“She’s up, Jim,” said Taisie quietly. She was trying her very best to be brave.
“Yep, some. But she’s fell a foot since last night. She shows a bar, a quarter below, and a low flat that edges in shaller on the fur side. I think that’s the real bank, and like enough hard footing.”
“We could wait a week, maybe. She might raise and she might fall. We’ll soon know how deep she is. I don’t reckon she’s not over two-three hunderd yards actual swimming—I can’t tell. I don’t want to wait here. You know why.”
“Can we make it, Jim?” asked the girl soberly.
“I think we can, ma’am,” said the old foreman as quietly. “Ef I didn’t, do you s’pose I’d throw ’em in? She has been crossed by cows, down below, for the Arkansaw market. Yore own paw has crossed her. Can’t we? If Jess Chisholm, or any of the Chickasaw whisky runners, could cross her with stock so can we. Huh? I’m a good cowman, ma’am, and I got the best bunch of hands ever pushed a foot in a stur’p.”
Taisie Lockhart turned on him the sober gaze of her steady eyes, but made no reply at the time.
“Jim!” Suddenly she turned on him.
“Ma’am?”
“Jim! I’ve got no one else—I’ve got to come to you. Cal Dalhart asked me to marry him—again, to-day.”
“Well, you didn’t, and you can’t. The last minister was at Forth Worth. There’s others of the same mind, Taisie. Has Del Williams spoke? Dalhart’s lied.”