reach it; a trail branching to the river. In his insane fright he cared not where it went; he thought only of leaving the road, where quickly he must fall or surrender.
The horse was staggering when he reached it, but the trail was little used and harder than the road, which enabled it to recover somewhat. A hundred yards or so and the sullen Rio Grande spread before him. The trail ended on its sandy bank, and he could not go back.
The river was up, and running like a mill-race, yellow with sand and mud, and swirling in ominous eddies. Heavy rains and melting snows in the mountains to the North had raised it nearly level with its banks.
Uprooted trees and debris were rushing by, swirling and bobbing in the erratic current. It was thick, too, with sand, and from the torrent came a steady, dull, awesome roar.
For an instant it appalled Bojarques though he had forded it often at this crossing when the river was down. He looked at it, ashen with fear, while his horse stood at its edge with drooping head and spreading legs, its knees shaking violently beneath it.
