SON OF THE WIND
could be seen the dark gray streak in which the shrunken river made its bed was constant. From above the place where he stood had seemed narrow enough; but now he saw it was wide indeed. He could hardly throw a stone across it, and as far as the dampness of the water spread, the sand had a tremulous, liquid quiver. Carron did not like the look of it. "Nasty going," he thought it. These little half-dry creek beds were sometimes hard to pull your legs through. The best way to take them was with a rush. He loosened the rope from his body, let it swing back behind him, kicked off his shoes, fastened them around his neck, and leaned back against the cliff to get what start was possible.
The impetus of his rush carried him a little way out; then he was in over the knees, still going forward. He was to the thighs before he knew it. The sensation was not of sinking, but of being drawn down. He heaved against the weight that thrust upon him from every side, and advanced not an inch. A crazy conviction took him that somehow he could put forth inhuman strength to combat this resistance; that, to get across, some supernatural power would be given him. But the only thing supernatural he was conscious of was the power beneath his feet. He heard the sing of the lariat passing close to his cheek as the half-breed
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