They were in the saddle a very few moments after they awoke and started out, breakfastless.  The rain long ago had ceased, and there was only the solemn silence of the brown hills around them—­silence, and a faint, crinkling sound as if the thirsty soil still drank.  It had been a heavy fall of rain, they could see, for whenever they passed a bare spot where no grass grew, it was crossed by a thick tracery of the rivulets which had washed down the slopes during the night.

Soon they reached a little creek whose current, barely knee deep, foamed up around the shoulders of the horses and set them staggering.

“The Saverack will be hell,” said Nash, “and we’d better cut straight for the ford.”

“How long will it take?”

“Add about three hours to the trip.”

“Can’t do it; remember that little date back in Eldara to-night.”

“Then look for yourself and make up your mind for yourself,” said Nash drily, for they topped a hill, and below them saw a mighty yellow flood pouring down the valley.  It went leaping and shouting as if it rejoiced in some destruction it had worked and was still working, and the muddy torrent was threaded with many a ridge of white and swirling with bubbles.

“The Saverack,” said Nash.  “Now what d’you think about fording it?”

“If we can’t ford it, we can swim it,” declared Bard.  “Look at that tree-trunk.  If that will float I will float, and if I can float I can swim, and if I can swim I’ll reach the other bank of that little creek.  Won’t we, boy?”

And he slapped the proud neck of the mustang.

“Swim it?” said Nash incredulously.  “Does that date mean as much as that to you?”

“It isn’t the date; it’s the promise I gave,” answered the other, watching the current with a cool eye, “besides, when I was a youngster I used to do things like this for the sport of it.”

They rode down to the edge of the stream.

“How about it, Nash, will you take the chance with me?”

And the other, looking down:  “Try the current, I’ll stay here on the shore and if it gets too strong for you I’ll throw out a rope, eh?  But if you can make it, I’ll follow suit.”

The other cast a somewhat wistful eye of doubt upon the cowpuncher.

“How far is it to the ford?” he asked.

“About eight miles,” answered Nash, doubling the distance on the spot.

“Eight miles?” repeated the other ruefully.  “Too far.  Then here goes, Nash.”

Still never turning his back on the cowpuncher, who was now uncoiling his lariat and preparing it for a cast, Bard edged the piebald into the current.  He felt the mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up the chances.

If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would not have hesitated, but here and there along the course sharp pointed rocks and broad-backed boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty splashing and crashing one of these was overbalanced by the force of the current and rolled another step toward the far-off sea.