* * * * *

Thinking only to reach the ranch as quickly as possible Carolyn June guided Old Blue down the trail and through the thin patches of willows and cottonwood trees that grew along the river.  The stream looked innocent enough and the crossing perfectly safe.  Swift but apparently shallow water flowed close to the northern bank.  Beyond that was a clean, pebble strewn bar and then a smaller, narrower prong of the river.  On the south side stretched a white, unbroken expanse of sand a hundred feet or more wide and ending against the low slope of the meadow land.

At the brink of the stream Old Blue stopped short and refused to go on.

“What’s the matter,” Carolyn June laughed lightly, “—­afraid of getting your ‘little tootsies’ wet?”

The horse reared backward when she tried to urge him ahead and wheeled half around in an effort to get away from the water.

“Look here, Old Fellow,” she spoke sharply, tightening the reins as she touched his flank with her spur, “we haven’t time for foolishness!  Generally, in fact always,” accenting the last word, “horses—­and men—­go in the direction I want them to go!  Why, you’re as stubborn—­as—­as the Ramblin’ Kid!” she finished with another laugh as Old Blue, with a snort of fear, yet not daring to resist further the firm hand and firmer will of his rider, stepped into the water.

“Gee, when you do start you go in a hurry, don’t you?” Carolyn June said as the broncho went rapidly forward as if eager to negotiate the crossing, seeming to know that safety lay in the quickness and lightness of his tread.  As he lunged ahead the girl had the sensation that the saddle was sinking from under her.  Reaching the firmer footing of the gravel bar in the center of the stream Old Blue tried again to turn about.

“Go on!” Carolyn June cried impatiently yet with a feeling somehow of impending danger she could not wholly define, “—­you’ve got to do it, so you had as well quit your nonsense and go ahead!” at the same time raking the horse’s sides sharply again with the spurs.

Crossing the shallow branch of the river the broncho reached the smooth, firm appearing beach of sand.

With his head down, his muzzle almost touching the ground, as if scenting, feeling, his way, he went forward stepping rapidly, easily, as possible.  At each step his foot slipped lower into the yielding, quivering mass.  Carolyn June felt him tremble and the sensation that the horse was being pulled from under her grew more and more pronounced.  She noticed how he sank into the sand and observed also the sweat beginning to darken the hair on the neck of her mount.

“Pretty soft, isn’t it?” she said, speaking to the broncho kindly as though to encourage him and perhaps at the same time to allay a bit the queer sense of uneasiness she felt, for even yet she did not realize the danger into which she had unknowingly ridden.