The water deepened and flowed with more fierceness. It reached to the horse's belly. The steed snorted in affright. Then, it lost its footing, and sank until only its head, with the nostrils lifted high, was clear of the water. Lou cried out at the shock, as she found herself immersed in the coil of waters. But, even as she screamed, she threw herself out of the saddle, to relieve the mare of her weight, and swam, holding to the pommel of the saddle. Her horse fought its way forward, breasting the flood valiantly. At an oblique angle to the force of the current, the woman and her steed won slowly to the shore.... Her own cry and the splash of her body, as she threw herself from the saddle, had shut from the mother's ears another shriek that had broken the silence of the night.
Dan's mount, troubled by its increased burden, was more reluctant even than Lou's had been to advance through the lashing currents of the swollen river. It had held back, in spite of Dan's urging, so that it was at some distance in the rear, when, at last, it slipped, and scrambled wildly to regain its footing—only to fail and plunge beneath the surface, borne down by the weight it carried. It was in the second before the two riders were finally submerged that Nell voiced her terror in a shrill cry. The noise of it rang in Dan's ears, confusing him. But it was strangled in the second of its birth by the enveloping waters. As he struggled out of the saddle, holding his breath, Dan became aware that the girl was no longer on the horse. She was not clinging to him. She had gone from him out into the mystery of the black night and the hungry river. He realized that her cry had been that of despair, as the force of the current wrested the child from her hold on horse and man. Dan's head came above the surface, and he floated easily enough, supported by a hand on the swimming horse. Even his iron nerves were shaken by the calamity. There was no further sound out of the stillness of the night, save the rippling murmur of the water as the horse swam onward. Dan was aware that he could do nothing toward the girl's rescue. Already, the hurrying current must have carried her far beyond his reach. It seemed clear enough that Nell must have lost consciousness at once after being swept down into the element. Otherwise, she must have cried out again—and there had come no second cry. Strong man as he was, Dan McGrew felt himself helpless in the grasp of circumstance. There was nothing that he could do to avert or to mitigate the tragedy. He could only go forward helplessly, leaving the unfortunate girl to her fate. The suddenness, as well as the dreadfulness of the catastrophe, sickened him. Later on, he might rejoice over this summary removal of one who must have proved an obstacle in his path. But, just now, his emotion was of dismay—a dismay strange to his experience. Beyond the natural horror aroused in him by the accident, Dan McGrew found himself almost in despair over what must come to pass when the mother should learn of her daughter's death. He knew well that Nell was the one treasure that remained in the mother's heart. The loss of this last possession would rend her being to its depths, and leave her utterly desolate. The first effect from knowledge of the tragedy would be that the mother would not go a step further, until after the river had been searched, and her daughter's body recovered. Such a delay would be fatal to the plotter's every hope.... At once, Dan McGrew forgot his horror, his despair. He began again his plotting—to the end that the mother should not learn the truth too soon.
When, finally, his horse gained a footing, near the other bank of the river, Dan McGrew had matured a plan to suffice for the moment. Beyond that, he could not see his way. The future lay in the lap of the gods.
On dry land again, Dan reined in the horse, which welcomed the respite gladly after its battling with the river. He listened, and soon heard Lou calling his name. From the sound of her voice, he knew that she was at some distance from him, further up the stream. He sent a cheery shout in answer to her hail. Then, he rode forward slowly and cautiously through the darkness, which was so deep that he could hardly see to pick a way among the bushes and trees that lined the bank of the creek. And Dan McGrew blessed fate for that darkness. Lou's voice came again, near at hand. Now, Dan could perceive the vague outline of her form against the background of the sky, as she sat her horse on the crest of the little knoll that rose from the river's brim.
"We're all right," he cried, and his voice was full of content. "But I don't think much of your easy ford, Lou. It was a nasty crossing." Then his voice rang sharply, imperiously: "But we must hurry on, if we are to gain anything for all our trouble."
"And you're all right, then?" Lou asked. There was a note of vast relief in her voice. "You're all right, you—and Nell?"
Dan McGrew's voice came with an emphasis of sincerity:
"We're all right, Nell and I." Again his voice came insistently:
"Ride on, Lou. We'll follow."
Lou called out once again, and the music of her voice was very tender: