“How fur’s the crik, Rowl?” he asked after a pause.
“Not two hundred yards; this way it lies.”
“I kin see no other chance, Cap’n, than ter take the water: we may bamfoozle the houn’s a bit, if thar’s good wadin’.”
“Nor I.” I had thought of the same plan.
“If we hed hed bowies, we mouter fit the dogs whar we air, but yer see we hain’t; an’ I kin tell by thar growl thar ain’t less nor a dozen on ’em.”
“It’s no use to remain here; lead us to the creek, Raoul;” and, following the Frenchman, we dashed recklessly through the thicket.
On reaching the stream we plunged in. It was one of those mountain torrents common in Mexico—spots of still water alternating with cascades, that dash, and foam over shapeless masses of amygdaloidal basalt. We waded through the first pool, and then, clambering among the rocks, entered a second. This was a good stretch, a hundred yards or more of still, crystal water, in which we were waist-deep.
We took the bank at the lower, and on the same side, and, striking back into the timber, kept on parallel to the course of the stream. We did not go far away from the water, lest we might be pushed again to repeat the ruse.
All this time the yelping of the bloodhounds had been ringing in our ears. Suddenly it ceased.
“They have reached the water,” said Clayley.