There was a downward
plunge, a floundering in the icy water, and then an unsteady sensation
as the beast struck out to swim. The current had taken its effect so
that mule and rider were being carried down channel faster than they
were gaining across, but Brent instinctively turned his head to see
what had become of his guide.
He saw an unbelievable thing. The mountaineer upon whose coolness and
courage he had absolutely relied had not ventured the crossing at all!
He had wheeled after firing and kicked his mount into wild flight,
making for the protection of the turn about which they had come. Twice
before he gained safety the rifle above spat out venomously, but missed
the fleeing target.
Such a confusion seized upon Brent that he never knew how he got across
that creek. Ahead had lain quicksand, above a rifle in the laurel and
in his own entrails an overpowering nausea of betrayed confidence. His
comrade had deserted him--had run away!
Somehow, his own mount had won across and was plodding up to solid
roadway once more and there safe, for the moment at least, he halted
and looked back.
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