Half-way to the firm black soil of the southern bank of the stream Old Blue’s front feet seemed suddenly to give way beneath him.  He began to plunge desperately.  Then it was the truth came to Carolyn June.  Her cheeks grew white.

“The quicksand!” she exclaimed aloud, at the same time trying to help the horse with a lift of the reins.  It was too late to turn back.  Her only salvation lay in reaching the solid ground such a few yards ahead—­and yet so fearfully far away.  Old Blue struggled madly to go forward, gaining a little but at each effort sinking deeper into the sand.  Carolyn June tried to encourage him with words: 

“Come on, come on!  Good Little Horse—­you can make it!  Keep trying—­that’s it—­now!—­you’re doing it!  Brave Old Blue—­don’t give up—­don’t give up, Boy!” she pleaded, pity for the horse causing her almost to forget her own terrible peril.

It was useless.

Twenty-five feet from safety Old Blue’s front quarters went down until his breast was against the sand.  The hind legs were buried to the stifles.  He wallowed and floundered helplessly.  His hoofs touched nothing solid on which to stand.  He stretched his head forward, straining-to lift himself away from that horrible, clinging suction.  His efforts only forced him down—­down—­always down!

Carolyn June’s own feet were in the sand.  She threw herself from the saddle—­as far to one side and ahead of the horse as she could.  With her weight removed perhaps Old Blue could get out.  Anyway it was death to stay on the horse.  Perhaps alone she could escape—­she was lighter—­the sand might hold her up—­by moving rapidly surely she could go that short twenty-five feet to the firm ground ahead of her.  At the first step she sank half-way to her thigh.  She fell forward thinking to crawl on her hands and knees.  Her arms went into the mass to the shoulder.  Silently—­without a word—­but with horrible fear gripping her heart she fought the sand.  She sank deeper—­slowly—­steadily—­surely.  The hellish stuff closed about her body to the waist.  If she only had something—­anything—­solid to hold to!  She took off her hat, grasped the edges of the brim, reached her arms out and tried to use the frail disk of felt for a buoy.  It held a moment then gradually settled below the surface of the shifting, elusive substance.  Again and again she lifted the hat free from the sand and sought to place it so it would bear a part at least of her weight.  Her efforts were vain.  The insidious mass crept higher and higher on her body.  She remembered reading that one caught in the quicksand by his struggles only hastened his own destruction.  She tried to be perfectly still.  In spite of all she was sinking—­sinking—­the sand was engulfing her.