“Better look out er ye’ll put out ther fire in that ole red pate o’ yourn! Say, Red, honest now, what makes ye go in swimmin’ when ther drink is so muddy? Take yer medercine coollike, Red, ’cause yer know arter er chap shoots up his betters an’ gits ’quitted, fate allers does this ter ’im, ter cool ’im off.
“An’, then, ergin, Red, if yer can part comp’ny with that thar tree long ernough ter come over hyar I’ll lend ye some dry ammernution fer yer gun, an’ we’ll play high rooster in ther grass.”
Red Dick made no reply to the taunts of Dan. He was in no position to offer offense or defense. He was becoming tired and hopeless. He could see that no move had been made toward his rescue; in fact, there seemed nothing the men could do.
Fighting Dan rode down in the water to his horse’s sides and shouted to Red Dick:
“Say, Red, blamed ’f I b’lieve yer was born ter be drownded—yer’d look better hangin’. An’ I hates ter set hyar an’ see yer miss yer fate. What yer say, Red, had ye druther slop under an’ die now like er man er come ershore an’ take yer charnces with me?”
Red Dick gasped: “Save me!”
Fighting Dan slowly uncoiled his lariat, then he watched the loops as he arranged them immediately, and then turned to Dick.
“I hates ter do it an’ I hates not ter, so thar ye be, Red. I’m goin ’ter try ye once an’ ’f I git ye, yer hangs. Thet’s fair, ain’t it?”
The riata was swirling slowly about the dark man’s head.
The rope seethed through the air, and settled about Red’s neck, and was drawn taut, just as he was going under again.