The current, to be sure, was carrying them farther down the stream, but
they were now almost to the centre of the arroyo and, though the water
boiled furiously over the back of the horse, they forged steadily close
and closer to the safe shore.
It was chance that defeated Mac Strann. It came shooting down the river
and he saw it only an instant too late--a log whipping through the
surface of the stream as though impelled by a living force. And with
arrowy straightness it lunged at them. Mac Strann heaved himself
high--he screamed at the horse as though the poor brute could understand
his warning, and then the tree-trunk was upon them. Fair and square it
struck the head of the horse with a thud audible even through the
rushing of the stream. The horse went down like lead, and Mac Strann was
dragged down beneath the surface.
He came up fighting grimly and hopelessly for life. For he was in the
very centre of the stream, now, and the current swept him relentlessly
down. There seemed to be hands in the middle of the arroyo, and when he
strove to battle his way to the edge of the water the current tangled at
his legs and pulled him back. Yet even then he did not fear. It was
death, he knew, but at least it was death fighting against a force of
nature rather than destruction at the hands of some weird and unhuman
agency. His arms began to grow numb. He raised his head to pick out the
nearest point on the shore and make his last struggle for life.
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