Suddenly Shorty’s horse ceased swimming. The animal’s legs were swept downstream and he floated.
“Gone belly-up, Pete,” Shorty grunted.
“Look out!” called Pete in a hoarse whisper, as his horse lunged forward in the water in an effort to climb on top of the floating horse.
Now indeed, the situation was critical. Shorty ducked beneath the striking forefeet of Pete’s horse and with every ounce of his strength, jerked at his hackamore rope. Pete did likewise. The melee of struggling horses and men drifted apart. To the left, a narrow ribbon of light cut the dark wall of the bank.
“The trail, thank ——,” muttered Pete and, with a jerk that seemed to tear the ligaments in his arm, wrenched at the hackamore rope. An agonizing moment, then his horse lunged shoreward and found footing.
The weight of Shorty’s horse, swimming once more, hindered the puncher greatly as he fought the current, his eyes fixed on that strip of light that meant safety. Loath to let loose his horse, he fought off the temptation to turn the animal loose. The horse was becoming panicky now, snorting and lunging, pawing at the man ahead of him in the water. Flinty, steel-shod hoofs broke the water a scant two feet behind Shorty’s head.
Pete, in the saddle now, dallied the slack rope around his saddle horn. His stockinged heels pressed the heaving sides of his tired horse.
Back in the water, Shorty felt the rope beneath his arms go tight. Both his hands grasped the hackamore rope of his struggling horse. The noose beneath his arms tightened till it seemed to be cutting him in two. He clamped his jaws and gripped the hackamore rope. His arms seemed to be stretching until they loosened in the sockets. Seconds seemed eternity. Then he felt himself being dragged along the clay bank of the trail that led upward. He dimly saw his horse flounder ashore and stand with wide-spread legs and lowered head on the bank. With a grunt of utter relief he let go the hackamore rope.
