After that we watched the herd closer; but a few days before Christmas, when Blake was off hunting and I was on duty, four fine young steers sneaked down to the water’s edge through the brush, and before I knew it they were swimming the river—seemed to do it with no trouble at all. They frisked out on the other side, ambled up the canyon, and disappeared. I was furious to have them steal a march on me, and I swore to myself I’d follow them over and drive them back.
The next morning we took the herd a few miles east, to keep them out of mischief. I made some excuse to Blake, cut back to the cabin, and asked Henry to put me up a lunch. I told him my plan, but warned him not to bear tales. If I wasn’t home when Blake came in at night, then he could tell him where I’d gone.
Henry went down to the river with me to watch me across. It had grown colder since morning, and looked like snow.
The old man was afraid of a storm; said I might get snowed in.
But I’d got my nerve up, and I didn’t want to put off making a try at it. I strapped my blanket and my lunch on my shoulders, hung my boots around my neck to keep them dry, stuffed my socks inside my hat, and we waded in.
- My horse took the water without any fuss, though he shivered a good deal.
- He stepped out very carefully, and when it got too deep for him, he swam without panic.
We were carried downstream a little by the current, but I didn’t have to slide off his back. He found bottom after a while, and we easily made a landing. I waved goodbye to Henry on the other side and started up the canyon, running beside my horse to get warm.