He took the broncho’s velvety nose in his hands and gave him a rough little shake.  Then he patted him smartly on the neck.

“For a pocket-size river,” he said as he looked at the flood, “this is certainly the infant prodigy.  Well, let’s try it again.”

Had the plunge been straight to sudden death that broncho would have risked it unswervingly at the urging of his master.  Suvy was somewhat exhausted by the trials already made, in vain.  But into the turgid down-sweep he headed with a newly conjured vigor.

Van now waited merely for the pony to get started on his way, when he lifted away from the saddle, with the water’s aid, and clung snugly up to the stirrup.  He swam with one hand only.  To keep himself afloat and offer no resistance to the broncho was the most that he could do, and the best.

The struggle was tremendous.  Suvy had headed more obliquely than before against the current, and having encountered a greater resistance, with his strength somewhat sapped, was toiling like an engine.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, he forged his way against the liquid wall that split upon him.  Van felt a great final quiver of muscular energy shake the living dynamic by his side, as Suvy poured all his fine young might into one supreme effort at the end.  Then he came to the landing, got all his feet upon the slope, and up they heaved in triumph!

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CLOUDS OF TROUBLE GATHER

By the route beyond the river that Van was obliged to choose, the distance from his claim to Starlight was more than forty miles.  His pony had no shoes, and having never been ridden far, was a trifle soft for a trip involving difficulties such as this mountain work abundantly afforded.  When they came to Phonolite Pass, the last of the cut-offs on the trail, Van rode no more than a hundred yards into its shadows before he feared he must turn.

Phonolite is broken shale, a thin, sharp rock that gives forth a pleasant, metallic sound when struck, like shattered crockery.  For a mile this deposit lay along the trail across the width of the pass.  For the bare-footed pony there was cruelty in every step.  The barrier of rock was far more formidable than the river in its flood.

Van was not to be halted in his object.  He had a letter to deliver; he meant to take it through, though doom itself should yawn across his path.  The hour was late; the sun was rapidly sinking.  Van pulled up his broncho and debated.

Absolute silence reigned in the world of mountains.  But if the place seemed desolate, it likewise seemed secure.  Nevertheless, death lurked in the trail ahead.  Barger was there.  He was lying in the rocks, concealed where the chasm was narrow.  He had ridden four hours—­on the mare Beth had lost—­to arrive ahead of Van Buren.  The muzzle of a long black revolver that he held in hand rested upon a shattered boulder.  His narrow eyes lay level with a rift in the group of rocks that hid him completely from view.  Van was in sight, and the convict’s breath came quickly as he waited.