A bullet sung by Bojarques's ear, and the river looked less formidable at the moment than his pursuers. He spurred the horse, which balked, bunching its feet in refusal upon the the very edge of the sandy bank.
The Mexican plied the quirt, and still the horse refused, while Bojarques in his fright screamed at it like a hysterical woman.
Without warning the bank caved beneath the horse's feet, and horse and rider sank with a splash to rise again in the swirling flood.
"Look at him—the crazy fool—he thinks he can swim it!" There was a certain compassion in the cowboys' faces, for the horse that was struggling gallantly in the yellow flood. It could as easily have breasted a cloudburst.
"If its head goes under once, they're gone; that water's more'n half sand."
The cowboys, looking on grimly, followed along the bank as the current swept horse and rider down.
The struggles of the already exhausted animal were growing weaker and, snorting, strangling, it turned its wild, beseeching eyes toward shore.
