The horses were blowing softly with a rattling noise. Unexcited, swimming stoutly, they battled against the current. Shorty splashed water against the side of his horse’s head to guide the animal a point downstream. Once more he was heading straight for the sharp point that loomed black against the sky.
A dark, misshapen object bobbed up ahead. It was a big tree, half submerged, floating downstream. With swift, sure movements, Shorty swung his swimming horse to face straight up-stream against the current.
“Easy now, ol’ hoss,” he murmured soothingly. “Jest kinda mark time fer a minute till yon snag drifts on to St. Louis. That’s the idee. Now she’s gone.”
And they were under way once more. Ahead, Pete was watching for snags and had worked his way back until he now clung to his horse’s tail. Behind him, Shorty was doing the same. A scant hundred feet ahead the black shadow of the bank rose ominously. Pete scanned the unbroken shadow for a trace of the trail.
Momentary panic clutched Pete. Where the trail should be, only a perpendicular wall showed. Either he was above or below the trail that meant escape from the treacherous river. Then the panic passed, giving way to dogged, unyielding determination. He dared not call out to his companion for fear of being overheard by the men they sought. He swung his horse to breast the current and waited for the coming of Shorty.
A moment and the little puncher was alongside, careful to keep his distance lest the horses paw each other. The animals were breathing hard now. It had been a desperately hard swim. How long their strength and courage would hold out was a problem that might easily mean death to men and beasts.
“Missed ’er,” whispered Pete hoarsely. “We got to chance it downstream, I reckon.”
Swimming squarely against the current, their horses had been losing ground slowly. Shorty nodded and, gripping his floating saddle strings, pulled himself alongside the neck of his horse. He deftly slipped free his rope strap and flipped the end of his lariat to Pete. Pete caught it and with a nod, slipped the end under his armpits and knotted it. Shorty passed his loop over his head and under his arms, then drew it tight. Now, if one of them should find footing along that treacherous bank, he could save his companion. On the other hand, if one of them went under, the other would meet the same fate.
“Both or neither,” explained Shorty in a grim whisper, then swung his horse downstream. “Here goes nothin’.”
Two pairs of bloodshot, straining eyes swept the bank that slipped past so swiftly. Shorty now was in the lead, Pete ten feet behind, the slack of the rope coiled in his hand to keep from tangling. Both men were taking it with deadly calm as they fought their battle against the death that lurked in the muddy, swirling water.