridge could not last much longer; he had felt the timbers tremble under his tread.
Now, several hours later, he could hear the current, more angry than before, whirling its mass of foam and débris against the banks. As they reached the place where the bridge ought to have been not a ray of starlight showed Stone it was no longer there. But involuntarily, he refrained from guiding or suggesting to the horse any course of action. The reins lay loose even when Morgan paused at the brink of the torrent.
Leaning forward, Stone patted the horse’s neck gently, and said in a soothing voice:
“Steady, Boy, steady!”
Morgan responded.
He could see with his keen eyes, the white, turbid water, below the very place where the bridge had been—one stringer alone of the structure remained, and this was scarce above the violent current! The rushing, churning water swirled against the banks impetuously.
Cautiously, the horse tried the wide beam with one foot. Feeling it secure, he tried another; in the inky darkness, he pushed his feet along gently, lest he step on an upstanding nail.
Steadily, firmly, without wavering, without—above all—interference from his rider, he went on over the spinning foam on his narrow foot-bridge.
At last he put his foot on solid ground and, with a slight, throaty sound of relief, he cantered briskly off toward home.