He saw below him nothing but the rush of water, white riffles showing
its speed. An occasional dark steak whirled past--the trunks of trees
which the Little Smoky had chewed away from their foothold on its
sides. Doubtless one of these burly missiles had struck and instantly
killed the stallion.
But no, yonder his head broke above the surface--a great log flung
past him, missing the goal by inches--a whirl in the current rolled
him under,--but up he came again, swimming gallantly. The selfish rage
which had consumed Red Perris broke out in words. Down the bank he
trotted the buckskin, shaking his fist at Alcatraz and pouring the
stream of his curses at that devoted head. Was this the reward of
labor, the reward of pain and patience through all the weeks, the
sleepless nights, the weary days?
"Drown, and be damned!" shouted Red Perris, and as if in answer, the
body of the stallion rose miraculously from the stream and the hunter
gasped his incredulity. Alcatraz was facing up stream, half his body
above the surface.
The explanation was simple. At this point the Little Smoky abated its
speed a little and had dropped a load of rolling stones and sand.
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