They traversed the remaining slope of the plateau, and entering the head of a ravine, descended a steep cleft of flinty rock, rock so hard that Silvermane's iron hoofs not so much as scratched it. Then reaching a level, they passed out to rounded sand and the river.
“It's a little high,” said Hare dubiously. “Mescal, I don't like the looks of those rapids.”
Only a few hundred rods of the river could be seen. In front of Hare the current was swift but not broken. Above, where the canyon turned, the river sheered out with a majestic roll and falling in a wide smooth curve suddenly narrowed into a leaping crest of reddish waves. Below Hare was a smaller rapid where the broken water turned toward the nearer side of the river, but with an accompaniment of twisting swirls and vicious waves.
“I guess we'd better risk it,” said Hare, grimly recalling the hot rock, the sand, and lava of the desert.
“It's safe, if Silvermane is a good swimmer,” replied Mescal. “We can take the river above and cut across so the current will help.”
“Silvermane loves the water. He'll make this crossing easily. But he can't carry us both, and it's impossible to make two trips. I'll have to swim.”
Without wasting more words and time over a task which would only grow more formidable with every look and thought, Hare led Silvermane up the sand-bar to its limit. He removed his coat and strapped it behind the saddle; his belt and revolver and boots he hung over the pommel.
“How about Wolf? I'd forgotten him.”
“Never fear for him! He'll stick close to me.”
“Now, Mescal, there's the point we want to make, that bar; see it?”