Now, she had stopped in midstream and was heading the spotted mustang about. Next, she had leaned down and reached a hand to the exhausted man lying in water to his shoulders. Then, very slowly, the spotted mustang, alternately swimming and walking as before, she began the return. She came on without a word, for all her breath and strength were needed for her task. Her left arm was crooked around the horn of her saddle, her right was outstretched, still holding its heavy weight. When she had made half the distance Father José advanced into the water to meet her, pulling the floating cross along at his side. Together they brought Señor John to shore, he clinging to a stirrup at the last, and she to his sleeve, for her hold had not borne the long strain. He was clinging to the cross as well, Father José having pressed the base of the upright under the water and under his arm. As they laid him upon the ground, and the father wiped at his face, he looked up at them with a wan smile. “Roberta,” he whispered hoarsely, “I--was getting--tired.” “I nearly died with fear,” she answered. “John, where’s your horse?” “Went down.” “Rest for a little,” bade the father. They all rested, breathing hard--Señor John lying and they seated beside him. But presently he struggled up to a sitting posture, bracing himself on one dripping arm. “Roberta,” he said, his voice firmer even with so short a respite, “I’m cold.” They helped him to stand, and half-carried him to the top of a low ledge of sand near by. Then, while the father supported him for a moment, she led the spotted mustang to the ground below the ledge, and Señor John was enabled easily to mount. “First, to the store,” said Father José, “for dry clothing. Then, hot coffee.” Señor John was too weak to sit up in the saddle, and leaned forward--his back bowed, his chin on his breast, his hands clasped around the saddle-horn. “You won’t have to hold me on,” he said, when they reached up from either side. “No; I’m all right. Just worn out, that’s all, keeping myself from being sucked under.” He turned a haggard face to Father José. “Think!” he added, “--if it hadn’t been for that rock!” “A _rock_, señor?” demanded the father. “There are no rocks here in the Rio Grande.” Señor John lifted a feeble hand to point. “You can _see_ it,” he protested; “a big one, too, sticking out of the sand.” Father José looked out to where the channel divided on either side of the bar. There was a strange light in his eyes, and his cheeks were pale as he faced the dawn. “Something _is_ there,” he said, speaking low, as if to himself. The spotted mustang started now, slowly, with the girl walking alongside to guide him. The father did not follow. He went down to the water’s edge instead, and stood watching out toward the bar in midstream. And so they left him.