CHAPTER XIV.
A GALLOP ON MEXICAN SOIL.
"Hey, Rob, tell me what to do!" Tubby could be heard shouting at the top of his voice, as he kept on hugging his horse about the neck, being evidently determined not to allow the current to pluck him out of his saddle, at any rate so long as he could maintain that rigid grip.
Even in that sudden emergency Tubby found himself depending on Rob as usual; and to hear him asking for information, one would believe that the young patrol leader knew more about river fords than a dozen native guides who had been used to crossing by this means all their lives.
Rob had reached shallow water, and immediately urged his horse down-stream, in order to come opposite the drifting scout.
"Just keep holding on, and the horse will bring you to land!" he called out encouragingly. "He is making a plucky fight, and getting in closer all the while. As soon as he strikes bottom it will be all over; so keep your grip, Tubby."
This the fat scout did; and just as Rob had said, presently the swimming animal reached a more shallow point, where he could get his footing and manage to swing in closer than ever. And in another five minutes Tubby emerged from the river, "looking like a half-drowned rat," as Andy assured him, for streams were dripping from each foot, and he was soaked from his waist down.
"Anyway, I had horse sense enough to keep my gun dry," Tubby observed. "But what shall I do now, Rob? I'm weighing half a ton, I guess."
"You're not apt to catch cold in this warm air," Rob told him; "and so you might as well let your duds dry on you. At noon, when we halt for a bite, you can open up your bundle and spread your blanket out for the sun to dry. After all, there wasn't any damage done."
"Only to my feelings," Tubby reminded him.