That rush of water would carry him far downstream and the chances were hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these murderous obstructions about which the current foamed.

An impulse made him turn and wave a hand to Nash.

He shouted:  “Give me luck?”

“Luck?” roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance over the thunder of the stream.

He touched the piebald with the spurs, and the gallant little horse floundered forward, lost footing and struck into water beyond its depth.  At the same instant Bard swung clear of the saddle and let his body trail out behind, holding with his left hand to the tail of the struggling horse and kicking to aid the progress.

Immersed to the chin, and sometimes covered by a more violent wave, the sound of the river grew at once strangely dim, but he felt the force of the current tugging at him like a thousand invisible hands.  He began to wish that he had taken off his boots before entering, for they weighted his feet so that it made him leg-weary to kick.  Nevertheless he trusted in the brave heart of the mustang.  There was no wavering in the wild horse.  Only his head showed over the water, but the ears were pricking straight and high, and it never once swerved back toward the nearer shore.

Their progress at first was good, but as they neared the central portion of the water they were swept many yards downstream for one that they made in a transverse direction.  Twice they missed projecting rocks by the narrowest margin, and then something like an exceedingly thin and exceedingly strong arm caught Anthony around the shoulders.  It tugged back, stopped all their forward progress, and let them sweep rapidly down the stream and back toward the shore.

Turning his head he caught a glimpse of Nash sitting calmly in his saddle, holding the rope in both hands—­and laughing.  The next instant he saw no more, for the current placed a taller rock between him and the bank.  On that rock the line of the lariat caught, hooking the swimmers sharply in toward the bank.  He would have cut the rope, but it would be almost impossible to get out a knife and open a blade with his teeth, still clinging to the tail of the swimming horse with one hand.  He reached down through the water, pulled out the colt, and with an effort swung himself about.  Close at hand he could not reach the rope, and therefore he fired not directly at the rope itself, but at the edge of the rock around which the lariat bent at a sharp angle.  The splash of that bullet from the strong face of the rock sliced the rope like a knife.  It snapped free, and the brave little mustang straightened out again for the far shore.

An instant more Bard swam with the revolver poised above the water, but he caught no glimpse of Nash; so he restored it with some difficulty to the holster, and gave all his attention and strength to helping the horse through the water, swimming with one hand and kicking vigorously with his feet.