Mac Strann strained his eyes through the mist of the storm and then he
saw, vaguely as a phantom, the form of a horseman rushing swiftly into
the very teeth of the wind. The whistle wavered, ended, and in its
place the long yell of a wolf cut the air. Mac Strann brandished a
ponderous fist in defiance that was half hysterical. Man or beast alone
he would meet--but a wolf-man!--he whirled the horse again and urged him
heedlessly into the water.
The whirlpool no longer opened before him--it had passed on down the
arroyo and left in its wake a comparative calm. So that when the horse
took the water he made good progress for some distance, until Mac Strann
could see, clearly, the farther bank of the stream. In his joy he
shouted to his horse, and swung himself clear from his saddle to lighten
the burden. At the same time they struck a heavier current and it struck
them down like a blow from above until the water closed over their
heads.
It was only for a moment, however; then they emerged, the horse with
courageously pricking ears and snorting nostrils just above the flood.
Mac Strann swung clear, gripping the horn of the saddle with one hand
while with the other he hastily divested himself of all superfluous
weight. His slicker went first, ripped away from throat and shoulders
and whipped off his body by one tug of the current. Next he fumbled at
his belt and tossed this also, guns and all, away; striking out with his
legs and his free arm to aid the progress that now forged ahead with
noticeable speed.
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