towards this the trail trended in a straight line.

It was a river--a cataract was near, down which the water, freshened by
the late rain, came tumbling, broken by the rocks into hummocks of white
foam. Under the moonlight, it appeared like an avalanche of snow. The
trappers recognised an affluent of the Rio Bravo, running from the
north--from the high steppe of the Llano Estacado.

We hurried forward to its bank, and opposite the frothing rapids. The
trail conducted us to this point--to the very edge of the foaming water.
It led no farther. There were the hoof-marks forward to the brink, but
not back. The horse had plunged into the torrent.

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

ACROSS THE TORRENT.

Surely was it so. Into that seething rapid the steed had launched
himself--where the spume was whitest, and the rocks gave out their
hoarsest echoes. The four hoof-prints, close together upon the bank,
showed the point from which he had sprung; and the deeply indented turf
testified that he had made no timid leap. The pursuers had been close
upon his heels, and he had flung himself with desperate plunge upon the
water.

Had he succeeded in crossing? It was our first thought. It appeared
improbable--impossible. Notwithstanding its foam-bedappled surface, the
current was swift, and looked as though it would sweep either man or
horse from his footing. Surely it was too deep to be forded. Though
here and there rocks were seen above the surface, they were but the
crests of large boulders, and between them the impetuous wave ran dark
and rapid. Had the horse lost footing? had he been forced to swim? If
so, he must have been carried down by the current--his body submerged--
his withers sunk below the surface--his helpless rider--

The conclusion was evident to all of us. All felt the conviction
simultaneously. No--not all. There came a word of comfort from the
oldest and wisest--a word that gave cheer to my drooping spirit.

"Wagh! the hoss hain't swum a lick--_he_ hain't."

"Are you sure, Rube? How can you tell?" were the quick interrogatories.

"Sure--how kin I tell--i'deed, how?" replied Rube, a little nettled at
our having questioned his judgment. "What the divul's yur eyes good
for--all o' yur? Lookee hyur! and I'll show 'ee how I tell. Do 'ee see
the colour o' thet water?--it ur as brown as a buffler in the Fall;
thurfor it's fresh kim down; and jest afore the shower, thur wan't
more'n half o' it in the