So it was agreed, and the next morning, bright and early, the little posse, reinforced by others who had earnestly solicited the privilege of going along, started out on its journey. The rains were over, but the roads were heavy. In many places, they were forced to walk their mounts. No one but the initiated know what gumbo mud means. Until they took to the hills, the horses could scarcely lift their feet, so great would be the weight of the sticky black earth which clung in immense chunks to their hoofs. When they struck the hills, it was better and they pressed forward rapidly. Once only the sheriff had asserted that he had run across the famous outlaw. Black had resisted savagely and had escaped, sending back the bold taunt that he would never be taken alive. Such a message might mean death to some of the plucky posse now making for the old-time haunts of the desperado. The sun struggled from behind rain-exhausted clouds, and a rollicking wind blew up. The clouds skurried away toward the horizon. At White River ford, the men looked at each other in mute inquiry. The stream was a raging torrent. It was swollen until it was half again its ordinary width. The usually placid waters were rushing and twisting into whirlpool-like rapids. “What now?” asked Baker, the deputy-sheriff. “I’m thinkin’ this here little pleasure party’ll have to be postponed,” vouchsafed one of the volunteers, nodding his head wisely. “We’ll sure have to wait for the cloud-bust to run out,” agreed another. “Why, we can swim that all right,” put in Langford, rallying from his momentary set-back and riding his mount to the very edge of the swirling water. “Hold on a minute there, Boss,” cried Jim. “Don’t be rash now. What’s the census of ’pinion o’ this here company? Shall we resk the ford or shall we not?” “Why, Jim,” said Paul, a laugh in his blue eyes, “are you afraid? What’s come over you?” “Nothin’. I ain’t no coward neither, and ef you wasn’t the Boss I’d show you. I was just a thinkin’ o’—somebody who’d care—that’s all.” Just for a moment a far away look came into the young ranchman’s eyes. Then he straightened himself in his saddle. “I, for one, am going to see this thing through,” he said, tersely. “What do you say, Johnson?” “I never for one minute calculated on doing a thing else,” replied the deputy marshal, who had been standing somewhat apart awaiting the end of the controversy, with a good humored smile in his twinkling blue eyes. “Good for you! Then come on!” Paul urged Sade into the water. He was followed unhesitatingly by Munson, Johnson, and Baker. The others held back, and finally, after a short consultation, wheeled and retraced their steps. “I ain’t no coward, neither,” muttered one, as he rode away, “but I plumb don’t see no sense in bein’ drownded. I’d ruther be killed a roundin’ up Jesse.” The horses which had made the initial plunge were already in water up to their breasts. The current had an ominous rush to it.