The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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СКАЧАТЬ to keep it out of the water," said Denver. "Once the current catches the bight of this line it'll jerk the eye teeth out of the man that tries to hold it. Shin up."

      Steve took an end of the combined rope, shinnied halfway up the cottonwood, and made it stoutly secure. Denver, meanwhile, had advanced to the water's edge and was coiling part of the free end for a throw. Jesson waved his hands and stepped a few feet into the river. Denver swung the loop mightily and let go. Jesson jumped, but the line fell short and was whipped downstream. Denver swore softly, wading farther from shore while Steve hauled the rope back and handed it out to his partner. The lash of the current curled around Denver's hips, and he rocked with the impact. Jesson had advanced as far as he dared. Once again Denver put his whole strength into the cast—and knew that he had failed. Jesson stumbled and clawed for dry ground, shaking his head like a crazy man. Steve hauled in the dripping rope and said nothing. Denver got back to shore and stared across to the cabin so near and still so unattainable. Misery lived in that cabin; life flickered while the iron claw of nature pressed destructively down. Once again Denver found himself fighting against the primal, brute forces of the land as he had been doing all the years, and once again the black temper of the man came whipping across his face, and his violet eyes flared with the morose desire to check and defeat that overwhelming, inevitable power under the shadow of which all men walked. Burning sun, blizzard, miring mud, snow-choked trails, thirst, starvation—he had fought these things doggedly, and now he found the same grim, impersonal enemy in front of him again, shaped as a swollen river.

      He swung up to his saddle and reached for the coil of rope. "I'll try a little farther out," he told Steve.

      "We're not gettin' much of anywhere. It's too long a toss."

      A rider came loping down the road, followed a short cut, and advanced on the group. Steve muttered something under his breath, but Denver nodded gravely. The newcomer was slim, willowy; a black hat shaded a dark, triangular face—rather expressive face with sleepy, watchful eyes. Those eyes took in the scene, detail by detail. A pleasant voice drawled.

      "Howdy, boys. What's the caper?"

      "River to cross, Lou," said Denver and pushed his horse into the stream. The animal bunched and halted. Denver set his spurs and forced it on until the curling surface rose to the beast's belly. Jesson was posted again. Denver canted his body to get a long sweep into his throw, shot the rope high and swift, and felt his mount lose footing. There was nothing to do but let the animal have free head; it had been overbalanced by the current and, fighting for a hold on the slippery gravel, it swung and slowly slid down the stream. The current lifted it bodily, and then, in the space of a moment, man and horse were so much helpless drift in the angry flood.

      "Easy now," muttered Denver and put a little pressure into one knee. The horse responded, pointing its head toward the sliding shore. Steve was racing abreast; the newcomer shot past, shaking out his rope. Denver lifted one arm as a target for that throw, but at the same instant a contrary boil of the river shunted his mount circularly toward the bank. Denver felt the pony strike bottom, slide, and get a surer grip. Cautiously he worked out of it and reached land. The newcomer shook his head.

      "Bad situation."

      "Listen," grunted Steve, "use yore head. Once yuh get beyond depth yuh might as well sing a hymn. We got to dope another way of crossin' this drink."

      "I'd offer to take a throw," put in the newcomer, "but if you can't reach it I can't do any better."

      "Comin' from you, Lou," remarked Denver, "that's handsome."

      "Just so. I hate to admit any man's better than me."

      Denver rode back to the cottonwood and signaled Jesson. By considerable wigwagging he conveyed the idea he wanted Jesson to saddle a horse and bring it to the river; Jesson nodded and ran back behind the cabin. Denver dismounted, removing his own saddle.

      "Now what?" asked Steve.

      "Got another idea. I almost made that throw. Another five feet and the thing's done."

      "Yeah?" was Steve's skeptical reply. "Another five feet and yore sunk. Don't consider it."

      Denver studied the river. "There's an offsetting current right above us. If a man rode into it he'd be carried out a considerable distance—close enough to make a sure toss of the rope."

      Steve stared at his partner. The newcomer rode away to inspect the possibilities. Steve cleared his throat. "Tell you what, Dave. Yore throwin' arm is some weary. Supposin' I do the water- walkin' act yuh got in mind."

      "You climb up in that cottonwood and keep an eye on the rope."

      The newcomer rode back. "It'll carry you down the river pretty fast, Dave."

      "I suppose so."

      "Well, I'll ride along the bank with a loop shook out."

      "Obliged, Lou," said Denver and rode bareback to the spot he intended embarking from. Steve paid out the line to him, and then both he and the newcomer placed themselves in a position to hold it from the water. Jesson rode hurriedly down from the cabin. Denver signaled his purpose, and Jesson pantomimed his understanding. He made his horse breast into the current and turned it broadside to Denver, lifting both hands above his head.

      Denver built his loop, at the same time holding the shore end as high as he could. Steve and the newcomer watched him with fixed attention; Williamson's leather cheeks were gravely clamped around a section of tobacco. Denver eased the horse into the water and made it go straight forward until its belly touched. Immediately the pressure of the current shot the beast beyond footing and Denver, gripping with his knees, began to swing the loop. The far shore shot past with queer rapidity, the pony began to roll, and the man knew that when he made his last throw he would be too far off balance ever to recover. Jesson's upraised arm came abreast, the loop went like a bullet; Denver, plunging into the stream to keep from dragging against the bight, saw Jesson catch and snub the loop in frenzied haste. Then Denver went down like a rock with a roar and a rumble in his ears.

      When he came up, strangling out water, he saw his horse's head bobbing in the distance. He saw, too, a blurred and panoramic strip of shore and Lou Redmain spurring along it. After that some resurgent wave slapped him in the face, upset his coolness, and sent him down; and all he knew was that his arms and feet were struggling aimlessly against the smother of the river. He broke the surface a second time and fought to maintain himself, no longer finding the shore. White spearheads reared jaggedly, his breath was shut off. Something struck him on the temple; instinctively he hooked an arm above his head, feeling a counter current pressing him back. He thought Redmain had missed, and he made the attempt to clear his head and at least coast on the surface; but the same counter current that had stopped him now rolled him over, and he descended into the queer night of drowning. And it was with a very dim consciousness that he felt a tightening around his body and a stiff pressure. Purely by reflex he wound his arms about the rope; and so was hauled ashore.

      He was not out, but Williamson had him straddled and was pressing the water of the Copperhead from his lungs. Presently the hunger for air left, and he drew a full breath. Williamson stood up. "All right, Dave. You did your job, now I'll do mine."

      "Think you can wangle acrost on that rope, Doc?" Steve Steers wanted to know.

      "I'm seventy years old," stated Williamson, "and I've done everything but the tight-rope act. I guess I'm not too old to do that. But I'm damned if I'll come back the same way. I'll ride one of Jesson's horses around by the bridge. Dave, you take my team and buggy to your place, and I'll pick it up later."

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