This flanking movement was hidden from the Comanches on the other shore by the belt of timber on the side of the train, and the horsemen galloped along rapidly in search of a declivity. Phil’s heart was thumping, and specks floated before his eyes, but he was well among the foremost, and he rode with them, stride for stride. Behind him he heard the crackle of rifle shots, the shouts of the Comanches, and the defiant replies of the white men. "Keep a good hold on your rifle, Phil!" shouted Bill Breakstone in his ear. "If the gods whisper truly to me, we will be in the water soon, and, by my faith, you’ll need it." The Captain uttered a shout of joy. They had come to a place where the bank sloped down to the river and the opposite shore was capable of ascent by horses. "Into the river, men, into the river!" he shouted. "The horses may have to swim, but we can cross it! We must cross it before the main Indian force comes up!" The whole troop galloped into the water. Middleton shouted to them to keep their rifles dry, and every man held his above his head or on his shoulder. The muddy water splashed in Phil’s face, but he kept by the side of Breakstone, and in a few moments both their horses were swimming. "Let the horse have his head, Phil," said Breakstone. "He’ll make for the nearest land, and you can use both your hands for the work that we now have to do." Phil dropped the rein, and the horse swam steadily. They were now about the middle of the stream, which was wider here than at the ford. Two or three brown faces suddenly appeared in the brash on the bank in front of them, and the savage cry arose. Comanche skirmishers had discovered the flank movement, but the white troop was already more than half way across. Bullets were fired at the swimming men and horses. Some struck in flesh, but others dashed up jets of yellow foam. "On! On!" cried Middleton. "We must gain the bank!" "On! On!" cried Phil, borne on by excitement. "We must gain the bank!" He was carried away so much by the fire and movement of the moment that he did not feel fear. His blood was tingling in every vein. Myriads of red specks danced before him. The yellow water splashed all about him, but he did not notice it. An arrow whizzed by his cheek, and two bullets struck near, but he continued to urge his horse, which, gallant animal, was already doing his best. Some of the white men, even from the unsteady position of a swimming horse’s back, had begun to fire at the Indians in the brush. Phil heard Bill Breakstone utter a deep sigh of satisfaction as he lowered the muzzle of his rifle. "Got one," said Bill. "It’s good to be zealous, but that Comanche ought to have known more than to run square against a rifle bullet."