"Swim it?" said Nash incredulously. "Does that date mean as much as that to you?" "It isn't the date; it's the promise I gave," answered the other, watching the current with a cool eye, "besides, when I was a youngster I used to do things like this for the sport of it." They rode down to the edge of the stream. "How about it, Nash, will you take the chance with me?" And the other, looking down: "Try the current, I'll stay here on the shore and if it gets too strong for you I'll throw out a rope, eh? But if you can make it, I'll follow suit." The other cast a somewhat wistful eye of doubt upon the cowpuncher. "How far is it to the ford?" he asked. "About eight miles," answered Nash, doubling the distance on the spot. "Eight miles?" repeated the other ruefully. "Too far. Then here goes, Nash." Still never turning his back on the cowpuncher, who was now uncoiling his lariat and preparing it for a cast, Bard edged the piebald into the current. He felt the mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up the chances. If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would not have hesitated, but here and there along the course sharp pointed rocks and broad-backed boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty splashing and crashing one of these was overbalanced by the force of the current and rolled another step toward the far-off sea. That rush of water would carry him far downstream and the chances were hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these murderous obstructions about which the current foamed. An impulse made him turn and wave a hand to Nash. He shouted: "Give me luck?" "Luck?" roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance over the thunder of the stream. He touched the piebald with the spurs, and the gallant little horse floundered forward, lost footing and struck into water beyond its depth. At the same instant Bard swung clear of the saddle and let his body trail out behind, holding with his left hand to the tail of the struggling horse and kicking to aid the progress. Immersed to the chin, and sometimes covered by a more violent wave, the sound of the river grew at once strangely dim, but he felt the force of the current tugging at him like a thousand invisible hands. He began to wish that he had taken off his boots before entering, for they weighted his feet so that it made him leg-weary to kick. Nevertheless he trusted in the brave heart of the mustang. There was no wavering in the wild horse. Only his head showed over the water, but the ears were pricking straight and high, and it never once swerved back toward the nearer shore.