CHAPTER XIII
WASHED AWAY
What had actually happened to Frank Allen might easily be termed tragedy. What made it all the stranger was the fact that he owed it to the frantic eagerness of his pony to escape the clutch of the oncoming flood.
Having been detained a little because meeting more obstacles than the others of the party, Frank was still in the canyon when the others turned out of it. Fascinated by the spectacle behind him, he turned his head in the act of climbing out to take one last fleeting look up the cut.
What he saw by the aid of the lightning was a sight that must always give him a queer chill, because of what followed so closely in its train.
A mighty wave was pouring down upon him, its crest foamy and leaping as if in glee. It was eight or ten feet high at most, but to the excited imagination of the boy it seemed doubly that.
The mere turning of his head as he did caused him to lose a fraction of his steadiness. At the same instant the pony made such a frantic leap forward that Frank lost his hold on the bridle. The next thing he knew something hit him squarely in the chest as with a sledge hammer, knocking him backward. It must have been one of the pony's recklessly flung hind hoofs, in the way of which Frank had tumbled.
Before the starred boy could more than struggle to his knees in the effort to escape his fate he was picked up by that roaring flood and borne swiftly along.