The lad struggled to keep back the tears as he realized that, even with all his haste, it might be too late.
That Tad should come out of that melée of flying hoofs and prodding horns without being at least seriously injured was more than he could hope.
Faster and faster ran the pony, behind him a rising cloud of yellow dust. Ned's fingers were stiff and numb from carrying the heavy jug, and the lump in his throat was growing larger, it seemed to him, with every leap of the animal under him.
Now Ned could see the cowmen galloping in and gazing from their ponies. He knew they were looking at Tad. Stallings was bent over him, pouring something down the boy's throat.
Ned's heart gave a great bound. Tad Butler must be alive or there would be no need for the liquid that the foreman was forcing down his throat.
CHAPTER VII
THE HERD FORDS THE RIVER
"Is he—is he——" asked Ned, weakly, after they had taken the jug of water from his hand.
"He's alive, if that's what you mean," answered Stallings. "I'm afraid he's got a slight concussion of the brain. He doesn't come around the way I should like to see him."