The mess-wagon rattled down to the ford as the last of the herd scrambled ashore.
“Think I’ll put you at the reins, Dud,” the cattleman said. “Head the horses upstream a little and keep ’em going.”
All the other punchers except Bob were across the river with the herd.
Dud relieved the previous driver, gathered up reins and whip with competent hands, and put the horses at the river. They waded in through the shallows, breasted the deep water, and began to swim. Before they had gone three yards they were in difficulties. The force of the current carried the light wagon downstream. The whiplash cracked around the ears of the horses, but they could not make headway. Team, wagon, and driver began to drift down the river. Supplies, floating from the top of the load, were scattered in all directions.
Instantly six men became very busy. Rope loops flew out and tightened around the bed of the wagon. Others circled the necks of the horses. Dud dived into the river to lighten the load. Harshaw, Bob, and the cook rode into the shallow water and salvaged escaping food, while the riders on the other bank guided wagon and team ashore.
Dud, dripping like a mermaid, came to land with a grin. Under one arm a pasty sack of flour was tucked, under the other a smoked venison haunch. “An’ I took a bath only yesterday,” he lamented.
The food was sun-dried and the wagon repacked.
At Dry Creek, which was now a rushing torrent, Harshaw threw the cattle into a draw green with young grass and made camp for the night.
“We got neighbors,” announced Big Bill, watching a thin column of smoke rising from the mesa back of them.
“Guess I’ll drift over after supper,” Harshaw said. “Maybe they can give me the latest news about high water down the river.”