The other cast a somewhat wistful eye of doubt upon the cowpuncher.
"How far is it to the ford?" he asked.
"About eight miles," answered Nash, doubling the distance on the spot.
"Eight miles?" repeated the other ruefully. "Too far. Then here goes,
Nash."
Still never turning his back on the cowpuncher, who was now uncoiling his lariat and preparing it for a cast, Bard edged the piebald into the current. He felt the mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up the chances.
If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would not have hesitated, but here and there along the course sharp pointed rocks and broad-backed boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty splashing and crashing one of these was overbalanced by the force of the current and rolled another step toward the far-off sea.
That rush of water would carry him far downstream and the chances were hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these murderous obstructions about which the current foamed.
An impulse made him turn and wave a hand to Nash.
He shouted: "Give me luck?"
"Luck?" roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance over the thunder of the stream.