Both parties met again with blank looks; neither had found a crossing.
There was no time to search further—at least my impatience would no longer brook delay. It was not the first time for both my horse and myself to cross a river without ford; nor was it the first time for many of my followers.
Below the rapids, the current ran slow, apparently ceasing altogether. The water was still, though wider from bank to bank—a hundred yards or more. By the aid of the moonlight, I could tell that the bank on the opposite side was low and shelving. It could be easily climbed by a horse.
I stayed to reason no further. Many a hundred yards had Moro swum with his rider on his back—many a current had he cleft with his proud breast far more rapid than that.
I headed him to the bank, gave him the spur, and went plunging into the flood.
Plunge—plunge—plunge! I heard behind me till the last of my followers had launched themselves on the wave, and were swimming silently over.
One after another we reached the opposite side, and ascended the bank.
Hurriedly I counted our number as the men rode out; one had not yet arrived. Who was missing?
“Rube,” answered some one.
I glanced back, but without feeling any uneasiness. I had no fear for the trapper; Garey alleged he was “safe to turn up.” Something had detained him. Could his old mare swim?