"I don't believe we can drive 'em back until they've licked up every last drop," said Skinny. "Then they'll know there's no use in stayin' and we may be able to do somethin' with 'em."
"Is it drying up as badly as that?" asked Mr. Carson.
"You'll soon see," was the answer.
Only skillful cowpunchers could have made their way through that maddened, seething, wild herd of cattle. But Dave, Mr. Carson and Skinny were more at home in the saddle than afoot. Their intelligent ponies pushed their way through the heaving mass of steers until the three of them stood on the brink of what had been a fair-sized branch of the Rolling River but a few hours before.
Now all that showed was a small, narrow ribbon of muddy water, in the clay-like expanse of what had been the bed of the original stream.
"Whew!" whistled Mr. Carson. "This sure is bad!"
"I should say so!" exclaimed Dave.
A sharp bend in the course of the stream above them cut off all but a very limited view. But, as far as they could see, the same conditions prevailed. There was only a small trickle of water. It was in the very middle, the lowest point of the stream, and up to the very edge of this the thirst-tortured cattle pressed, sinking down deep in the soft mud.
"We've got to get 'em out of that," declared the ranchman. "A lot of 'em will be mired if we don't."
"There are some mired now," said Skinny, pointing. "Ed and Foster are trying to yank 'em out."