We all went down to see him cross, Gwen leading her pinto. The Swan was far over its banks, and in the middle running swift and strong. Louis snorted, refused and finally plunged. Bravely he swam, till the swift-running water struck him, and over he went on his side, throwing his rider into the water. But The Pilot kept his head, and, holding by the stirrups, paddled along by Louis' side. When they were half-way across Louis saw that he had no chance of making the landing; so, like a sensible horse, he turned and made for the shore. Here, too, the banks were high, and the pony began to grow discouraged.
“Let him float down further!” shrieked Gwen, in anxious excitement; and, urging her pinto down the bank, she coaxed the struggling pony down the stream till opposite a shelf of rock level with the high water. Then she threw her lariat, and, catching Louis about the neck and the horn of his saddle, she held taut, till, half drowned, he scrambled up the bank, dragging The Pilot with him.
“Oh, I'm so glad!” she said, almost tearfully. “You see, you couldn't get across.”
The Pilot staggered to his feet, took a step toward her, gasped out:
“I can!” and pitched headlong. With a little cry she flew to him, and turned him over on his back. In a few moments he revived, sat up, and looked about stupidly.
“Where's Louis?” he said, with his face toward the swollen stream.
“Safe enough,” she answered; “but you must come in, the rain is just going to pour.”
But The Pilot seemed possessed.
“No, I'm going across,” he said, rising.
Gwen was greatly distressed.