could see horsemen stringing down into the depression.
Topping the ridge she was surprised to find the Texan only a short
distance ahead. He was plying his quirt mercilessly but the animal moved
slowly, and she could see that he limped. Swiftly she closed up the
distance, and as she rode, she became conscious of a low hoarse
rumbling, a peculiar sound, dull, all pervading, terrifying. Glancing
ahead, beyond the figure of the rider, a cry escaped her. The whole
world seemed to be a sea of wildly tossing water. The Missouri! But
surely, not the Missouri as she had remembered it--this wild roaring
flood! The river they had crossed a year ago on Long Bill's flat-boat
had been a very commonplace stream, flowing smoothly between its banks.
But, this----

As she caught up to the horseman, he whirled, gun in hand. "Tex!" she
screamed.

The gun hand dropped, and the man stared at her in amazement. "What are
you doing here?"

"I came--they had horses and were going to kill you--I rode in between
so they wouldn't shoot----"

"Good God, girl----"

"Hurry!" she cried, frantically, "they're close behind."

"Horse went lame," he jerked out as he plied quirt and spurs. "Got to
make the ferry. Long Bill says the river's broke all records. He's
runnin' away. Left his flat-boat tied to a tree. It's only a little
ways. You go back! I can make it. Had to knock Bill down to keep him
from blockin' my game. Once on that boat, they can't follow."

"But, they're almost here--" Even at the words, a horseman topped the
ridge, and with a yell to his followers, plunged toward them.

The Texan scowled darkly: "Go back! They'll never say I hid behind a
woman's skirts!"

"I won't go back! Oh, hurry, there's the boat! Two more minutes, and
we'll be there! Turn around and shoot! It'll hold 'em!"

"I won't shoot--not when they can't shoot back!"

The foremost horseman was almost upon them when they reached the
flat-boat. He was far in advance of the rest, and as the Texan swung to
the ground the report of a six-gun rang loud, and a bullet sang over
their heads.

The bullet was followed by the sound of a voice: "Shoot, you fool! Keep
a-shootin' till you pile onto the boat, an' I'll shoot back. Them hounds
back there ain't hankerin' fer no close quarters with you--I told 'em
how good you was with yer guns." And Ike Stork followed his words with
two shots in rapid succession.

"Good boy, old hand!" grinned the Texan, "how's that!" Six shots