Tad saw that they would both drown, if he did not resort to desperate measures. Drawing back his arm, the lad drove a blow straight at Pong's head, but a swirl of the current destroyed the boy's aim and his fist barely grazed the cheek of the Chinaman.
Quick as a flash, Tad Butler launched another blow. This time the Chinaman's head was jolted backwards, Tad's fist having landed squarely on the point of the fellow's jaw.
But Pong was still struggling, and the lad completed his work by delivering another blow in the same place.
"I hope I haven't hurt him," gasped the boy.
Tad threw himself over on his back, breathing heavily and well-nigh exhausted. He kept a firm grip on the cook, however, supporting and keeping the latter's head above water by resting the Chinaman's neck on his arm as they floated with the current.
In the meantime, Stallings was dashing along the bank roaring out his orders to the cowboys, calling them ashore and driving them in further down. Yet, each time it seemed as though the floating pair drifted farther and farther away.
But Tad Butler was still cool. Now that he was getting his strength back, he began slowly to kick himself in toward shore, aiding in the process by long windmill strokes of his free arm.
He did not make the mistake of heading directly for the shore, but sought to make it by a long tack, moving half with the current and half against it. The lad had made up his mind that the cowboys would never reach them and that what was to be done must be done by himself.
"Can you make it?" called Stallings.
"Yes. But have some one—on the other side—toss me a rope—as soon as possible. I don't know—whether Pong—is done for—or not," answered the boy in short breaths.