So we found it to be when we rode down the Rio Grande, and unsaddled our horses there. We consulted in what way we should get across, and agreed to make a raft again. We soon had a couple of cedar logs fastened together, a heap of brushwood laid on them and our baggage on the top, and lastly we covered it all with the large bearskin, and secured it all round with straps. Tiger left his rifle behind and rode into the stream, which was not very deep here. He held the end of the lasso fastened to the raft in his right hand, and thus dragged it along. When he had gone across about a third of the river his horse was obliged to swim. The current pulled him down stream, and he was compelled to follow with his horse. He was now in the strongest current, and I noticed that he had great difficulty in keeping on his horse, when he suddenly fell off it, but kept the line between his teeth and worked his way into dead water. He soon reached the other bank and gave a loud yell, while his faithless piebald had turned back in the middle of the river and trotted up to me, shaking himself. Tiger secured the raft, ran a little way up the bank, and swam across to me with incredible speed. We now mounted our horses and swam across, Jack saluting his native land with a song of joy. The sun was setting as we trotted up the Leone in order to reach a camping place in the hills, where I had rested many a night undisturbed, and to which I knew the road perfectly. It soon became dark, but the stars were shining. We could see enough not to lose our way, and hurried forward wrapped in our buffalo robes, for the wind blew hard, and we had become chilly in crossing the river.