Perhaps they would not have made it, for now through exhaustion the ears of the mustang were drooping back.  He shouted, and at the faint sound of his cheer the piebald pricked a single weary ear.  He shouted again, and this time not for encouragement, but from exultation; a swerving current had caught them and was bearing them swiftly toward the desired bank.

It failed them when they were almost touching bottom and swung sharply out toward the centre again, but the mustang, as though it realized that this was the last chance, fought furiously.  Anthony gave the rest of his strength, and they edged through, inch by inch, and horse and man staggered up the bank and stood trembling with fatigue.

Glancing back, he saw Nash in the act of throwing his lariat to the ground, wild with anger, and before he could understand the meaning of this burst of temper over a mere spoiled lariat, the gun whipped from the side of the cowboy, exploded, and the little piebald, with ears pricked sharply forward as though in vague curiosity, crumpled to the ground.  The suddenness of it took all power of action from Bard for the instant.  He stood staring stupidly down at the dying horse and then whirled, gun in hand, frantic with anger and grief.

Nash was galloping furiously up the far bank of the Saverack, already safely out of range, and speeding toward the ford.

CHAPTER XXII

DREW SMILES

When the cattleman felt the rope snap back to his hand he could not realize at first just what had happened.  The crack of the gun had been no louder than the snapping of a twig in that storming of the river, and the only explanation he could find was that the rope had struck some superlatively sharp edge of the rock and been sawed in two.  But examining the cut end he found it severed as cleanly as if a knife had slashed across it, and then it was he knew and threw the lariat to the ground.

When he saw Bard scramble up the opposite bank he knew that his game was lost and all the tables reversed, for the Easterner was a full two hours closer to the home of Drew than he was, with the necessary detour up to the ford.  The Easterner might be delayed by the unknown country for a time, but not very long.  He was sure to meet someone who would point the way.  It was then that Nash drew his gun and shot down the piebald mustang.

The next instant he was racing straight up the river toward the ford.  The roan was not spared this day, for there were many chances that Bard might secure a fresh mount to speed him on the way to the Drew ranch, and now it was all important that the big grey man be warned; for there was a danger in that meeting, as Nash was beginning to feel.

By noon he reached the house and went straight to the owner, a desperate figure, spattered with mud to the eyes, a three days’ growth of whiskers blackening his face, and that face gaunt with the long, hard riding.  He found the imperturbable Drew deep in a book in his office.  While he was drawing breath, the rancher examined him with a faint smile.