She knew on the instant that one had no chance to swim here, no matter how strong the swimmer.  For the current was stronger than the mere strength of a human being.  She knew that if Hap Smith clung tight to his reins he might be pulled ashore in due time, if all went well for him.  She knew that Winifred Waverly had never been in such desperate straits.  And finally she understood, and the knowledge was infinitely sweet to her in her moment of need, why the man yonder had been sitting his horse so idly in the rain, and just why he had been waiting.

She did not see him as his horse, striking out valiantly, swimming and finding precarious foothold by turns, bore down upon her; she saw only the yellow, dirty current when she saw anything at all.  She could not know when, the first time, he leaned far out and snatched at her ... and missed.  For at the moment a sucking maelstrom had caught her and whipped her out of his reach and flung her onward, for a little piling the churning water above her head.  She did not see when finally he succeeded in that which he had attempted.  But she felt his two arms about her and in her heart there was a sudden glow and, though the water battled with the two of them, strangely enough a feeling of safety.

Perhaps it was only because he had planned on the possibility of just this and was ready for it that she came out of Alder Creek alive.  He had slipped the loop of his rope about the horn of his saddle, making it secure with an additional half hitch; when he was sure of her he flung himself from the saddle, still keeping the rope in his hand as he took her into his arms.  Then, swimming as best he could, seeking to keep her head and his above the water, he left the rest to a certain rangy, yellow-sorrel saddle horse.  And as Hap Smith and his struggling team made shore just below the ford, Buck Thornton and Winifred Waverly were drawn to safety by Buck Thornton’s horse.

Just as there had been no spoken thanks last night for a kindness rendered, so now on this larger occasion there was no gush of grateful words.  He released her slowly and their eyes met.  As he turned to help Hap Smith with the frightened horses entangled in their harness, the only words were his: 

“A couple of miles farther on you’ll pass a ranch house.  You can get warm and dry your clothes there.  This is the last bad crossing.”

And so, lifting his hat, he left her.

CHAPTER V

THE MAN FROM POISON HOLE RANCH

Dry Town never looked less dry.  As Buck Thornton drew rein in front of the one brick building of which the ugly little village could boast, the mud was above his yellow-sorrel’s fetlocks.  But the rain was over, the sun was out glorious and warm above the level lands and in the air was a miraculous feeling as of spring.  It is the way of Dry Town in the matter of seasons to rival in abruptness its denizens’ ways in other matters.  The last great storm had come and gone and seeds would be bursting on every hand and eagerly now.