"
The mustangs had to be driven into the water. Scarbreast led, and his
mustang, after many kicks and reluctant steps, went over his depth,
wetting the stalwart chief to the waist. Bare-legged Indians waded in
and urged their pack-ponies. Shouts, shrill cries, blows mingled with
snorts and splashes.
Dave and George Naab in flat boats rowed slowly on the down-stream
side of the Indians. Presently all the mustangs and ponies were in, the
procession widening out in a triangle from Scarbreast, the leader. The
pack-ponies appeared to swim better than the mounted mustangs, or else
the packs of deer-pelts made them more buoyant. When one-third way
across the head of the swimming train met the current, and the line of
progress broke. Mustang after mustang swept down with a rapidity which
showed the power of the current. Yet they swam steadily with flanks
shining, tails sometimes afloat, sometimes under, noses up, and riders
holding weapons aloft. But the pack-ponies labored when the current
struck them, and whirling about, they held back the Indians who were
leading them, and blocked those behind. The orderly procession of the
start became a broken line, and then a rout. Here and there a Navajo
slipped into the water and swam, leading his mustang; others pulled
on pack-ponies and beat their mounts; strong-swimming mustangs forged
ahead; weak ones hung back, and all obeyed the downward will of the
current.
While Hare feared for the lives of some of the Navajos, and pitied the
laden ponies, he could not but revel in the scene, in its vivid action
and varying color, in the cries and shrill whoops of the Indians, and
the snorts of the frightened mustangs, in Naab's hoarse yells to his
sons, and the ever-present menacing roar from around the bend. The
wildness of it all, the necessity of peril and calm acceptance of it,
stirred within Hare the call, the awakening, the spirit of the desert.
August Naab's stentorian voice rolled out over the river. "Ho! Dave--the
yellow pinto--pull him loose--George, back this way--there's a pack
slipping--down now, downstream, turn that straggler in--Dave, in that
tangle--quick! There's a boy drowning--his foot's caught--he's been
kicked--Hurry! Hurry!--pull him in the boat--There's a pony under--Too
late, George, let that one go--let him go, I tell you!"
So the crossing of the Navajos proceeded, never an instant free from
danger in that churning current. The mustangs and ponies floundered
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